by William Hill
I’m sorry, Jamie, she thought, as she slipped back into unconsciousness.
I love you.
I’m sorry.
19
BLOOD AND LETTERS
Jamie didn’t think he had ever felt so low. Every inch of him was in pain, from his throat to his feet, and his head was heavy with tiredness and sickly remorse. His mother was still missing, and it was up to him to find her and rescue her. He had demanded to look for her, had threatened to defy Admiral Seward and anyone else who tried to stop him; now he was free to begin the search, and he was terrified.
What if I can’t do this? What if I never see her again? What happens to me?
Jamie limped into the shower block at the end of the dormitory, washed himself as carefully as he was able, gasping when his fingers touched a particularly sensitive area of bruising, toweled himself dry, then dressed in the Blacklight uniform he had been given by the instructor. It no longer looked as enticing as it had the previous day; in the cool of the morning, it looked violent and ugly, and he shuddered slightly as he slid it over his body.
There was a knock on the door at the other end of the dormitory. Jamie didn’t answer, and after a couple of seconds, the door swung open. Frankenstein stepped through, ducking his head slightly, and walked toward Jamie. He stopped in front of him, the thick thatch of black hair atop his huge misshapen head brushing lightly against the whitewashed ceiling, and looked down at him.
“You need to see something,” said Frankenstein. “Are you ready?”
Jamie shrugged.
“Since you can’t be bothered to answer me, I’ll assume you are,” continued the monster, and he strode back across the dormitory. Jamie watched him until he was almost at the door, then let out a long petulant sigh, stood up, and followed him.
Frankenstein walked quickly through the corridors, and Jamie struggled to keep up, realizing how much the huge man usually slowed down to accommodate him. He followed him into an elevator, down two levels, along a wide central corridor, and into the infirmary where he had spent the night he arrived at the Loop. His stomach clenched as he stepped through the swinging doors, the memory of Larissa’s attack leaping into his mind, the feeling of terrible powerlessness as her fingers cut his air supply, the warm patter of her blood on his face.
In the middle of the infirmary was a metal gurney and clustered around it were three men he recognized: Paul Turner, Thomas Morris, and the doctor who had treated him. They looked around as Frankenstein and Jamie approached and moved aside so they could join them. A small metal table covered in medical implements stood next to the gurney, on which lay a large shape covered in a white sheet.
Mom?
His legs were suddenly made of lead. He couldn’t move them, couldn’t even begin to try. Acid rolled into his stomach, and he thought he was going to be sick.
“It’s not your mother,” said Frankenstein in a low voice. Jamie looked up at him, his face sick with fear, and Frankenstein repeated himself. “It’s not your mother. I promise.”
The bile in his throat retreated, and he forced his legs back to life, one after the other, and made it to the gurney.
If it’s not Mom, then who is it? There’s someone under there.
His skin broke out in goose bumps as Morris clapped him on the back and said, “Good morning.”
“Morning,” he replied, his voice shaking.
Morris flashed an inquiring look at Frankenstein, who shook his head. Paul Turner watched the exchange, his gray eyes cold and calm.
“Shall we get on with it?” he suggested.
“We should,” agreed the doctor. “Jamie, this might be upsetting for you to see, but Colonel Frankenstein believes it is necessary. Do you need a glass of water?”
He shook his head.
“Very well,” said the doctor, and pulled back the sheet.
Jamie looked down at the figure on the gurney, then turned away and retched. His hands went to his knees and he swayed, his head lowered, his eyes squeezed shut, saliva flooding his mouth. Above and behind him he heard the doctor apologize, and Morris let out a low whistle. Frankenstein and Turner didn’t appear to respond at all.
On the gurney was the naked body of a man in his mid-forties. His skin was pale, his eyes were closed, and he might have looked peaceful were it not for the terrible damage that had been inflicted to his chest and stomach.
The man’s torso looked like it had been through an abattoir; it was covered in dark, glistening blood, rivers of which had run down his abdomen to his groin and over his ribcage toward his back. Cut into the flesh were five words. TELL THE BOY TO COME
Jamie felt a hand placed cautiously on his shoulder and shrugged it off.
“I’m all right,” he croaked. “Just give me a minute, OK?”
He had only seen the corpse for a split second before he turned away, but the sheer violence of the man’s injuries had taken his breath away.
How could you do that to someone? How could you take a knife and do something like that to another human being? My God, what am I up against here?
Steadying himself, he took a deep breath and stood upright. His head swam for a moment, but it passed, and he turned slowly back to the gurney. It was worse than he had first thought, much worse, but with the element of surprise gone, he was able to step forward and take his place next to his colleagues. He was gratified to see that both Morris and the doctor were taking ragged, shallow breaths, their eyes wide, their faces tinged with gray. Frankenstein and Paul Turner looked perfectly composed, and Jamie wondered at the things the two men must have seen.
“This is a good thing,” Frankenstein said, eventually. “Very good.”
Jamie flinched. “How can this possibly be good?”
Frankenstein looked at him, and some of the usual kindness had returned to the monster’s eyes. “Because it means Alexandru wants you,” he replied, carefully. “It shows that you’re important to him.”
“And why is that good?”
Paul Turner answered in his smooth, empty voice. “Because he won’t hurt your mother until he gets what he wants. He knows she’s the only thing that can make you come to him, and he knows that if he kills her, we’ll make sure he never gets within fifty miles of you.”
“How do we know she isn’t dead already?”
The doctor stepped forward with something in his hand. “Because this was in his mouth,” he said softly, and held a crumpled ball of paper out to Jamie. He took it from the doctor’s fingers, unfolded it, took one look at it, and then his world seemed to fall out from beneath him.
He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think. All he could do was stare.
In his hand was a bloody Polaroid photograph of his mother, clearly terrified but equally clearly alive, lying on a concrete floor with a brick wall behind her, staring up at the camera with a look of hopeless misery on her face.
Fury exploded through him, burning everything in its path, flooding him to the tips of his fingertips. He grabbed the metal table, let loose a primal scream of pure anger, and flung it against the wall with all his strength.
Morris yelled and covered his eyes as wickedly sharp instruments flew in every direction. The doctor leapt away from the impact, turning his back and dropping into a crouch with his hands laced behind his head. Frankenstein lunged forward and wrapped the bellowing teenager up, pinning his arms to his sides and lifting him off the ground. Paul Turner didn’t even flinch; he just watched, the ghost of a smile playing across his lips as the table hit the wall.
“Where is she?” Jamie yelled, the cords in his neck straining as he struggled in the monster’s grip. “Where is my mother?”
“We don’t know,” Frankenstein answered, his mouth close to the boy’s ear. “We don’t know, I’m sorry. Calm down, Jamie, we’ll find her. I promise we’ll find her.”
His voice had lowered to a whisper and he was rocking Jamie from side to side, holding him like an infant. Gently, he set him down on the tiled floor and slow
ly released his grip. Jamie pushed himself free immediately and spun around to face Frankenstein, his face red, his eyes blazing. But there was no second explosion.
“The lab is analyzing a copy of the photo now,” said Morris.
“But the preliminary results are that there are no clues to a location. I’m sorry.”
“She’s my mother,” said Jamie, his eyes fixed on Frankenstein. “Do you understand?”
“No,” said Frankenstein, simply. “I don’t. I can’t. I never had one. But there was a man who I have come to think of as my father. So I can imagine.”
“I don’t know if you can,” said Jamie. He regretted it instantly, although the giant man showed no offense; he just looked down at Jamie with his huge, asymmetrical gray eyes, his face expressionless.
Morris broke the tension.
“Where was he found?” he asked, nodding toward the man on the gurney.
“On the road,” answered Turner. “About three miles from the gate, hung in one of the trees. A patrol found him at 0600. Says he wasn’t there at 0550.”
A shiver ran through Jamie.
Three miles. There were vampires three miles from here, maybe the ones who did that to his chest. While I was asleep. He pushed the thought aside. “We need to find my mother,” he said, as calmly as he was able. “This won’t happen to anyone else if we do.”
He looked up at Frankenstein. “Where do we start?”
20
THE CITY THAT NEVER SLEEPS, PART I
New York, USA
December 30, 1928
John Carpenter stood on the prow of the RMS Majestic as the great liner steamed slowly into Upper New York Bay. It was just after nine o’clock and dark; a pale covering of cloud hung low in the night sky, from which heavy flakes of snow were steadily falling.
To the starboard, the high walls of Fort Hamilton were lined with soldiers, who clapped and cheered and waved their caps in the air as the Majestic passed. She was the largest ship in the world, more than nine football fields long with eight stories of blazing light above her enormous hull, and her arrival was an occasion, even in a city as used to the spectacular as New York.
Carpenter pulled his overcoat tight around his shoulders and lit one of the Turkish cigarettes his wife had packed for him, curling his hand over it to protect it from the snow. It was settling on the damp deck and in his hair, and it was getting cold, the night air crisp and still, punctuated by snatches of music and laughter from below decks. Dinner was being served in the ballroom below the funnels, but Carpenter wasn’t hungry. He was impatient to leave the ship, and he would eat once he had done so.
He had wanted for nothing on the crossing from Southampton; his state room was almost obscenely opulent, the stewards and staff as attentive as anyone could ask for, the days brimming with agreeable diversions and pastimes. Despite this, he had spent most of his time in the small library at the rear of the quarterdeck, studying the man he was pursuing.
He’s not a man. Not anymore. Remember that.
Carpenter breathed perfumed smoke into the night. High above him, the ship’s horn sounded, deafeningly loud in the still winter air. He looked to the northeast, where the towering lights of Manhattan shone a watery yellow through the falling snow. Checking the watch Olivia had given him before he departed, he saw that the Majestic was going to arrive more than two hours early.
A good start.
He pitched the half-smoked cigarette over the rail and walked back along the promenade deck, quickening his pace as the skyscrapers of New York loomed behind him.
Carpenter was first to leave the ship, having packed his trunk long before the Majestic sighted land. He walked down the gangplank, which had been covered in a rapidly dampening red carpet, nodded curtly to the tuxedo-clad steward, and stepped onto American soil.
The heels of his boots crunched the settling snow as he walked along Pier 59 toward the White Star terminal. His passport and papers safely stamped, he pushed through the murmuring throng of waiting relatives and photographers and out onto the West Side Highway.
“John Carpenter?”
The voice hailed him from the corner of West Thirty-Fourth Street. Through the falling snow, he could make out the shape of a man in a dark overcoat and hat, shifting his weight rapidly from one foot to the other, perhaps impatiently, perhaps in an attempt to stave off the rapidly plummeting temperature.
“Who inquires?” Carpenter replied. As he spoke, he slipped his right hand into his coat pocket and gripped the wooden stake he had placed there before he disembarked.
The man who stepped from the shadows was a short, rotund fellow in his mid-forties, wearing a brown tweed suit and a red-and-white polka-dot bow tie. Above this garish neckwear was an alcohol-rouged face that beamed with benevolence, eyes twinkling beneath wildly bushy eyebrows, flanking a squat tomato nose that, in turn, nestled above an impressively wide moustache. The man wore a dark brown trilby, and he smiled broadly as Carpenter approached.
“It is you,” he said, sounding relieved. “John Carpenter. You look exactly like your photograph.”
“I say again,” Carpenter replied, his voice flat and even, “who inquires?”
“Why, I’m Willis, Mr. Carpenter. Bertrand Willis. I was given to believe you were expecting me, so I must confess I find myself-”
“Credentials,” said Carpenter. “Slowly,” he added, as the man moved his hands to his pockets.
Willis drew a leather billfold from the inside pocket of his suit jacket and held it out to Carpenter, who lifted it carefully from the man’s fingers and flipped it open.
Inside were three documents; the first was a passport in the name of Bertrand Willis of Saddle River, New Jersey; the second was a telegram containing Carpenter’s travel itinerary and likeness; the third was a memorandum from the attorney general of the State of New York, authorizing Willis to take whatever measures he deemed appropriate to assist a Mr. John Carpenter of London, England, in the resolution of his duties, without fear of legal recourse.
He closed the wallet and passed it back to Willis.
“Everything appears to be in order,” he said. “Apologies for my caution, but one can never…”
Willis waved a hand that suggested that if any offense had been taken, it was already forgotten. “I understand perfectly, sir,” he said. “Especially in such trying times. In fact, I would venture that such caution is what led the founders to entrust you with such a valuable task as your first solo assignment, no?”
Carpenter looked at Willis for signs of mockery, saw none, and smiled instead.
There is steel in this fellow, beneath the smiles and good cheer.
He stepped forward and extended his hand. “John Carpenter,” he said. “At your service.”
“Bertrand Willis,” the man repeated, accepting the hand. “At yours. It is very fine to meet you, John, very fine indeed. Are you hungry? Shall we repair for supper?”
Carpenter’s stomach rumbled. “That sounds like an excellent idea,” he replied.
Willis beamed from ear to ear. “I know a fine place, not five blocks from here. The chef does a pork belly that will simply melt in your mouth. This way!”
Willis turned and headed off along West Thirty-Fourth Street at a pace that was surprising for a fellow of his stature.
The two men walked briskly across the junctions of Eleventh and Tenth Avenues. Willis talked incessantly, about everything and nothing: the snow, the architecture, the baseball results, the relentless rise of the Wall Street banks. Carpenter’s head spun as he attempted to keep up with the endlessly diverging topics of conversation, but he found the man engaging company; his enthusiasm and boundless good cheer were infectious.
At the corner of Eighth Avenue, Willis made a right turn, and halfway down the block between Thirty-Fourth and Thirty-Third, he ducked under a red-and-white awning stenciled with the words CHELSEA BAR AND GRILL.
The room beyond the door was dark, lit only by tall red candles that were pl
aced on the clustered tables, with the heady scents of garlic and rosemary filling the air. Nearly all the tables were occupied; well-heeled men and women, dressed for the theater, sat alongside dockworkers in battered oilskins fresh from the yards and jazz girls in feather boas and veils, fueling themselves for the late-night exertions of the city’s dance halls.
Willis weaved past the waiters to a small table at the rear of the room. A disarmingly handsome olive-skinned waiter appeared next to their table, flicking a long curl of black hair away from his forehead, and Willis ordered tea and bread. They sat in companionable silence until the young man returned with a basket of focaccia, a large teapot, and two china cups, and asked if they were ready to order. Carpenter ordered the pork belly, noting a small nod of approval from Willis as he did so, with roast potatoes and green beans. Willis ordered the same, then lifted the teapot and poured dark red wine into the cups.
“I’m sorry that we cannot drink from glasses like civilized men,” said Willis. “Prohibition has reduced us to this. However, the quality of the wine should not be impaired by the vessel.”
Carpenter raised his cup, took a long sip, then told Willis that he would like to hear everything that he knew about the man he had pursued across the Atlantic. The American took a long pull from his own cup, settled himself comfortably into his chair, and began to talk.
“Jeremiah Haslett. Born 1871 in Marlborough, England, to a schoolteacher and a civil servant. Educated at Charterhouse and Cambridge. Made his fortune during the war, selling munitions to the Kaiser.” He took another sip. “Invested in property after the war, in London and New York. Unmarried, with no children. Ran with a fast London set and started to pursue somewhat-let’s call them unusual -interests. Satanism, black magic, demonology. Although I’m given to understand this doesn’t make him particularly unique in postwar Britain, at least as far as the upper classes are concerned?”
