Hunger

by Karen E. Taylor

  “Mitch, my love”—I gently pushed him back on the bed and kissed him—“if you get better, I will forgive you anything. Sleep well.”

  I stood over him for a moment until his breathing deepened and he began to snore softly. Then I wiped my tears away and walked out of the room, turning out the light as I left.

  The door to Dr. Samuels’s office was partially closed, and I hesitated briefly, then knocked. “Come in,” he called. His voice sounded weary, but his smile was broad when he saw me and he gestured to a chair.

  The ashtray, cigarettes, and lighter were on top of his desk; one lone, unlit cigarette was tucked alongside the blotter.

  “I’m sorry, did I disturb your evening ritual again?”

  “What? Oh, you mean smoking. Actually, I usually do one only before I’m ready to leave. But this”—he picked up a cigarette and rolled it over in his fingers, “this one is my third. I’m afraid that you’ve provided all of us with an interesting dilemma.”

  “How so?”

  He slid a packet of papers over to me. “This represents testing done on Mitch just six weeks ago.”

  I looked at the tests, page after page of neat circles. “But every answer is exactly the same—he took only the first choice.”

  “Exactly. Did you know that some days we couldn’t even get him to hold a pencil?” He didn’t wait for my answer but pulled more papers from the top of the stack. “And these are the series I gave him today.”

  I could not read them, but saw that each question was answered with a different filled-in circle. “And the results?”

  “Perfectly normal. Absolutely within the range of accepted psychological adjustment. Oh, Mitch has his fears and insecurities like all of us, but even they are normal. In many cases, fear is a healthy reaction; I like to say it keeps us from getting too cocky about our position in this world.”

  “And what does Mitch fear?”

  Sam gave me a strange look, almost crafty. “What do you fear, Deirdre?”

  His direct question threw me off guard, so much that I almost told him the truth. I fear the sunlight, I fear discovery; there are days when I am more afraid of life than death. And mostly I fear dead vampires who will not stay dead but live on in your mind and soul.

  “Strangers, lack of privacy, and doctors who ask questions that they should not.”

  “Fair enough,” he said, acknowledging my caustic tone. “I guess it’s not really relevant anyway. But you must admit the fact that before you gave your very glib answer, there were darker fears that surfaced. You know it and so do I; I saw it in your eyes.”

  “And Mitch? After all, he’s the patient, not I.”

  He picked up his cigarette and lit it, offering the pack to me. I shook my head and he went on. “Mitch is afraid of what he should be, especially when you consider his line of work. Senseless violence, blood, and death figure quite high in his current profile. But”—he went through his papers again, choosing one particular sheet—“when he first came here, when he was still reasonably coherent, he was very vocal about his problem.” Sam took a drag on his cigarette and slowly exhaled. “Vampires. Or, as he put it ‘those goddammed bloodsucking creatures in the night.’ They had invaded his mind, he said, they were torturing him, punishing him for some crime.”

  I reached a trembling hand across the desk for the cigarette pack. “I think I will have one after all.”

  Sam nodded. “I thought you might. It’s all pretty weird, don’t you think. Why would a grown man be so afraid of mythical creatures? But you should know that through it all, while he was raving about ‘them,’ he was trying to protect you.”

  “Protect me?” My voice cracked a bit, and I cleared my throat. “What do you mean?”

  “He didn’t want them to find you. He said they would kill you if they knew where you were; we tried to find you, thought you might be able to help, but no one seemed to know where you had gone. Oh, Mitch knew all right, but he wasn’t telling.”

  “Excuse me, Sam, this is all very interesting, but I’m afraid I don’t quite get the point.” My voice was even, but I lowered my eyes so he couldn’t see the anger and sorrow I knew they must have held. “Mitch is getting better; you should be happy that he is recovering, not constantly worrying over what caused his problem.”

  “No”—his voice grew loud, and he got up from the desk and closed the door, standing with his back to it—“you don’t understand. I am happy, thrilled, even ecstatic over his miraculous recovery. But don’t you see, that’s my point. In all my years of practice I’ve never seen a miraculous recovery. I don’t believe in miracles, Deirdre. So there has to be some other answer.”

  “You sound just like him.”

  “Who?”

  “Mitch,” I said simply, smiling as I remembered so many of our conversations where he denied so many things, including coincidence and supernatural beings.

  “Deirdre”—he crossed over to me and took my hands—“you see, that’s why I need your help. You hold so much of him inside you. I need to understand what happened to you both so I can determine if he is truly healed, so that I can in good conscience sign his release. You must tell me everything. You owe it to Mitch, and you owe it to yourself.”

  Although I was still wary of his questions, I was moved by his argument. And if telling the story would hasten Mitch’s release, I supposed that an edited version would not do much harm to any of us.

  Sam stood, holding my hands, awaiting my answer. I pulled away from him and picked up my bag and cloak.

  “Fine,” I agreed, “but could we go somewhere else? Hospitals make me uncomfortable.”

  Chapter 10

  When Dr. Samuels found out that I was staying at Mitch’s apartment, he decided it would be a good idea to meet there. He drove; his movements in traffic were cautious and careful, a totally different style from Mitch’s assured competence. But then, Mitch drove a dingy, broken-down sedan, and Sam’s car was a new foreign sports model. He seemed quite proud of it, so I politely complimented him on it. When we pulled in front of Mitch’s place, he seemed reluctant to leave it parked at the curb.

  Sensing his apprehension, I turned to him. “Perhaps we should have taken a cab.”

  “No, this’ll be okay, I guess. I’ll just set the alarm.”

  “It will be fine,” I assured him, “and if not, it’s only a car after all. I assume you have insurance.”

  “Of course I have insurance. Doesn’t everybody? Don’t you?”

  “No, I don’t own a car. And I don’t believe in insurance.”

  He gave me an incredulous look. “What do you mean, you don’t believe in insurance? You must have some, life insurance at the least, or property insurance.”

  “I own nothing I value that much.”

  “Not even your life?”

  I laughed. “It should really be called death insurance, being merely a bet with the company that you won’t die before they get enough money from you. The only way you win is by dying sooner than they plan. And”—I winked at him as we went up the stairs—“I do not plan on dying.”

  “Deirdre,” Sam said as I opened the door and we entered Mitch’s apartment, “you are one strange lady.”

  “Make yourself at home,” I called to him as I went into the kitchen. “But I’m afraid I don’t have much to offer you in the way of refreshments. Would you like coffee or wine?”

  “Coffee, I guess. And I hate to be rude, but I’m sort of hungry. Have you got anything to snack on?”

  I realized that I really should bring some food into the apartment for appearance’ sake, even though I would never eat it. “No,” I said idly, “I haven’t had time to go shopping since I arrived.” I began to brew the coffee. “I hope you don’t need cream or sugar in this.”

  “Black is fine.”

  I stood in the doorway of the kitchen while the coffee dripped and saw Sam studying the rows of books. “A pretty impressive collection, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah.” He p
ulled out one volume. “The Annotated Dracula. Why aren’t I surprised?”

  “Oh, come now, Sam, you’ll find that book on a lot of shelves. You shouldn’t make too much of it.”

  He shrugged, then turned to look at me. “I know, how about a pizza?”

  “Pizza? I told you I have nothing to eat here.”

  “No, I mean order one. You do have a phone, don’t you?”

  “Very funny.” I gestured to the phone sitting on the end table. “Be my guest.”

  He dialed a number. “I’ll have a large, um, hold on a second”—he put his hand over the receiver—“Deirdre, what do you like on yours?”

  “Nothing. I don’t eat pizza.”

  “Not at all? Why not?”

  I crossed my arms and leaned against the doorjamb. “I’m allergic to tomatoes.”

  “This place makes a great white pizza, then. Just dough, cheese, toppings, and spices.”

  “Garlic?”

  He smiled at me. “Yeah, lots and lots of garlic—it’s wonderful.”

  “No thank you, I’m not really hungry.”

  “Okay, it’s your loss.” He completed his order, gave them the address, and hung up. “Why do they always say twenty minutes? Just once I’d like to call and have them tell the truth.”

  I shrugged, went back into the kitchen, and came back out with one mug of coffee for Sam and a glass of wine for me.

  “You’re not having coffee?”

  “No, sit down, please.” He settled into the one armchair. I sat down on the couch, took a sip of my wine, then set it back down. “Now, what would you like to know?”

  “Everything you can remember would be good.” He fumbled in his suit-coat pocket for a moment and brought out a small tape recorder. “Would you mind if I taped this? I take terrible notes, and my handwriting’s so bad, even I have trouble reading it.”

  I glanced at the machine in doubt. If I should make a mistake and say the wrong thing, I would have to get the tape from Sam somehow. It would be easy to tamper with his mind, but I didn’t trust modern technology; it was not susceptible to my wiles.

  He sensed my hesitation. “You’ll forget it’s running after a while, really. And it’s much better for me. Please?”

  At my reluctant nod, he pushed the record button. The machine made a soft whirring sound. I picked up my wine, took another drink, and cradled the glass between my hands.

  “I met Mitch three days after Thanksgiving, two years ago, at the Ballroom of Romance. He was investigating the death of Bill Andrews and wanted to question me about him.”

  “Bill Andrews was a close friend of yours, then?”

  “No, we had just met the night he died. We were mere acquaintances, really.”

  “Then why did Mitch see fit to question you?”

  I frowned and bit my lip. This was more difficult than I had expected it would be. Any bare telling of the story would be bound to put me in a bad light, and I could not fully explain. I gave Sam a sharp look, thinking that I didn’t have to care about what he thought of me. This was all to help Mitch.

  “Rumor was, around the club, that Mr. Andrews and I had shared an intimate evening before his death.” My voice was dispassionate, matter-of-fact.

  “Did you?”

  I sighed and gently set my glass on the end table. “Look, Sam, this is difficult for me. Those few weeks were an extremely painful experience not just for Mitch, but for everyone who lived through it. And it is not a pretty story, I promise you. But it would ease the telling if you saved your questions until later.”

  “I’ll try, but you’ve got to understand that it’s in my nature to ask questions. That’s why I do what I do.”

  “Then just close your eyes and pretend you’re hearing a story about people you do not know, people who do not exist.”

  I stood up and walked to the bookshelves, stopping slightly behind him as he sat in the chair so that I would not have to watch his face. Hesitantly, I began.

  “There were three more murders, two of them following fairly quickly after Andrews’s, all with the same cause of death. Oddly enough, they had been drained almost completely of their blood, with no visible signs of violence other than two small punctures on their necks.” I stopped for a minute, waiting for some sort of comment from him.

  Sam nodded his head, and gave a clinical, “Uh-huh, go on.”

  “Well, since I knew all but the last murder victim, Mitch jumped to the conclusion that somehow I was involved. That I was the connecting link between them.”

  I paused again, editing the story, knowing that I could not tell him that Mitch’s conclusion was true. That would incriminate me too deeply, raise too many questions in Sam’s curious mind. “As it turns out, it was all a coincidence. The only link I had with any of it was Max.”

  “That would be Max Hunter, the famous ‘Vampire Killer’?”

  “So you do know something about all this?” My question sounded petulant; if he knew the story, why should I have to relive it?

  “All I know is what was in the papers at the time. When Mitch was admitted, I did the required research, of course. I can show you the file sometime if you like. But I assume there is a lot more to tell than what appeared in print.”

  I gave him a skeptical look and he continued as if to justify himself.

  “I was out of town, doing my internship at the time. So I missed all the excitement. And there really was very little published about the case.”

  I walked across the room, picked up my glass and drained it, then went to the kitchen for more. When I returned, his eyes followed me intently. “So Mitch found this Max Hunter, and killed him. And that should have been the end of it all. But it wasn’t, was it?”

  I gave him a sharp look. “Sam,” I said firmly, “please try not to interrupt. It’s very distracting.”

  “Sorry, I forgot.”

  An uncomfortable silence enveloped us, but Sam kept his promise for a while and said nothing else, waiting patiently for me to continue.

  “In between the third and fourth murder, something completely unpredictable happened that threw everyone a curve. Gwen”—I hesitated on her name—“my personal secretary, was also brutally murdered. And although her death was completely different from the others, there seemed to be a connection.” I stopped and paced the room, finally ending back on the couch, not looking at him, but staring into the depths of the wineglass.

  He urged me on, reminding me with a small cough of his presence. I jumped, startled, pulled abruptly out of my private retreat into the past. I had almost forgotten he was there.

  “We found her, Mitch and I, in my apartment. She had a wooden stake driven through her heart.” I turned my eyes to him and noticed his sickened expression. “Yes, you are right,” I said, interpreting his look, “it was possibly the most grotesque display of violence I had ever seen. That alone would have been enough to drive a sane man crazy.” I put my head into my hands to hide my red-tinged tears. “You cannot imagine the amount of blood Gwen’s small body had possessed. It had sprayed all over the room, pools of clotting, sticky blood everywhere you looked.”

  As I sobbed, I felt a gentle touch on my hands; Sam was offering his handkerchief. I accepted it, blotted my eyes, rolled it into a ball, and tucked it into the side of the couch.

  The doorbell rang and we both jumped. “I think your pizza has arrived,” I said, and he answered the door. While he was completing his business with the delivery man, I went to the bathroom and splashed water over my face. I was not surprised when I came out and saw the pizza sitting on the kitchen counter, unopened, permeating the apartment with its nauseating odor. Even a human with a strong stomach would have had a difficult time eating during this story.

  I poured the rest of the bottle into my glass and sat back on the couch to finish the story. “It turned out that Gwen’s death was unrelated to the other murders. Max did not kill her.”

  “Who did?” Sam asked with a rueful smile.

  “A
young man by the name of Larry Martin.” I suppressed the shiver caused by his name. “But I don’t think we need to discuss that situation at all. The only reason I told you was so that you could have a feel for the kind of horror Mitch experienced.”

  “And you too.” His voice was sympathetic and compassionate. “Was she your secretary for very long?”

  Does it make a difference? I wanted to shout at him, finding myself angry with his clinical questions. “Yes,” I said curtly, “I had known Gwen for almost ten years. She and Max were the only friends I had.”

  “And Max? What happened there?”

  “Max died the same way that Gwen did. Only this time we were present for the actual event.” I looked away from him, hoping he could not hear the lies in my voice. “Mitch killed him in the line of duty. It was a case of self-defense, really. Max had broken Mitch’s arm, smashed his knee, and was trying to kill him. I don’t even know how Mitch managed to drive the stake in; he had lost a great deal of blood, and Max”—I shuddered now, remembering the writhing body I impaled on the door, the groping hands, the blood flowing from the wound and pooling on the floor—“Max was strong and he struggled a great deal. But people fighting for their life often do miraculous things; Mitch overcame him and Max died.”

  My final words echoed through the room, mocking me.

  “So at the end Mitch had come to believe that Max was a true vampire.”

  I shrugged. “Mitch thought that Max believed he was. Max was literally a bloodthirsty killer; what difference does it make what Mitch believed about why or how Max committed his crimes?”

  “And what do you believe?”

  I gave him a steady look. “Max Hunter was my best friend. He had been my lover, looked after me like a father, guided my career, and was probably the single most important person in my life.” My words seemed to shock him, it was incongruous to speak of a murderer in such glowing terms, but I kept my gaze on him as I continued. “He was also the most cold-hearted, manipulative bastard that ever lived. He deceived me the entire time I knew him. And I believe that no matter what he was, the world is a better place without him.”