The Cross vf-2

by Scott G. Mariani

  Bang. The sword buried itself in the door. Splinters flew. The tip of the bright blade poked through the wood for an instant, then withdrew for another attack. It wouldn’t hold him back much longer.

  Chloe checked the pistol’s CO2 tank. Still a good charge of gas. Her fingers were shaking so badly she could barely open the tiny breech and slide the pellet into place.

  I’m going to die.

  She fluttered the pistol’s bolt shut.

  The sword chopped through the wood again with a rending crack as the planks split apart.

  Chloe raised the pistol and stood braced with her back to the sink. She slid off the safety catch. Hovered her fingertip over the sensitive electronic trigger, frightened of releasing the shot too soon. It was the only one she’d have a chance to fire before he got to her.

  With a roar, the madman was through the door, kicking the remains of the planking to pieces with a heavy boot and charging into the bathroom. He seemed to tower up to the ceiling. His eyes were rolling white in a spattered mask of her father’s blood. Both fists clenched the handle of the sword. He was on her before she could react. The sword flashed up and then came hissing down.

  Chloe sidestepped the strike by an inch and the blade crashed into the rim of the sink, shattering the ceramic bowl in half. For an instant, carried forward by the momentum of the brutal blow, the man was off balance. Chloe staggered away from him, raised the pistol again and touched off the trigger without time to aim.

  The recoilless spit of the air gun was lost in the sound of the man’s scream, and she knew she’d hit him where she wanted. He reeled backwards. The sword spun out of his fingers and fell among the debris of the sink as he clapped both hands to his left eye.

  Chloe hurled the pistol in his face and frantically clambered up onto the edge of the bathtub. She punched open the window and launched herself towards the gap with a fervent prayer that she’d make it all the way through. She kicked and scrabbled and gasped with pain as part of the window catch dug into her flesh. Her fingers reached out into the cold darkness and touched damp wood. A branch: her fist closed on it. She used it to haul herself bodily through the narrow window, and then her knees were hitting the hard edge of the outside sill and her legs were dropping as all her weight hung from her hands. The branch was slippery. It tore out of her grip and she cried out as she fell.

  A raking, whipping, tearing slide down through the cold bare branches, an instant of falling free, and she was on the ground with a hard thump, rolling dazedly on her back for an instant and whimpering in pain before she gathered her wits.

  If anything was broken, it didn’t matter as long as she could run. She sprang to her feet and took off without looking back up at the window. In the moonless night she could barely see where she was going as she raced across her father’s back garden and half-vaulted, half-tumbled over the fence and into the little lane that led towards the main street.

  She kept on running, blinded by pain and terror, screaming her lungs raw. Objects lost their meaning. She no longer knew where she was. Bright lights dazzled her. A loud blaring wail filled her ears.

  Then the screech of tyres on the road, and Chloe knew nothing more.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chloe blinked. The white light of her strange surroundings were blurred at first, then slowly came into focus so that she could make out the figure that was standing over her, looking down. As the woman’s features became clearer, Chloe could see the benevolent, sad smile on her face.

  ‘Rest yourself, dear,’ the nurse said as Chloe tried to sit up in the hospital bed. ‘You’ve had a nasty shock.’

  Chloe let her head sink back down into the pillow and gazed around her at the small private room she was in. Her mind was still a jumble as consciousness took its time returning. She thought of the last time she’d been in hospital, when she was thirteen and had been thrown from her friend’s pony. She remembered her father coming to see her, standing at her bedside, his face pale with worry, clutching her hand tightly.

  Dad …

  The more recent memories began to return to her, and the tears rolled uncontrollably down her cheeks. Along with them came the pain. She glanced at her bandaged arm and remembered the lacerating branches of the tree that had broken her fall from her father’s bathroom window.

  ‘Where’s my dad?’ she asked the nurse. Her voice sounded thick and croaky. ‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’

  ‘Shhh. You need to take it easy.’

  ‘Isn’t he? Tell me.’

  The nurse approached the bedside with a small plastic beaker of something. ‘Drink this, love. It’ll help.’

  ‘What is it?’ Chloe murmured.

  ‘Something to relax you.’

  Chloe didn’t have the strength to resist. She accepted the sedative, and closed her eyes as its effects quickly began to wash over her, bringing merciful relief from the tormenting images she couldn’t shut out of her mind.

  When she awoke again, the kindly nurse was gone, but Chloe wasn’t alone in the room. The two smartly-dressed visitors were watching her, as if they’d been there for a long time waiting for her to regain consciousness. The woman was sitting in a chair, the man standing at the foot of the bed. They were both in plain clothes, but even in her hazy state of mind she knew right away what they were from their body language and expressions.

  The woman introduced herself first. She was Detective Sergeant Keenan of Thames Valley Police. Her eyes were soft and her brow deeply furrowed with care; Chloe could tell this was a duty she’d performed many times before. Breaking the news of sudden violent death to bereaved relatives required the right touch, even if she was only confirming what Chloe already knew in her heart. She started to cry again.

  ‘Your father’s neighbours saw you running from the house,’ Keenan said softly when Chloe’s tears had subsided a little. ‘They called the police. I’m afraid nothing could have been done to help him.’

  Keenan’s colleague, Inspector Williams, lacked the soft touch. He said nothing, but his eyes were cold.

  Chloe wiped away the tears with the tissue Keenan had given her. ‘Why would anyone harm my dad?’ she sniffed. ‘He was the kindest, most gentle person in the world.’

  ‘Chloe, we will catch the man who did this.’

  ‘The cross,’ Chloe said, suddenly remembering. ‘He came for the cross. He took it.’

  Keenan shook her head. ‘What cross?’

  Chloe tried to explain, but it was hard to get it all out clearly and her words kept tripping and faltering. Then it hit her. ‘Oh, God. If I hadn’t brought it back for him. It was my fault.’

  ‘We can talk about that later,’ Williams cut in brusquely. ‘Do you recognise this person?’ He reached over the bed to show Chloe a glossy printed photograph that looked official, like a prison mug-shot.

  Chloe squinted at it, then closed her eyes with a shudder. ‘It’s him. That’s the man who killed my dad.’

  ‘We know who the perpetrator is, Miss Dempsey. He calls himself a vampire. His real name is Ash. At least, we think it is.’

  Chloe was finding it hard to breathe. Her heart was racing. ‘You can’t see it in the picture,’ she whispered hoarsely, ‘but his teeth are …’

  ‘We know that too,’ Williams said. ‘It’s believed he filed them himself. Part of his fantasy.’

  Chloe grimaced. ‘He really believes that he’s … that he’s a vampire? What kind of sick maniac is this? And how come you know so much about him? You said his name is Ash. Is that a first name, a second name? Ash what?’

  Williams shrugged. ‘That we don’t know.’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ Chloe said, frowning. ‘It was on the news. I remember now. You had this guy. You let him escape.’

  ‘It’s not quite that simple,’ Williams said.

  ‘Every available officer is assigned to this case,’ Keenan reassured her. ‘We’re launching a nationwide manhunt and poster campaign. He won’t get far.’

  Chloe poi
nted at the photo. ‘Draw an eye patch on that, and he’ll be easier to recognise.’

  The officers exchanged glances. Williams’s severe look became grimmer. ‘Miss Dempsey, that brings us to an important matter we need to discuss with you: that is, the weapon found at the scene.’

  ‘The sword? He had a sword. Like a two-handed medieval thing.’ She couldn’t bear to picture it in her mind, but she couldn’t stop herself seeing it over and over again.

  Williams shook his head. ‘I was referring to the discharged firearm that our officers recovered from the bathroom, along with traces of blood and something called aqueous humour. That’s eye fluid, to you and me. But it’s not your father’s, and it certainly isn’t yours.’

  ‘The air pistol is mine,’ Chloe whispered. ‘The blood and stuff belongs to the man who killed my father. You can test his DNA with it. Help you catch him.’

  ‘What we needed to ascertain—’

  ‘Yes, all right, I shot him in the eye, if that’s what you want to know.’

  Williams looked heavily at her. ‘You understand anything you say will become part of the official statement, Miss Dempsey. You admit that you deliberately aimed and discharged the firearm into a man’s eye?’

  ‘It’s an air pistol,’ Chloe said, bristling at his tone. ‘Six foot pounds of energy doesn’t penetrate many parts of the human anatomy. I had to defend myself the best way I could. So, yes, damn right I shot him in the eye, and I just wish I could have got to the bastard a minute earlier. I’d have shot out the other eye, too, and then I might have saved my dad.’ Her rage melted as suddenly as it had flared up, and she burst out crying again.

  Keenan took her hand. ‘Shhh. There.’

  Williams remained stony-faced. ‘It’s my duty to advise you that you could be facing serious charges here, miss. Malicious wounding, premeditated use of a weapon …’

  Chloe stared at him through a curtain of burning tears. ‘My dad’s been murdered and this is all you can talk to me about?’ she interrupted him. ‘What’s more important to you guys, the murdering loony running free or innocent people trying to defend themselves?’

  ‘This is not America, Miss Dempsey.’

  ‘Are you arresting me? I want a lawyer here, right now.’

  ‘Calm down,’ Keenan said. ‘Nobody is accusing you of anything.’

  Although Chloe couldn’t have sworn to it, she was sure she heard Williams mutter a quiet ‘yet‘ under his breath. But before anyone could say more, the door flew open and the nurse walked into the room, accompanied by a furious Indian doctor who led the officers out of the room and shut the door. The argument in the corridor outside was angry but brief. Williams reappeared momentarily in the doorway to say, ‘Miss Dempsey, we’ll be back to talk to you in the morning.’

  Then he was gone, and Chloe was alone again for a long time. She cried non-stop for most of the next hour. Then, gradually, her rage and frustration and grief and shock all seemed to crystallise together into a sense of hard intent. ‘To hell with this,’ she said out loud, and punched away the bedclothes. Her mind was lucid now, her heartbeat calm.

  Out in the corridor five minutes later, the nurse saw her heading for the stairs, fully dressed, and came running after her. ‘Chloe, what are you doing? You can’t leave. You should be in bed.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Chloe said. ‘And when those cops come back in the morning, you can tell them that if they can’t find this so-called vampire of theirs, then I will.’

  It was just luck that Chloe kept her purse in the pocket of her jeans and hadn’t left it behind at her father’s house with her mobile and the rest of her stuff. She counted her change as she headed for the solitary taxicab waiting outside the hospital.

  ‘Take me as far as this will go,’ she said, giving the driver a handful of coins. She didn’t care where she ended up. All she wanted was to escape from this place.

  The taxi was into the city centre by the time the meter had eaten up all her money. It was after two, and the streets were emptying of people. A strong icy wind was gusting up Queen Street and whistling around Carfax Tower as she wandered aimlessly through the centre. Among the turmoil of her thoughts was the horrible weight of knowing that she was going to have to break the news to her mom. At a public phone in Cornmarket she made a collect call to the States, got through to Bernie’s number and stood there waiting, shivering, shielding the receiver with cupped hands against the roar of the wind and watching McDonald’s litter tumble across the street, until eventually someone picked up and she heard the breathless voice of Marguerita, the housekeeper. The Silbermans had gone off on their yacht, she informed Chloe — the Caymans, this time, she thought — and wouldn’t be contactable until their return. Was there a message?

  Chloe just hung up and walked away, trudging on and on with her head bowed and her father’s face in her mind. Knowing she’d never see it again for real, or hear his voice. The wind felt raw on her wet cheeks. Her throat tightened as she thought about the man who had taken him from her.

  Ash. Ash the vampire. What kind of a man called himself a vampire?

  For an instant, the thought lingered. A vampire killed my father. Chloe let the scene replay in her mind and she saw those pointed teeth, red with blood. She shivered, not just from the cold. Then caught herself — an inward slap on the cheek. Don’t be ridiculous. There are no vampires. There were only frightened people who believed in them. And mentally deluded people who wanted to believe they were one of them. Little wonder, she thought bitterly as she passed a bus stop and paused to glance under the street light at a poster advertising the latest movie release, Sucker — it seemed that everywhere you looked, you were assailed with media hype tirelessly drumming the message that vampires were cool, sexy, glamorous. Maybe in every crowd that walked out of the cinema, happily sated on movie blood and sex and make-believe pain, there was that one guy: the guy who’d been sitting alone in the back row, not there for the fun and the popcorn, but who took the whole thing very seriously, very personally, who bought into the image heavily enough to want to draw power from what he saw on the screen; to take that power and use it to project himself onto the world the way he desperately wanted to appear. Lonely people. Sad people, unfulfilled lives caught up in the wheels of a heartless world that promised everything but only took, took, took from them. People wanting more, wanting freedom, wanting immortality, wanting to be someone whose footsteps shook the earth. Craving it so badly, maybe, that the line between dreams and reality started to blur and fade out.

  Yesterday, Chloe might have sympathised. Not any more, not if it meant innocent people suffering to pay the price of some psycho’s delusions. Her fists were so tight in her pockets that her nails pierced the flesh of her palms. She wanted to cry, but she was empty now.

  She’d walked the length of Cornmarket without realising it. As she neared the end of the street, the illuminated window display of a large bookstore shone out onto the pavement. She stopped and saw her reflection in the window glass, shoulders hunched, face pale and pinched with cold. Her eye ran across the displays of books on the other side of the glass, and she snorted. Look at this — more vampires. You couldn’t get away from the damn things.

  THEY LURK AMONGST US, shouted the stacked hardbacks in the window. They do, Chloe thought — but who are they?

  Among the carefully-arranged books were glossy posters extolling the author, some guy Chloe had never heard of called Errol Knightly. That couldn’t be a real name, could it? She peered more closely to read about him. It seemed he was the real deal, a pro vampire hunter with a glittering record of ridding the world of the scourge of the Undead. Read all about it for only PS12.99. Chloe tossed her head and walked on.

  But then, fifty yards down the street, her pace slowed.

  How many of them must there be out there, these deluded souls who’d come to believe in their own vampiric powers? What if there was a whole weird subculture of screwed-up freaks truly convinced they belonged to a race of the
Undead? Wouldn’t they hang out together? A fantasy shared was a fantasy compounded. Maybe they congregated in certain places, like bats in caves. Drank tomato juice together and wore gothic fashion gear in vampire nightclubs. Had vampire conversations together on vampire internet forums. Mostly innocuous, of course; but wouldn’t even the tiny minority of dark, dangerous ones — the ones who took their fantasy a step further, men like Ash — be just a little bit drawn to the edges of that subculture, feeding the delusion?

  And, Chloe thought to herself, wouldn’t a guy calling himself a vampire hunter know where to find those kinds of people?

  She doubled back to the bookstore window and stood there with her nose to the glass staring at Knightly’s face on the poster for a long time. She nodded to herself. In its own perverse, bizarre way, it seemed to make absolute sense.

  She was still thinking about it on the long walk all the way back to the Park and Ride car park. And as she curled up, spent and cold and weak, to sleep on the back seat of her little Fiat, she knew what it was she had to do when morning came. She was going to contact this Errol Knightly. And then she was going to go and talk to him about catching vampires.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  ‘Can I have a word?’ Carter asked as Joel wandered into St Aldates police station just before eleven the following morning. Joel was too dulled from hunger to ask what it was about, but he nonetheless noticed the stern note of authority in his friend’s voice.

  Once in the privacy of his office, Carter shut the door, turned to him and shook his head. ‘Maybe I wasn’t clear, but I thought you were back on the job now.’

  ‘I am,’ Joel said weakly.

  ‘So where’ve you been the last thirty-six hours?’