Alex Rains, Vampire Hunter (Book 2): Hell Night

by Kincade, Matt

The blade flashed again, a whisper of wet meat and severed bone.

  And again, the man with the sword stood motionless, his blade held out to the side. Blood trickled down the cutting edge.

  Both of Devino's arms flopped onto the carpet. The vampire stood for one shocked moment while blood poured like a waterfall from the horizontal line in his belly that matched up exactly with his bleeding stumps. He looked down. The upper half of his body toppled off the lower half. He fell to the floor in two pieces and lay there, gushing blood from his bisected torso and gasping like a landed fish.

  “Yeah,” said the room service attendant, with a Texan accent as thick as molasses. He placed one foot on the vampire's chest, and O'Brien noticed that the man was wearing snakeskin cowboy boots. “I know who I'm dealin' with. But you obviously got no fuckin' clue who you're dealin' with. Now, you notice how you're lyin' there and tryin' to scream, but there ain't nothin' happening? That's on account of your lungs bein' cut in half. So when I ask you a question, I just want you to nod your head if you know the answer. Capisci?”

  O'Brien, pale as a ghost, stood up from where he'd been kneeling on the floor. The room service attendant pointed at O'Brien and spoke without turning his head. “And you sit your ass down. I'll get to you in a minute.”

  O'Brien sat down heavily on the bed.

  The man returned his attention to Sammy Devino. “Okay, hoss, where was I? You ever heard of a vampire by the name of Hard-Way Tony? Used to run rackets around San Antonio, Texas?”

  Devino focused on his attacker. He shook his head vigorously.

  “You absolutely sure? You wouldn't lie to me?” He slid the sword point into Devino's chest and gave it a twist. Devino howled silently, mouthing words, and shook his head again.

  “Yeah, that's what I thought.” The man pulled his sword free. “You don't know nobody. You're just a pissant bottom feeder. Ain't even worth my time. Still, you never ask, you never know.” Without hesitation, he brought the blade down. Devino's head slid cleanly off his severed neck and rolled across the bloody carpet until it bumped into O'Brien's shoe.

  The room service attendant looked back over the room. He was in his early thirties, with an angular, yet boyish face and a slightly upturned nose. His lips formed a natural pout. His dark blond hair was combed into a neat pompadour.

  He said, “First time I ever saw anybody turn down a free pizza.”

  Blood ran down the light fixture, casting a red tint over the room.

  The man's boots squelched on the bloody carpet as he crossed the room. He opened the door, pulled the room service cart inside, and shut the door again.

  A generic, cardboard pizza box sat on the white tablecloth of the room service cart. The man with the sword opened the box and took a piece of pizza. He stuffed it into his mouth in two bites as he approached the bed, then peeked into the satchel.

  “This your money?” he said, through a mouthful of pizza.

  “Y-yeah,” O'Brien stammered.

  The man nodded curtly. “It's mine now.” He picked up the satchel and set it on the room service cart. “We're gonna call it my fee, on account of I just solved your problem for you.”

  “Who . . . what . . . who the fuck are you? Why are you here? Did the Lucheses send you?”

  The man set the sword down next to the satchel and loosened his tie. “Name's Alex Rains. I'm here because that fella was a vampire, and I'm a vampire hunter.” He pulled off the tie and vest, then unbuttoned the dress shirt and took it off as well, revealing the white T-shirt underneath, stretched tight over a lean, muscled torso. He reached under the tablecloth of the room service cart and pulled out a wadded-up, blue Hawaiian shirt. He slipped it on over the T-shirt but left it unbuttoned. Finally, he pulled out a battered, white cowboy hat.

  O'Brien stammered, “I . . . thank you. Thank you.”

  Alex sniffed as he adjusted the hat on his head, checking his look in the blood-spattered mirror on the wall. “Sure, don't mention it.” He looked around the room. “Gol-damn. Place looks like a butcher shop after an earthquake.”

  “No, really, you . . . you have no idea.” O'Brien stared down at the pieces of meat that used to be Sammy Devino. “He'd been making my life hell for six months. I thought I'd never . . . look, pal . . . Alex. I'm the general manager of this casino.” O'Brien fished a business card out of his suit coat and handed it over to Alex with two shaking fingers. “Michael O'Brien. You need anything in this town, you just give me a call. You want a suite for a few weeks? It's yours. You'll never pay for a drink here again, not as long as I run the place.”

  Alex took the card, examined it, and tucked it away in his pocket. He nodded once. “That's right kind of you. Now, I suggest you give your boss a call. He oughta know some folks what can clean up a mess like this and keep it real quiet-like. Believe me, they ain't gonna be askin' too many questions when they see that somebody clipped Sammy Devino.”

  As if seeing the bodies for the first time, O'Brien stood up and put his hands on his head. “Jesus.”

  Alex used the tablecloth on the room service cart to wipe his blade down. From the lower compartment, he unwedged a scabbard for the sword, then a golf club bag. He sheathed the sword, put it in the golf bag, and slipped a club cover over the protruding pommel.

  He slung the golf bag over his shoulder and picked up the satchel full of money. “I'd like to think it goes without sayin', but I wasn't never here, and you didn't see nothin'.” He touched the brim of his hat. “Y'all take care now.”

  “Wait, how do I contact you?”

  Alex turned back. “You don't.”

  “Y-yeah, sure. Thank you. Again. Remember what I said. Anything I can do for you. I know people. I get things done in this town!”

  ***

  The elevator pinged, and the doors slid open. Alex surveyed the lobby of the Cazador Grand Hotel and its gaudy Las Vegas charm—red and yellow carpets; marble floor; uplit, fluted, gold columns; a mirrored chandelier. Desk attendants in red suits stood at the check-in counter. A few guests lounged around the lobby on red leather furniture. Slot machine noises were faintly audible from the nearby casino floor. Alex coolly walked to the front desk and slapped a room card down on the counter.

  “Checking out,” he said.

  ***

  The glass front doors of the hotel slid open, and the sweltering dry heat of a Las Vegas night washed over Alex. He walked to the curb and glanced up at the rows of neon and lightbulbs, blinking and dancing in red and yellow on the veranda roof above him. Across the street, monuments of the new Vegas rose—glowing skyscrapers, pirate ships, a miniature Eiffel Tower, a Sphinx and a pyramid. Tourists wandered by in flocks, carrying cameras and tote bags, wearing souvenir T-shirts. A man dressed as Elvis passed out strip-club flyers.

  Alex smiled. “Gol-damn, I love this town.”

  A valet pulled up to the curb in a classic Ford, two-tone white over black, all tail fins and chrome and white wall tires. The engine rumbled low. The valet climbed out of the driver's seat, wearing a uniform much like the one Alex had recently abandoned. The valet's hands shook as he handed over the keys. “Holy Jesus, man,” he stammered. “I mean, I've parked Maseratis before. But this thing? Jesus. It's mean.”

  Alex grinned proudly. “Kid, you ain't jokin'.”

  “What year is she?”

  “'55. Crown Vic.” He winked at the valet. “'Course, she ain't exactly all-stock anymore.” He slipped the kid a twenty and opened the door, then leaned the front seat forward and slid the golf club bag across the back seat.

  Alex eased into the driver's seat and goosed the engine. The car rocked on its springs. The exhaust snarled and crackled. The valet grinned and flashed a thumbs-up. Alex touched the brim of his hat and smiled again.

  He flicked on the car stereo. The opening piano riff of Elvis Presley's “Run On” filled the cab. He put the car in gear and eased the clutch out, pulling smoothly out of the Cazador Grand and onto South Vegas Boulevard as the gospel harmonies and the
classic rock-and-roll beat kicked in.

  Leaning back in his seat, hat down low, Alex cruised past the tourists and the streetwalkers and the drunks on the Strip, past neon signs and barkers, lunatics and street-corner preachers. He turned right at the Chapel of the Flowers and drove through the low, gritty sprawl of Las Vegas, past dive bars and palm trees and seedy motels.

  Just a few minutes later, he slowed and pulled into a parking lot in front of a squat, gray building. A neon sign blinked on and off, reading lazy-m steakhouse.

  Alex shut off the car and put the satchel on his lap. He pulled out a handful of bank-strapped bills and set them down on the bench seat. He looked into the satchel, considered for a moment, and pulled out a few more bundles. He leaned over and tucked the money under his seat, then climbed out of the car with the satchel tucked under his arm. He headed towards the double wooden doors of the restaurant.

  The steakhouse was dim and smoky inside, crowded with high-backed booths. Western bric-a-brac covered the walls—a cow skull, a rusty two-man saw, a coiled lariat. Willie Nelson played softly in the background, barely audible over the sound of clattering dishes, rattling silverware, talking, and laughter. Alex touched his hat brim and nodded at the hostess as he walked past. “I'm meetin' a friend,” he said.

  At a far booth sat a hawkish looking man with hollow cheeks and a narrow mouth, bald in a cul-de-sac pattern. He wore a sand-colored suit with a white dress shirt and a subdued, brown tie. A cigarette smoldered between two fingers of his left hand, which rested on the table, while the other hand held a menu. Alex walked through the restaurant and approached him. “Hey, Coop.”

  “Hello, Alex,” the man said, without raising his head. “Everything go alright?”

  Alex nodded. “Slicker'n snot on a doorknob.” He sat down in the booth opposite, then slid the satchel across the table. “There's your cut, of course.”

  Cooper picked up the satchel and set it on the seat next to him. He didn't raise his eyes from the menu. “Get any leads?”

  “Nah. He was all piss 'n wind. He was a nobody.”

  Cooper nodded sagely and took a drag on his cigarette. “I think I've got another one for you.”

  Alex looked up at the ceiling, rubbed the back of his neck, and sighed. “You know, I was really thinkin' I might take a few days off, seein' as how I'm in Vegas and all. I mean, I hardly got the stitches out from my last little adventure. I figure I earned myself a bit of a vacation. You know, play some slots, maybe catch a show? That fella there at the Cazador offered me a free suite.”

  For the first time, Cooper looked at Alex. His lips twitched in what could have been a smile. “But Alex, I thought you only liked staying in run-down, kitschy, old roadside motels. I thought that was your thing.”

  Alex grinned lopsidedly. He laid his arm along the back of the bench seat. “Well, normally, yeah. But . . . this is Vegas.”

  The waitress came by and took their order—a porterhouse steak for Alex, a Caesar salad for Cooper. As she walked away, Cooper said, “The thing is, I really think this job might interest you. I got a tip about something strange happening in a little town out in the Nevada desert. A place called Prosperity.”

  Alex rolled his eyes and sipped at his glass of water. “Well, let's hear it.”

  “According to the report I received,” said Cooper, “an old lady named Janice Bueller died.”

  “Not exactly Pulitzer material there,” replied Alex. “I mean, I ain't an actuary or nothin', but that happens, don't it?”

  “I'm getting to the good part.” Cooper took one last drag off his cigarette and ground it into the glass ashtray on the table. “So, this lady died. She was, according to my source, feeling ill, and she called the paramedics. By the time they got there, she was already dead. They did CPR, but no luck. They couldn't revive her. She was dead. Dead dead. But then, just as they were zipping up the body bag, what do you know? This old lady came back to life. Not only did she come back to life, but apparently when she did, she was in an incoherent rage. She bit one of the paramedics before fleeing into the night. And then? Then she was never seen again.”

  Alex tapped his fingers thoughtfully on the table. “Well then, that does sound kinda interestin'. Not exactly a classic vampire case, though.”

  “I know,” said Cooper. “It's a long shot. There are a lot of things that just don't fit. But it's enough to bear investigation, don't you think? Who knows, maybe the story got garbled.”

  “If she was a new vamp, chances are she burned, come sunup. Just didn't know no better. Never got found on account of there wasn't nothin' left to find, aside from a few ashes. Either that or this old lady got her shit together and lit out of town.”

  “True,” said Cooper. “I highly doubt you're going to find her. But if she was a vampire, the vampire that made her might still be there. Or maybe . . . anyway, you know all this shit. Look, I know it's a slim lead. But I'd still feel better if you took a drive out to Prosperity for me and sniffed around. You're the best I've got at stepping on the needle in the haystack. I've got a weird feeling about this one. Just go there and see what you can find out.”

  Alex sighed again. “I know damned good and well that you got plenty of other people what can take care of this. Ain't exactly somethin' that sounds like it needs A-list talent.”

  Cooper snorted. “Oh, and you're the A-list?”

  Alex grinned. “Coop, you know I am. A is for Alex.”

  Cooper laughed despite himself. “I'm hurt that you think so little of my judgment. I actually picked you for this because I thought you might enjoy this one. I know you're a big fan of kitschy fifties Americana, right? Especially architecture?”

  Alex sighed. “Hence my desire to stay in Las Vegas, seein' as how it's the kitsch capital of America. I mean, this is the Strip, man. This was the King's stomping grounds.”

  “Funny you should mention that.” Cooper handed a manila folder over to Alex. “Just take a look at it.”

  Alex opened the folder and looked at the photograph on top of the stack. It was an 8 x 10 glossy of a diner, all stainless steel and neon and glass, with a cantilevered awning, topped by a giant fiberglass mascot holding a giant fiberglass hamburger. There was a tower on the roof next to the statue, upon which vertical neon letters read rudy's.

  “As it turns out, Prosperity had a bit of a renaissance after the war,” said Cooper. “It was quite a hopping little town back in the fifties. People thought it would be the next big city between Vegas and Salt Lake. That diner in the picture? That was designed by Wayne McAllister. He's one of the fathers of mid-century modern architecture. He designed the first Bob's Big Boy, the Sands Casino—”

  Alex shot Cooper a deadpan look. “I know who gol-damned Wayne McAllister is, thank you very much. As a matter of fact, the man designed plenty of other buildings in Las Vegas. So again, I'm wonderin' why I'd want to drive out to the middle of noplace to see one more?”

  “Okay, okay.” Cooper held his hands up placatingly. “Didn't mean to insult your intelligence. Even though this building is considered a forgotten gem of the era. I mean, from what I understand, it's one of the earliest surviving examples of his mature style and has many of the elements that would later go into some of his most iconic works. I'm sure that wouldn't interest you. So, just take a look at the next picture.”

  It was a black-and-white shot of the interior of an Old West-style saloon—a shiny wooden bar with a polished step-rail, brass spittoons, a pool table, a piano, a long row of liquor bottles in front of a back bar mirror, above which was mounted a stuffed moose head. Three figures leaned against the bar, smiling into the camera. Alex blinked and looked closer.

  “If you look closely, you'll see that the guy on the right—” Cooper began.

  “Is Elvis Aaron gol-damned Presley,” whispered Alex. “And that's Scotty Moore and Bill Black with him. That was his first lineup, in the Hillbilly Cat days. Must be 1954 or so.”

  “You nailed it. This was his first western
states tour. Just three kids and a pickup truck. They stopped and played one night at the Old Mine Theater in Prosperity. They were aiming for Vegas, but they had engine trouble and had to cut it short. This was before anybody even knew who Elvis was, just a few months before he hit it big. That picture was taken at Annie's Saloon, in downtown Prosperity. And it's still open. Still owned by the same lady. In fact, you could probably walk right in there and have a beer right where the King himself is standing in that photo. You could probably talk to the woman who served him.”

  Alex was silent for a minute or more, staring at the photograph. At last, he said, “You're a real asshole, Coop.”

  Cooper smiled and nodded in acknowledgment. “So I've been told.”

  Chapter Two

  Alex Rains grinned and tilted his battered cowboy hat back on his head. His left arm rested on the window sill of his souped-up Ford, and he steered with just his fingertips. All the windows were down, and the scorched air of the Nevada desert whipped through the cab. The scenery outside rushed by in a blur, a khaki plane dotted with olive-colored shrubs. The smell of hot creosote, sage, and juniper wafted through the car.

  On the car's stereo speakers, Elvis Presley's “Hound Dog” faded out. After a second of silence, Floyd Cramer's opening piano riff to “Make Me Know It” wound up, soon joined by the Jordanaires’s doo-wop vocals. Alex mouthed along with the words as he bobbed his head in time to the music.

  A dot appeared on the horizon and grew into a town sign, a board set into a pile of mortared stones next to the old highway. In sun-bleached letters, it read welcome to prosperity, established 1851. Surrounding that message were peeling badges for the Lion's Club, Rotary International, and the Methodist church. Beyond that, a handful of faded, flaking motel signs rose on either side of the highway—Starlite Lodge, Sagebrush Inn, Cowpoke Motor Court. In the distance rose a gentle range of sandstone hills specked with dull-green shrubs.

  In the midst of the cluster of motels was a gas station. Alex pulled in, and the service bell rang. He stopped the car at the pump just as a dilapidated camper van pulled away.