The Vampire Chase

by Stephen Mertz

  “One of them,” he said. “Connie just pulled my ass out of the fire, and I figure that ought to be worth something. So, from now on she’s in. Now where the hell is Mick? Shacked up with Laura Bates again?" The road manager flinched.

  “You know about that?’

  “Don’t sidestep the question, Lee. I don’t want to lose the mad-on I’ve got for that boy. Where is he?” Brocchi was still side-stepping. He emitted a sigh that must have come from his ankles. He seemed determined to justify himself.

  “I guess I was a fool to think it would stay under cover as long as it has,” he said. “I don’t know if it happened on any of the other tours. But then Laura always seemed a lot happier in the past with Jeremy than she has this time. They’ve been squabbling a lot on this tour, and it hasn’t all been the pressure of the road. It looks like a marriage going sour. Maybe Laura’s just feeling low.” He shook his head. “It’s hard to figure her and a guy like Mick. But sometimes you can get so low, you just don’t give a damn if you sink any lower. Yeah, I had the picture. But I figured it would be better to let it slide until the tour was over. Jeremy’s my friend. I like to think my good friend. But this tour is business. People have to work out their personal trips on their own time.”

  “I guess you didn’t hear me, Lee. I don’t give a damn about any of that. Where are they?”

  “Why do you want to know?’

  “Someone just tried to kill me. I think Mick might have set me up.”

  Brocchi grabbed a coat that was slung over a nearby chair and slipped into it.

  “They’re in a motel out on the freeway,” he said. “Part of the business agreement is that Arn has to be able to reach any of them within twenty-four hours. I’m the middle man. The band has to let me know where each of them is around the clock.”

  He stopped at a dresser near the door and pulled a .45 from the top drawer. He dropped the gun into the jacket pocket and led the way out of his apartment.

  In the hallway, Madison looked at Connie. “Maybe you’d better stick around the motel here,” he suggested, “I don’t know where we’ll end up tonight. You could be keeping your eyes and ears open.”

  Connie shook her head, just once.

  “I’m going with you,” she said. “I’ve earned my ticket on this ride. I’m the third partner now, remember?”

  Brocchi looked at Madison.

  “Ain’t working for Arn Shapiro fun?’ he asked rhetorically.

  Then they were on their way.

  Silence again reigned in the car as Madison sped across town. The only words spoken were Lee Brocchi giving him terse, monotone directions. Connie sat between the two men in the front seat. She stared ahead, worrying her full lower lip between strong white teeth. She held her handbag in her lap with both hands.

  As Madison drove through the night, his: mind was busy weighing and analyzing this sudden rush of recent developments. If Mick wasn’t at this motel they were going to, that could be damning evidence that he had been involved in knowledgeably setting Madison up for a kill.

  What should have been a thirty-minute drive was cut in half. The motel Mick and Laura had chosen for their evening assignation was not part of a chain. It was small and anonymous. Madison parked the car.

  “They’re upstairs,” said Brocchi. “Number eighteen.”

  They had parked at the foot of the stairs leading up to the open balcony that provided access to the rooms. Madison led the way. Connie was behind him and Brocchi brought up the rear.

  Madison reached the door of unit eighteen and knocked, hard. When that didn’t bring any response, he pounded repeatedly with a closed fist.

  Finally, the door opened, but only a few inches. Enough, though, to reveal the emaciated, rubber-lipped face of The Screaming Tree’s lead singer. A taut chain stretched across the opening of the door, keeping it from opening any further.

  Adamson appeared startled and a little angry at the sight of the three faces before him.

  “Hey, what’s going on? Lee, for Chrissake, have you lost your mind, bringing Madison and the chick here? You know who’s here with me!”

  Madison didn’t give Brocchi a chance to answer. He said, “You and I had a date for tonight, Mick. Why weren’t you there?”

  “Don’t try to get heavy with me,” Adamson snarled from behind the security of the door. “Who says we had a meeting? What’s this all about?”

  “Steve says he was set up for a hit tonight,” Brocchi told him. “He thinks you had something to do with it.”

  The singer’s complexion—not very healthy to begin with—paled suddenly.

  “Hey, now don’t fly off the handle, man. I can explain!”

  “Why weren’t you there?” asked Madison. Adamson licked his lips.

  “When I found out this afternoon that you knew about Laura and me, I figured I’d better talk to you alone and try to set things right,” he said. “But when I told Laura that I was going to meet you, she flipped. She said that she’d talk to you. That she’d handle it herself. She begged me not to go. She… she’s got a way of making me change my mind. I’m sorry I didn’t show up. But I had nothing to do with setting you up to be killed, Madison. I swear it. I don’t know who could have done that.”

  “You told me you had some information I could use.”

  “I know. But I was just saying that. I was afraid you might not show up otherwise. I was gonna offer to pay you.”

  Madison’s rage had cooled considerably since leaving the gravel quarry. But hearing that this little bastard had even considered that he might take a bribe to keep silent, now stoked the fires back to full blast. But he did his best to hold himself in check.

  “Did you tell anyone besides Laura that you were supposed to meet me tonight?” he asked.

  “No! No one. I don’t understand how anyone could have found out!”

  “Is Laura in there now?”

  “Yeah, she’s back in the bedroom. But you can’t come in now! She’s... we were just—”

  “Open up, Mick.” Madison’s voice was cold and sharp. “Someone tried to nail me tonight and I plan to nail them back before their trail gets cold. If Laura told anyone that I was supposed to be put at that quarry...that’s the sucker I want.”

  “So, talk to her in the morning,” said Adamson. His voice held a-pleading tone. “At least let us get the hell out of this motel. Jesus, man—”

  Madison stepped back and lifted a leg.

  “Get out of the way, Mick,” he warned.

  He smashed a powerful foot forward. The door swung inward, pulling the chain brackets from the wall with a loud ripping sound.

  He stalked into the room with Connie Frazer and Lee Brocchi still behind him. Brocchi’s hand was sunk into the jacket pocket where he’d stashed the .45.

  Adamson had heeded Madison’s warning and stepped back. He was barefoot, dressed only in slacks and a halfway buttoned shirt which he had obviously just tossed on. He looked at Madison with wide eyes that seemed as wired as usual. He was outnumbered, but he didn’t give up trying. He walked alongside Madison as Madison crossed briskly to the closed door in the opposite wall. The singer was frantically licking his lips.

  “Now, have a little respect!” he was saying as they approached the bedroom door. He was trying to sound forceful, but it wasn’t coming off at all. “You’ve got no right to come busting in here like this—”

  But by then Madison had his hand on the bedroom doorknob and was swinging it inward.

  He stepped into the room and stood for a moment—staring.

  Adamson was right behind him. His gaze followed Madison’s. The scream he gave then was almost feminine.

  “Laura!"

  Connie and Lee were right behind them. This time a feminine gasp really did fill the room.

  “Oh—” cried Connie as she looked past Madison. Her eyes became wide circles of horror. “My God..."

  Lee Brocchi made a noise from deep in this throat. Then he sighed.

  �
�I’d better call the police,” he said.

  He turned and left the bedroom. Madison moved toward the bed.

  Laura Bates lay stretched out on her back, nude, across the rumpled covers. But her slim, willowy loveliness was an obscenity now. She was dead. Madison touched her. She was still very warm. Her once-lovely face was twisted into a horrible, grotesque rictus of death. Her throat had been freshly slashed from ear to ear. Her blood still pumped rich and red from the gaping wound, wetly staining the bed sheets and dripping steadily onto the carpeted floor.

  12

  In the very early days of his work for Arn Shapiro, Steve Madison had learned that rock stars were capable of getting themselves into all sorts of trouble. The very lifestyle of the big money rocker— the sudden fame, the temptations, the frustrations, the drugs—is ready-made for scandal and sudden death. The lifestyle hadn’t changed at all since the pattern was set by people like Jimi and Janis and Mama Cass. And Elvis.

  Madison’s job depended on his capability at yanking the stars back out of trouble. His technique usually consisted of simply throwing himself full-tilt into the eye of the hurricane, as he had on this tour, and acting on instinct as a catalyst, until matters had resolved themselves to his employer’s best interest. The nature of Madison’s work being what it was, his trouble shooting assignments had taken him into several homicide investigations around the world. And while he had learned that the details of a police interrogation will differ from city to city, or from nation to nation, there is always one constant: the building inner heat of impatience that comes with having to endlessly repeat the same set of facts, over and over again.

  That’s the way it was now in Kansas City.

  The police released Madison at eleven o’clock on the morning after Laura Bates’ murder. He’d had his fill of talk. He wanted to get out on the streets and do something. He hadn’t told the police about his former relationship with the dead woman; that they had once been close in all the ways people ever could be. But inside, that was all he could think about. The memory of his love for Laura, of her love for him, was a cherished thing. Her death would be avenged. But he had said nothing of those feelings during the last twelve hours of questioning. The police would be interested in that. They would get in the way of what he had to do.

  The first thing the police had done upon arriving on the scene was to separate him from Brocchi, Adamson and Connie Frazer. He hadn’t seen them since. He imagined that they had spent the past twelve hours much as he had.

  Now they had told him he was free to go. He had stepped from the office where they were holding him—and had run into the other three in the outside corridor.

  The twelve hours had done something to rub away the New York cool of Connie Frazer’s demeanor. She seemed weary, but more natural. Earthy. Her eyes met Madison’s and flickered, but that was all.

  Lee Brocchi just looked like someone in a hurry to get out of there. There was an almost awesome sense of silent rage about him. Madison knew that it must be the same impatience he himself was feeling.

  Mick Adamson appeared to be in a hurry to be gone too. But there was nothing determined in his manner, as there was with Brocchi. Adamson looked like someone who was being startled by ghosts everywhere he looked.

  They all seemed as surprised to see Madison as he was, seeing them.

  “They just turned each of us loose too,” said Brocchi.

  He wasn’t slowing down, but that suited Madison. He joined the parade toward the main exit at the end of the hallway, walking alongside the road manager.

  “Did they let you talk to each other?” he asked Brocchi.

  “Hell no,” rasped Brocchi. “You know what they were doing as well as I do. Picking our brains to see if the stories fit together right. Keeping us separated so we wouldn’t work anything up between us.”

  From behind them, Connie said, “Well, we must have done something right. They gave all of us a clean bill of health. They don’t think any of us had anything to do with Laura’s death.”

  “Or maybe they just don’t have any proof,” said Madison. “Maybe they’re just waiting for one of us to trip up.”

  “Get ready,” said Brocchi. “Here come the reporters.”

  The men of the media came at them through the doorway which they had intended to use. The reporters had been outside on the steps enjoying the sunshine, probably with one of their number keeping an eye on the corridor which ran past the interrogation rooms. That one had given them the high sign and now they all burst down on Madison’s group at once, waving tape recorder microphones and spewing questions, each trying to be heard over all the others. A few live minicams bobbed around toward the back.

  Since Mick Adamson was the lead singer of a popular rock group, most of the hurried questions were shouted at him.

  “Mr. Adamson, do you have any comment?”

  “Mr. Adamson, the police have only released the bulletin that they were questioning you about the murder of Laura Bates. They haven’t released anything yet. Could you tell us what happened last night?”

  “Mr. Adamson, was there any romantic link between you and Mrs. Bates?”

  Adamson didn’t answer. The foursome didn’t slow down; They only tightened their ranks. Brocchi and Madison, in front, functioned as a human wedge, working ever closer toward the street entrance. The crowd of reporters moved with them, clustering in even closer to catch any chance remarks that might happen to be made.

  Madison suddenly caught a new surge of activity from off to this right, beyond Brocchi. Some commotion beyond the heads of the reporters, working its way forward.

  “Oh, shit,” said Mick Adamson.

  He said this as Jeremy Bates broke in through the inner circle of reporters.

  The hulking form of Keith Terrance trailed in behind Bates, but Madison barely glanced at the drummer. His eyes were on Jeremy. The lines of the lead guitarist’s once-good-natured face were now distorted with violent emotion.

  Jeremy only had eyes for Mick. The scene in the hallway seemed to freeze for an instant, like a stop-time photograph, except for Jeremy making a beeline toward the wiry singer. Adamson tried to step back but was stopped by the throng.

  “Jeremy, no!" he screamed.

  “What were you doing in bed with Laura?” screamed Jeremy. His hands reached out for Adamson’s throat. “What did you do to her? You killed her—"

  Lee Brocchi came to life. He stepped forward, placating.

  “Now slow down, Jeremy. Mick didn’t—”

  Jeremy showed no signs of slowing down or changing his mind, so Madison went into action. He stretched out his right foot and caught the guitarist neatly between the ankles moments before Jeremy’s hands would have closed around Adamson’s skinny neck. Jeremy went sprawling.

  “Get him out of here,” Mick was screaming. “He's crazy!”

  The crowd of reporters fell back in the wake of violence. Jeremy was scrambling to get up on his feet. Madison stood before him, his legs spread, his arms loose and his fists barely knotted. Ready to knock the guy down again if necessary.

  Then Keith Terrance was between them. His bulk towered over Jeremy Bates. He stood behind Jeremy. His arms circled Jeremy’s chest, and he raised him to his feet. But he didn’t let the guitarist go.

  Bates was struggling to break free, trying to grab at Adamson.

  “Let me at the bastard!” he snarled. “He killed my wife...he tried to kill Madison... he’s no damn good! I’ll kill him!”

  In addition to holding him, Terrance was trying to bodily shake some sense into Bates.

  “Jeremy! Jeremy, shut up, dammit! You’re makin’ a fool of yourself!”

  Jeremy wasn’t about to quiet down. He was still fighting to break loose, to get at Adamson. But Terrance was still holding tight.

  Madison glanced at the reporters. They had regrouped from the sudden assault through their ranks. Tape recorders were running. The minicams were being lifted again. He looked back at Terrance and nodded
curtly toward the street door.

  “Get him out of here,” he snapped. “now.” Terrance obeyed, hauling Bates toward the exit.

  “He was cool until we got down here,” Terrance was saying. “We got here, and he just went nuts...”

  “The best thing to do is split up,” said Brocchi. He looked at Adamson. “Come on, Mick. We’re taking the side way out. Let’s move!”

  The two of them split off in the opposite direction as Terrance and Bates, who had just disappeared through the exit. The reporters were already running around calling out loudly that wouldn’t at least someone stay around and answer a few questions?

  Madison felt a hand slip through his own. The fingers were long and warm. It was Connie Frazer. They were standing next to a stairwell and Connie was already holding the door open with her other hand.

  They took the stairs down three floors to the street level, and none of the reporters even tried to follow them. They must have figured it would be better pickings with the stars.

  They stepped into the sunshine and started down the wide stone steps toward the street. The warmth of the sunlight felt great after the hours of being questioned in a tight, stuffy office. Madison wondered briefly if the other two pairs of escapees had made it away safely.

  He then became aware of the fact that Connie Frazer was leading him, ever so subtly, diagonally down the steps toward a car which stood waiting at the curb.

  When they got there, Madison held the door open for her. It was a two door and she slid into the back. He sat in front and had barely closed the door before the car took off. He turned his attention to the man behind the wheel.

  “Morning, Arn,” he said conversationally. “Welcome to K.C.”

  Shapiro’s ulcer was giving him trouble. Madison could tell by the way the nervous tic flinched around the dapper young promoter’s right eye as he drove.

  “You don’t seem too surprised to see me,” Shapiro snapped.