The Vampire Files Anthology

by P. N. Elrod

“No, I was—” But I couldn’t tell her. It was an ugly story and I couldn’t tell her the truth of how I’d died.

  Escott broke in. “Jack doesn’t like to speak about it, it was rather unpleasant at the time. The doctors diagnosed it as food poisoning. He remembers being ill, passing out, and then waking up in the hospital morgue. It was quite sudden.”

  I gave him a quick, grateful glance. He looked concerned, but with a touch of blandness. He was an excellent liar.

  “It must have been horrible for you.”

  “Not really, just a surprise.” It had indeed been a surprise, so I wasn’t exactly lying. “Maureen told me pretty much what to expect and what to do if it happened.”

  “And your family?”

  “They know nothing about this. They think I’m still alive—in the conventional sense.”

  “Yes, that’s good. At least you’re not completely cut off as Maureen was; you can still visit them. It may be hard for you in the future when they begin to notice you don’t age.”

  “I’ll let the future take care of itself.”

  She turned her eye on Escott. “And you, Charles, how did you come to know about Jack?”

  “I happened to notice that he did not reflect in polished surfaces and became curious to make his acquaintance.”

  “But you don’t care what he is?”

  “Not really. I find the condition of vampirism to be a fascinating study, but not something to fear. Knowledge is an excellent cure for fear. On the other hand, Jack is the only vampire I know. If this genus of the human race is at all representative of the majority, then there might well be a few of whom we should be wary.”

  “You sound like a very exceptional individual.”

  He made a depreciative little shrug.

  “Gaylen, I asked Charles along to meet you because he wants to help us find Maureen.”

  “After all this time?” She was very doubtful.

  “I can make no promises, ma’am,” he said. “But if you could provide me with enough solid facts about Maureen and perhaps the loan of this photograph—”

  “But I don’t understand. How can you?”

  “I am a private agent, an investigator. I shall be leaving for New York tomorrow on business, and as long as I’m there I’m going to look into the matter of her disappearance.”

  “To New York? Tomorrow? You mean you’re all prepared?”

  “Yes, I’ve planned on this for some time. In fact, I was to leave today, but decided to stay to meet you. Your notice appearing when it did was very fortunate. Any information you give me about Maureen could be helpful.”

  “I don’t see how. After all this time do you really think there’s any hope?”

  “We shan’t know until I try.”

  “When do you plan to return?”

  “In two or three days, sooner if I should be lucky.”

  “That seems a very short time.”

  “Not when one is digging through official records and documents.”

  “He knows his job,” I added.

  She took her eyes from Escott, visibly changing mental gears, “Of course I’ll help in any way I can.”

  “For a start, what do you know about a man named Braxton?” he asked.

  “Who?”

  “James Braxton,” he repeated. “He owns a bookstore in Manhattan.”

  “I’ve never heard of him.”

  A stray thought occurred to me. “You said you had some crank calls; could you tell us about them?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “Just tell us.”

  My insistence was not what she wanted to hear, and I felt frozen out for a moment. There was also a quality about her, a kind of authority that made me very much aware of our age difference. She swallowed it and decided to answer.

  “The first call was a girl. She said she was Maureen and she didn’t like people talking about her, then she giggled and hung up. The second was from some man who wanted to know more about the notice. He called yesterday with a lot of questions that were not his business, and I finally told him as much. He never said who he was and I didn’t want someone like that bothering me.”

  “Maybe that was him,” I said to Escott.

  “It would seem likely,” he agreed.

  “Who? Are you talking about this Braxton?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Who is he?”

  “A self-styled vampire hunter.”

  Her expression went from curiosity to complete horror and her heart rate shot up accordingly. “What?”

  I smiled. “Please don’t worry about it, he couldn’t find his a—his head with both hands.”

  “But if he knows about you, if he’s after you—”

  I took her hand and made reassuring noises until she was calm enough to listen, then told her a little about Braxton and his acolyte, Webber. In the end, she was still upset, but mastering it.

  “There’s really nothing for you to worry about,” I said. “They don’t know where I’m living now, and in a city this big they never will, unless it’s by accident.”

  “But he read my notice and connected it with you—he knows where I am and could be watching this hotel. He could already know you’re here and be waiting outside.”

  “There’s an idea,” I admitted. “But I’ve been keeping my eyes open. If I spot them, I can lose them.”

  “But if they find you during the day . . .”

  “They won’t, I promise. I’m in a safe place, really. I am much more worried about them bothering you.”

  “But what will you do about them?”

  I shrugged and shook my head. Since coming back I hadn’t had much time to think about it, and there had been no real chance to talk strategy out with Escott.

  “Can’t you do something to make them go away?” she pleaded.

  Her concern for my safety was touching and embarrassing in its strength. She’d just found someone she could link to a pleasant past and was in danger, at least in her mind, of losing him. She would worry, no matter how much I reassured her. I regretted letting her in on the story, but she was better off knowing about Braxton; at least now she would be on guard.

  Escott pulled out a small notebook and pencil. “And now, Gaylen, if you can put up with a few questions about your sister . . .”

  She blinked at him, distracted out of her worry. “Oh, yes, certainly.”

  It didn’t take long. He gleaned a phone number and a couple of addresses from her memory, none of them familiar to me.

  “I only wish I could be of more help,” she said.

  He gave her his best professional smile. “I’m sure this will be of great help, though I can make no optimistic promises.”

  “I understand.”

  “We have imposed upon you long enough, though, and must be going ourselves.”

  “Will you let me know if you find out anything?”

  “Are you going to be in town when I return?”

  “Yes, I shall be here awhile; it’s a change for me. Jack, have you a number I can reach you at?”

  “Um, yes, just a second.” I scribbled down Bobbi’s number. “You can leave a message for me at this one.”

  “And will you let me know what happens with this Braxton fellow?”

  “As soon as I know myself.”

  Her eyes were shining. “Thank you. Both of you.”

  7

  WE left her, neither of us saying much of anything. Escott must have been mulling things over in his head, and I was too drained and disappointed to want to talk right away, but not so tired that I didn’t check the mirror now and then. There were plenty of headlights to fill it, but none of them belonged to a black Lincoln.

  It was past Escott’s suppertime, so I drove at his direction to a small German café a few blocks off the Loop. He gave his order in German, hardly glancing at the menu chalked on a blackboard above the cashier. We found a booth and settled in to wait for the arrival of his food.

 
“Thanks for the poisoning story. I was about to say it was a car wreck.”

  “Not at all,” he said, absently aligning a saltshaker up with the checked pattern on the tablecloth. “An accident would have been acceptable, but she might decide to look up any records on it. There’s the same problem with hospital records, but they can be more difficult to obtain.”

  “You don’t think she’d check up on me, do you? She doesn’t seem the type.”

  “Hardly, but if one must lie, it should be a simple one and difficult to disprove.”

  “What’d you think of her?”

  “An interesting woman; she told a very pretty story. She seemed too good to be true.”

  “You didn’t like her?”

  “Emotions are the enemy of clear thought; my appraisals have nothing to do with personal affections.”

  “I’ll put it this way, then: what bothered you about her?”

  The pepper joined the salt on the checkered pattern. “She seemed terribly old.”

  “She is seventy-two.”

  “I speak of her state of mind. You can be seventy-two or ninety-two and still feel young inside.”

  “People are different.”

  “Mmm. Well, call it my natural caution at work. You were cautious as well. Why did you give her Miss Smythe’s telephone number and not my own?”

  I shrugged. “I didn’t really think about it at the time. You’re going to be gone for a while and I’m over at Bobbi’s a lot.”

  “And perhaps you’re worried that Braxton might trick or force my number from Gaylen and trace it down.”

  I frowned agreement. “There’s that. I’ve got the house detective looking out for him, though, so Bobbi should be all right. The geezer’s a little cracked, but I don’t see him getting violent with an old lady.”

  “No doubt, but violence can emerge from the most unexpected sources. I can recall an exceptionally sordid case of two children knifing their grandmother to death to obtain her pet cat.”

  Escott’s food arrived and delayed conversation for a while. Between the smell of the steaming dishes and his story, my stomach began to churn.

  “I saw a drugstore on the corner and need to get some stuff,” I said. “Be back in a few minutes.”

  He nodded, his attention focused on carving up his meal.

  My shopping expedition left me with some mouth gargle, shoe polish, new handkerchiefs, and a handful of change for the phone. I folded into the booth and got the operator.

  This time my mom answered, and for the next few minutes bent my ear as she reported the latest domestic crisis. Webber and Braxton had shown up at the house early the next morning, but unfortunately for them my brother Thom had dropped by for breakfast. The last three generations of Fleming males have been on the large side, and so he and Dad had no trouble throwing the troublemakers out. The yelling and language woke up any late-sleeping neighbors, but they were more than compensated by the show.

  That same day the cops came, and at first Mom thought Braxton had called them, but they had different business altogether. Someone from the Grunner farm had reported vagrants on our old place, but the Grunners maintained total ignorance about the call. However, there had been a break-in as reported.

  “Your father is fit to be tied over this, I can tell you,” she concluded after giving me a full inventory of the damage.

  “Is he fixing it, then?”

  “Well, certainly, but it will take him awhile, and then there’s no guarantee that the place will be left alone.”

  “Oh, yes, there is.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, what would it cost Dad to install some real indoor plumbing?”

  When we’d still been living there, Mom had known the figure down to the penny, but now she wasn’t so sure. “What does it matter now, anyway?”

  “Because if he puts some in he can rent the place out. That way it’s occupied and you two have some extra income every month.”

  “You want a bunch of strangers running all over our old house?”

  She’d never been so affectionate about the place when we’d been living there. “Better a bunch of strangers paying you rent than some tramps tearing it all up.”

  “Well . . .”

  “Try to find out how much and I’ll put up the money—”

  “But you can’t afford to—”

  “I can now. I have a very understanding boss who pays bonuses for good work.”

  “In these hard times? He must be one of the Carnegies.”

  “Just about. Will you do it?”

  She would, and when I hung up it was with a little more confidence in their future.

  My personal future included immediate plans to visit Bobbi. I dialed her next and asked if she were receiving callers.

  “That’s a funny way of putting it,” she said.

  “I’m feeling old-fashioned tonight.”

  “Oh yeah? Well, come on over. I’m rehearsing, but I think we can squeeze you in.”

  I was disappointed, but kept it out of my voice. “You’ve got company?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Marza?”

  “Yes, that’s it.” Her phrasing indicated she was being overheard.

  “Maybe I should stay away.”

  “No . . .”

  “You mean if you can stand it so can I.”

  She laughed. “Sure, that sounds right.”

  “Okay, but if she threatens my life I reserve the right to withdraw to a safe distance.”

  She laughed again in agreement and we said good-bye.

  When I returned, Escott was in deep conversation with a stout, bearded man wearing a white apron. They seemed to be talking about food from their gestures. They were using German and I only knew a couple of words. The man made some kind of point, Escott conceded, and the man looked pleased and left.

  “What’s all that about?”

  “Against my better judgment, Herr Braungardt has tempted me into dessert, a torte of his own invention. This may take some time, I don’t wish to tie you up.”

  “How long could it take to eat a dessert?”

  “Long enough for him to try and persuade you to have a sample. I can find my own way home. Don’t worry.”

  “If you need help, I’ll be at Bobbi’s.” Grinning, I left him to his overstuffed fate.

  I found a place that sold flowers and bought a handful of the least wilted-looking roses. They were cradled in my arm when I stepped off the elevator onto Bobbi’s floor. The operator didn’t have to tell me she had company this time, I could hear the piano and her voice clearly enough, despite the walls and solid door.

  I thought to wait outside until the song was finished, but she cut off in mid-note. There was a murmured consultation, then the music began again. Marza’s voice was hardly recognizable, and when she spoke to Bobbi her tones were soft and affectionate and heavily sprinkled with endearments.

  “You’ve got to hold the note just a bit longer, baby. Count one, two, three, then we both start the next phrase. . . .”

  I knocked and a second later Bobbi answered.

  She just looked at the flowers, and her face lit up in a smile that sent me to the moon and back. She accepted them gracefully, her hands lingering on mine. “Any special reason?” she asked.

  “I felt sentimental.”

  “Do I do that to you?”

  “Among a lot of other things.”

  She took my hand and led me inside. Marza was at the piano, just lighting a thin black cigar. Her posture was straight and stiff and she was wearing another V-necked disaster, this time in yellow. It was quite a contrast to the pink satin lounging pajamas that Bobbi had clinging to her rounded figure. Marza glanced once in my direction without making eye contact, then pretended to study the sheet music before her.

  On the sofa sprawled her Communist friend, Madison Pruitt. He looked up doubtfully, having seen my face once, but unable to attach a name to it. He was holding a tabloid, apparently in
terested in a murder investigation that the police weren’t conducting to the satisfaction of the paper’s editor.

  “Madison, you remember Jack Fleming from last night?” prompted Bobbi.

  “Certainly,” he replied, still uncertain. At the party he’d been too involved spouting politics to Marza to notice our introductions. I regretted that the present circumstances were not similar, and didn’t relish the prospect of conversing with a zealot.

  “I think we should take a break,” said Marza, not looking up from her music. “My concentration’s all broken. Some coffee, Bobbi?”

  Bobbi took the broad hint and I offered to help, so we had some semi-privacy in the kitchen. It was cramped, but organized; she worked on the coffee, and I ended up scrounging for something to put the roses in. I found a container that looked like a vase and loaded it with water.

  “Here,” she said. “Put a little sugar in the bottom, they’ll last longer. What’s so funny?”

  “Marza. I have to laugh at her or sock her one.”

  “I don’t blame you, she can be a little trying at times.”

  “A little? That’s like saying Lake Michigan’s a little wet.”

  She stifled her own smile, and then we said hello to each other until the coffee was ready.

  “Time to get the cups,” she murmured.

  “Couldn’t we do this for a few more hours?”

  “The coffee’ll get cold.”

  “I don’t want any.”

  “Yes, I suppose you want something else.”

  “Bobbi, you’re psychic.”

  “Nope, I’ve got eyes. You’re showing.”

  I snapped my mouth shut, trying the gauge the length of my canines with my tongue. Bobbi snickered and pulled out a tray, cups, and saucers. I carried it all in while she got the coffeepot.

  Marza was next to Pruitt on the sofa and looked up. “What did you two do, go to Brazil for the beans?”

  “No, just to Jamaica,” Bobbi answered smoothly, filling the cups.

  Marza approached her coffee delicately, tested one drop on her tongue, and decided to wait for it to cool. In contrast, Pruitt just grabbed his cup, leaving his saucer on the tray. I supposed he considered saucers to be an unnecessary bourgeois luxury.

  “Your flowers, Bobbi, where are they?” Marza asked.