Blood Red Dawn

by Karen E. Taylor

  When he spoke the vision of another place and time, the sense of another man at my side, faded. I shrugged, “I don’t know why I said that, Max. I think I must be tired. It’s been quite a momentous evening for my first night free from captivity. Let’s go back.”

  He hailed a cab and as we climbed in, I thought of the laughing face of the blond woman that kept flashing into my mind. “Who’s the blond woman?” I asked.

  “Blond? I’m not sure I know what you mean.” Then he reached over and ruffled my short bleached hair. “You’re blond now, of course. I’ve been thinking that we should do something about that. I’ll make some calls tomorrow—see if I can get an evening appointment at some salon or other.”

  “That would be nice, Max. Thank you.” Slouching back in the seat, I pressed my fingers against my eyes. Damn him, I thought, every time I get close to recalling a piece of my past he changes the subject. I tried to pull up the bit of memory again. And there, there she was. “Besides, that’s not what I meant. I don’t mean me. Hell, I don’t even know why I’d do this to my hair. But I keep getting this recurring flash of a blond woman, usually laughing.”

  Max stared out the window. “That would’ve been Vivienne. She was one of mine, from a long time ago.”

  Vivienne? Although I could see her face in my mind, the name meant nothing to me. Then I caught Max’s use of past tense. “Was?” I paused. “What do you mean by was? Is she dead?” Somehow that thought saddened me more than I’d have imagined.

  He cleared his throat. “If not dead, she’s gone so far underground, it makes no difference. Very few of the original Cadre vampires are left, Deirdre. Eduard DeRouchard did his job quite well. And what he couldn’t finish, Terri Hamilton cleaned up with her work on television. She’s a dangerous woman. Deadly.” Max gave a humorless chuckle. “Even armed with only a pot of coffee.”

  “Terri? I am certainly no good judge of character, Max, but she seemed fine, perfectly normal. At least, that is, until she saw you. What did she mean? You ruined her life?”

  “Does it matter? I did what I had to do at the time to save the life of the one person I care for above everyone else.” He reached over and took my hand, bringing it to his lips. “I wouldn’t waste my time worrying over the likes of her, little one. Nor about Vivienne. Neither of them are worth the trouble.”

  We sat in silence for a while as the cab stopped at a light. When we started back up again, he gave a little cough. “What did she say to you while I was gone? Did she imply that she knew things about you? She doesn’t, you know. She only knows what DeRouchard fed her, most of which was completely false.” There was a casualness in his voice that seemed forced and I knew he was lying.

  I wanted to laugh. We were both so good at this game, the giving and taking of lies. Once again I rubbed my fingers over the outline of the note in my pocket and smiled into the darkness of the cab. “No, there wasn’t really time for conversation. She just said that she hated the job anyway and then the manager dragged her away. I am fairly sure he fired her.”

  “Ah. Well, that’s good. I find it hard to believe, but she’s even a worse waitress than she was a news reporter.”

  I murmured something noncommittal and the cab pulled up in front of the Ballroom of Romance.

  “And here we are.” Max’s voice was cheerful again, as if arriving here put the dishonesty behind him and let him tread comfortable ground again. “Home, at last.”

  Home? I glanced at his profile as he paid the driver. This place wasn’t any kind of home. Not for me. Not here and not with him. The easy feeling I’d had in his presence earlier in the evening faded into wariness. And a certainty—even if I knew nothing else, even if my memory never returned, I now knew one fact. A fact I must take care not to forget. Max was an imposter. He was not my husband. He was the enemy.

  Max led the way through the crowd outside the door. Something in the combination of the crowd and the cold autumn air and the familiar entrance to the club clicked off a memory.

  A tall, blond-haired man stood outside, admitting groups of people after checking ID cards. He looked up, saw us, and waved us in ahead of the others. “Just follow me,” he said and as he said the words it was as if a transparent screen came down in front of me and memories from the past superceded the here and now.

  Another blond-haired doorman had met me here before and escorted me to a table. I’d trailed after him, appreciating the breadth of his shoulders and the heady aroma of his cologne. There were times I’d regretted not getting to know him better, but as it turned out, it was good that I hadn’t become romantically entangled with the man. Larry Martin had been a psychopath. Beautiful on the outside and totally evil within.

  My mouth curved up in a triumphant smile. I remembered something, independent of Max’s input or his tonic. The memories were returning, all I had to do was keep refusing to ingest the drink and soon I would be cured.

  With the memory of that other time, came the certainty that Larry Martin was dead. Another scene from the past played out before my eyes. The cellar had been dark and the shot deafening. A sharp pain pierced my shoulder. Larry gave a gasp and fell to the ground, bearing me down with him, his blood flowing over me. There was a voice, a remembered voice, “Oh, God, Deirdre,” he called from the top of the stairs. And then, “Jesus, look at you.”

  “It’s okay, Mitch,” I’d said. “I wasn’t hit, all this is Larry’s.”

  Mitch! I held my breath for a minute, waiting for the flash to subside, but unlike many of the other glimpses I’d had this memory remained, like a single star burning in the black of the night. And the emotions I’d experienced at the time were as clear and as fresh as if they’d happened just this night.

  “Deirdre?”

  Apparently I had stopped still on the street, surrounded by the crowd trying to gain admittance to the Ballroom. Max pushed back down the steps and held out a hand to me. I blinked my eyes, stunned at the return to the present.

  “Are you all right?”

  I nodded. “Fine. I was just distracted for a moment, is all.”

  He took my arm when we entered the club. “I think we’ll take our drinks back in the office. The trip out seems to have tired you more than I would have expected. I certainly don’t want you falling sick again, just when you’re starting to come back.”

  “Yes, that would be a shame, wouldn’t it?” I decided then and there to keep the extent of the memories I was recovering a secret from him. And to test my theory of the tonic he was feeding me. Somehow I knew that it was responsible for keeping the memories at bay. I could live for a while, I was sure, with no sustenance, turning human or not.

  I pulled his arm closer to mine as we headed back to the office, hoping he couldn’t feel the way touching him made my flesh crawl. “Thank you for taking me out tonight, Max. It was just what I needed.”

  He looked down at me. “I’m glad, Deirdre. I only want to make you happy.”

  I settled in on the black leather sofa, content to replay the few memories I had over and over again, having a silent chuckle every now and then at the remembrance of Terri Hamilton pouring that entire pot of hot coffee into Max’s lap. Touché, I thought. Good for you, Terri.

  Max fussed with some papers at his desk and listened to his phone messages. “Damn,” he said, coming over to the sofa and pouring me a glass of the special tonic.

  “Something wrong, Max?” I took the wineglass from his hand, but he didn’t urge me to drink for a change. Instead, he seemed distracted.

  “Nothing really,” he said, the tension in his voice belying his words. “I missed an important phone call while we were out.” Lost in his thoughts and almost ignoring my presence, he walked back to his desk and sat down behind it. “One I’d been waiting for,” he continued, talking more to himself than to me. “But I’m quite sure they will call back. They’d damn well better or they’ll be very sorry they crossed me . . .”

  His voice trailed away and I stole a glance at him.
Max’s face was set in anger, its finely sculpted lines distorted into a mask of evil. Here, I thought with a shiver, here is the truth of the man.

  Chapter 12

  He continued to ignore me, giving me time to think, to plan. Now that I knew the truth of the matter, knew him for what he was, what on earth could I do about it? I glanced over at Max again, pretending to sip a glass of that horrid stuff, watching him tend to some paperwork at his desk. What did he hope to gain from all of this? Obviously not my goodwill. He had to be crazy if he thought that I’d stay with him after I learned the truth.

  And yet, here I sat, wearing the clothes he bought, living in the shelter he provided, taking my sole sustenance in the drink he provided. Which one of us was the crazy one? Prior to this evening, I didn’t know any better, but now that I did, what was I going to do about it?

  The phone rang and I jumped. Max crooked an eyebrow and gave me a twisted smile. “Nervous, little one? Expecting a call? Guilty thoughts?”

  Biting my lip, I shook my head.

  “Hunter here.” Turning his attention back to the call, he listened for a bit. “Good. Good. Are you sure?” Then he glanced back to me for a minute and a slow blush crawled up my neck. “Yes, of course.” His answer was cautious, but I knew somehow they were talking about me. “Where else?”

  I struggled to hear the voice of the caller, but the noise from the club outside drowned it out. Max laughed into the receiver. “Yes, I’ll be sure to. Thank you for calling so promptly.” His voice dripped with sarcasm. “I’d expected to hear from you sooner.” A pause ensued and he drummed his fingers on the desk top. “No. No. You don’t seem to understand. I don’t care if there are problems. You know what to do, don’t you? Perhaps I wasn’t clear enough.” He was scowling now. “Look, I don’t give a damn how you feel about it,” he said. “You know what you need to do. Just do it. And let me know when it’s done.” He hung up the phone.

  “That was Derek,” Max stood up from his desk and walked toward me. “He says he put all the packages into your room. And he sends his regards.”

  He was lying, obviously. There was no way that conversation could be so easily explained. But I played along with him. “Ah. That’s nice of him.”

  “Deirdre,” he sat next to me on the couch, “are you upset about something? You haven’t seemed well since we got out of the cab. You can’t let that little scene in the diner with Terri Hamilton bother you. She’s not balanced. She should be locked up somewhere instead of out on the streets, harassing innocent people.”

  I shrugged. “I’m tired, Max, that’s all. And”—I set down the full wineglass I’d been feigning to drink from next to me—“I don’t want anymore of this. I just want to sleep.”

  “But it’s hardly even midnight. What happened to my little night-owl?”

  “She’s not here, Max. I think I left her behind with my memories.” Sighing, I stood up and stretched. “Remember that I have been sick. And I need my rest. Good night.”

  I felt his eyes follow me across the room. “I’ll come in after a while to say good night properly.”

  My back stiffened as I opened the door, but I didn’t say a word as I entered my little room, I didn’t even turn around, but pushed the door shut behind me. The shopping bags full of the clothes we had bought earlier in the evening were lined up neatly against one of the walls. I had been so thrilled with the trip, and now I felt like sending them all back, or opening the door back up and tossing them all into his face. Somehow, I knew that their purchase now made me beholden to Max, made me feel pressured into accepting his properly expressed good night. I shivered and gave a humorless laugh. “Now that’s a euphemism if ever I’ve heard one.”

  If the offer had come one of my other nights here, I might have welcomed him with open arms. I’d been so lonely, aching for comfort and touch. But now?

  I shook my head and began to unpack the articles of clothing, either hanging them up or folding and laying them into the dresser. Inside both the armoire and the drawers there was a stale floral scent; I closed my eyes and took a deep breath to identify it.

  Lavender, that was the scent. Without opening my eyes, I breathed in the aroma again. And the vision of the blonde burst into my brain. If I could believe Max, she now had a name. Vivienne. My mind provided the rest. Vivienne Courbet. I remembered her. It was as if I could feel her hug me, feel the feather-light brush of her lips on my cheeks. I could almost hear her melodic high-pitched laughter, like the pealing of bells. Not wanting to lose the vision, I kept my eyes tightly shut and smiled.

  Then the smile faded. Max had said she was dead. Dead? “Not possible,” I whispered. “He has lied to me about so many things. So she might not be dead. Not Vivienne.”

  I brushed away a tear and when I opened my eyes, Vivienne was still with me. I wanted to tell someone the good news, that it was all coming back to me. If one or two stars could break through the darkness, others would surely follow. But I dared not tell Max. Nor Derek. They, and now Terri Hamilton, were the only people I knew.

  As I finished putting away the clothes, I noticed that the bottom drawer wouldn’t close all the way. I pulled it out and set it on the bed, then knelt down on the floor. There, in the open space below the drawer, lay a pair of jeans, a flannel shirt, and a bra and panties. I pulled them out and as I did so, a small plastic tape cassette fell onto the floor, clattering slightly. Scooping it up immediately, I looked around the room for a tape player, but there wasn’t one. “Damn.”

  With Max’s impending visit, I couldn’t have listened to it anyway, so I tucked it under the mattress. The jeans and shirt I held up to my face and breathed in their scent. They held the aroma of a wood fire and cigarette smoke. And something else, too faint to place as certainly as the others. Whatever it was, though, that scent was one of the most beautiful things I’d ever smelled. And I knew that it was the scent of Mitch. Looking over my shoulder at the door, I folded the clothes back up, wrapping them in one of the bags from my purchases, to keep their scents with them. Then I lay them flat so that they’d fit under the drawer I slid back into place. Tomorrow, I thought, I can try again tomorrow.

  Knowing that Max might come in at any moment changed my nighttime routine. Ordinarily, I’d change into my nightgown and read or watch a movie before falling off to sleep. But I thought I knew what he meant by saying good night properly and I needed the protection of clothes, flimsy though they were. Remembering the piece of paper Terri had given me in the diner, I pulled it out of my pocket and tucked it under the mattress with the tape.

  I lay down on the bed, fully clothed, turning on the television for background noise and began to make a mental list of what needed to be done. First, I’d have to find a tape player and listen to that cassette. It didn’t have to be anything earth shattering to be of value—a song, a voice, something might trigger another memory like the lavender scent did. I’d have to get access to a phone so that I could speak to Terri Hamilton in private. And I’d have to find a way to provide nourishment for myself, so that I could get through without drinking what Max offered.

  None of this was going to be easy, considering Max never left my side when I was outside of this room. I needed a way to make him trust me, so that he would ease up on his vigilance. And there was a way, one I hated to even contemplate. The thoughts of Max touching me in any sort of sexual way made my stomach roll. Perhaps there was a time in my past life when I welcomed his advances, but now it just felt wrong. Still, if I allowed him to have sex with me, he might actually believe that I was coming around to his point of view, might think that I could be trusted to be left alone for a short period of time. And a short period of time was all I’d need to get away. This was a big city and my instincts were still good enough so that I could lose myself in the crowds.

  The door opened and Max walked in. Here and now, there was no place to hide. “You aren’t ready for bed? I thought you were tired.”

  He clicked off the television. “You watch t
oo much of this stuff, when you’re supposed to be resting. I can hear the sound in my office.”

  “I am bored, Max. I’ve no idea what my life was prior to here, but I’m quite sure I kept myself busy.”

  “That you did, little one. Too busy, perhaps.”

  Rising from the bed, all thoughts of cooperation flying from my mind in a sudden rush of anger, I gave a loud screech of frustration. “I cannot stand being cooped up in this room, Max. I cannot stand being under your constant surveillance. This is not life. This is limbo. Worse than that, this is hell. It is not home for me, it will never be home for me. I would have refused to share your coffin space when this room was nothing but a crypt. Fancy wallpaper and soft carpeting notwithstanding, this place is still a goddamned crypt. I want out.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “A crypt? And when was this place ever a crypt.”

  “Don’t be stupid, Max. I remember when this room held two coffins, one for each of us.” Then I stopped. Smiled. “Damn, I really do remember that.” Gone was the determination to keep any recovery of memories secret, swallowed up in the delight of regaining my past. “And I remember Victor.” I laughed, “I called him your Renfield. And I did kill you. It wasn’t just a dream, I know I did. You goaded me into it. You wanted to die, I think, and couldn’t do it yourself. And you’d be dead still if it weren’t for Eduard DeRouchard.”

  Max shook his head. “Deirdre, I’m concerned with this development. I really am. You seem to be returning to your old delusions. When you were sick, you would talk about all of these strange things you thought you’d done. The fact is, my love, none of that was real. You dreamed it, yes, you dreamed all of it.”

  “No. That’s not possible. These are real memories.” I was not about to let him talk me out of the truth.

  “And what else do you remember?” His voice sounded curt, angry, but I ignored the tone. I didn’t care if I angered him. These revelations were too important.

  “I remember Larry Martin. Killed in the basement of the Ballroom. Shot.” I stopped again as the scene filled my mind. “Mitch,” I said, unable to control the softness in my voice. “Mitch killed him. To save my life.”