by P. N. Elrod
Breathless, she tumbled into it and crept home again. She laughed to see a third car in line behind the others as she passed. The frantic man waving at her to stop looked so ridiculous.
Once home, she had the bad luck to be spotted by Barrett. He’d worried that she’d been caught out in the rain and they joked about her wet clothes. Things weren’t so funny to him later.
The next night he pressed her for answers and Emily had heard them talking. She didn’t know what was going on; she’d only heard the tone of Barrett’s voice, and it frightened her.
“Silly old woman,” said Laura. “She should have left me alone. It’s all her fault.”
“What’s her fault?”
“She worried all night and then got up early to talk with me. Jonathan had told me to forget it, but then she started talking, so it’s her fault.”
“Why did he tell you to forget it?”
“I don’t know.”
“But you remembered when Emily asked you about it?”
“Yes.”
Laura had only to lie again, to say that Barrett had been scolding her for driving out in the hurricane.
“Then what happened?”
“Then I had to do it again,” she said wistfully.
Except for Barrett, Emily had the only other key to his rooms. Laura knew where it was kept and stole it and used it.
Her experience with Maureen left her better prepared to deal with Barrett. This time she stripped to the skin before using her stake and hammer. She cried while she cleaned up, because she did love him.
“I really did, but this was coming and I wish it hadn’t happened so soon.”
“You planned to kill him anyway?”
“I didn’t want to, but he would have spoiled it all.”
“Spoiled what?”
“It’s Emily’s fault, not mine. It’s her fault he’s dead and that I had to take care of her, too. She’d have found out, so I had to take care of her, and it’s her fault, not mine, all her fault—”
“Laura, why were you going to kill him before?”
“Because.”
She was a complete child now, speaking with a child’s voice and using a child’s logic. Grown up in so many other ways, something within her was stunted or had never been a part of her at all.
“Laura, tell me why you were going to kill him.”
“Because.”
“Why?”
“He was going to marry her.”
That rocked me back. Now I knew what Barrett had been telling Laura while I’d watched from the window and Bing Crosby sang from the radio. From that night, Barrett had been a doomed man.
“Were you jealous?”
“He was going to get what belonged to me. He was going to have me, but I wasn’t enough and he’d get all of it when she died. He’d take it all away because she’d give it to him.”
I’d been right; she’d made an investment for her future. She loved Barrett, maybe, but he was nothing compared to Emily’s money.
“He should have said no, like all the other times—”
“You mean Emily proposed to him?”
“He should have said no, but this time he said yes and it’s her fault, not mine—”
“Hush, now. It’s all right, hush.”
She trailed off, her face red with anger, the anger she’d hidden from him so well when he’d told her the news.
“Laura, how do you feel about murder?”
I had to repeat the question. She shook her head.
“Don’t you feel anything at all about killing those people?”
Puzzlement. Another head shake.
“How do you think they felt?”
Her face was blank.
“Don’t you think they had a right to live?”
She shrugged. It was like explaining light and color to the totally blind. She would never, ever be able to see.
“Are you thirsty, Laura?”
“A little.”
“I’ll get you a glass of water. Wait right here.”
In her bathroom I mixed the stuff with the whiskey and stirred it around in a glass with my finger until it dissolved. I wiped everything clean and took the glass in wrapped in a washcloth. I told her it was cold water and that she was to drink it all.
“Will you write something for me, Laura?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
She put down the empty glass and smeared dark pink lip color onto her dressing-table mirror, and I gave her the washcloth to wipe her finger on. The few words scribbled over the glass were for others to read and interpret. For her, they were utterly meaningless.
“You’re tired, Laura. It’s been a busy day. Go to bed now.”
She stretched but didn’t yawn, and immediately stripped off her clothes and tucked them neatly into the hamper. She’d dressed for darkness on her way to dispose of Barrett’s body, but that task was forgotten as she got ready for a good night’s sleep.
I looked under the bed and found the suitcase with his clothes. He was meant to disappear like Maureen. None of the Franchers would be sorry that the fortune hunter had left. No doubt his clothes would have gone into the incinerator for Haskell to burn. I put the case out in the hall and relocked the door.
She brushed her hair, taking her time and staring at her body in the mirror. Her movements were growing slower and more unsteady as the minutes passed. She put on a nightgown but each action had to be thought out, and in between, she’d pause as though trying to recall what the next was to be.
She got into bed. The lights were on. I turned them off for her, using the cloth again as I had for the door. I left the bedside table lamp on.
Her gaze canted to the radio and her hand twitched. By now she’d lost muscle control. I turned it on for her, it warmed up, and we listened to soft dance music.
She was deeply asleep now. Her breathing was slow shallow even as her pulse speeded up. A thin sheen of sweat appeared on her serene face.
Instead of the sleeping mannequin on the bed, I saw Emily Francher.
I saw John Henry Banks.
I saw a last ghostly image of Maureen flash over my inner eye and spin away forever into memory.
I waited and watched and felt nothing.
Nothing until the time finally came and the room was silent but for the radio.
Nothing until I looked at the scrawl on the mirror and read the words I’d dictated: I’m sorry. God forgive me.
Then I bowed my head and asked the same for myself.
“How is he?” I asked.
Escott came in and sat across from me. I was in the red leather chair by the cold fireplace staring at the unswept ashes. The candles next to Emily’s casket were out, but I’d put on a table lamp so she wouldn’t be left in the darkness.
“He’s better.”
“That’s good.”
“He was cleaning up and getting dressed when I left him.”
My voice sounded a little too normal. “Does he know about Emily?”
“He asked. I only told him she was dead. He did not seem too surprised. I expect he’ll be up here before long.”
“Did you talk about Laura?”
“Yes. He knew it had been her today.”
“I thought he would. What’ll he do?”
“I don’t know.”
We left it at that for a time and listened to the silence of the massive house around us. I’d long since shut off Laura’s radio.
I got to my feet. “I’ll go find out.”
His face was very sad but he said nothing, and I was grateful for that.
I could have walked right through Barrett’s door, but knocked and waited instead. After a long minute he said to come in and I did, leaving the suitcase with his clothes by the bed.
He was in his library seated on a long couch. He’d pulled on some pants and slippers, but his shirt was buttoned only halfway, as though he’d forgotten to finish the job. There was a new weariness in his expression, the
kind that comes from a tired soul and not just a tired body. His arms hugged his chest, a gesture I could commiserate with; I’d felt the same when it had happened to me.
I stood in the doorway, hands jammed in my pockets. “Glad you’re better.”
He nodded. “Your friend didn’t seem to want to hear it, so I’ll say it to you: thank you for pulling me back.”
I shrugged self-consciously, beginning to understand Escott’s attitude. “He’s the one who got me moving, Haskell helped a lot, too.”
“Haskell? Did you influence him?”
“At first, but he woke out of it. He kept going, though. He knows about you.”
“Well, well.”
“Says he’d seen you with the horses.”
“And he accepts me anyway. I’ll be thanking him, too.”
“Yeah.”
He mused for a while and looked up, afraid to hope. “Is there any change in Emily?”
“Not the last I saw her. How long did it take for Maureen?”
“ ’Twas on the same night she died.”
“Same for me. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry all this happened.”
He accepted, numbly. “Thank you.” He gestured, at chair. I declined and remained in the doorway.
“I need to talk to you about Laura.”
He shook his head. “No, you don’t, Mr. Fleming. Not one word. I’ve been a fool’s fool over that girl and there’s no excuse for me. You were both right. I wish to God I’d realized it earlier—”
“She . . . she pushed Emily.”
He faltered.
“She remembered you questioning her; that’s why she came here to kill you. Then she had to kill Emily to cover up your death.”
The pain rolled off him like a tidal wave and I stayed there and let it hit me. I said nothing about the money or anything stupid like that because the man was falling apart in front of me, and I stared at the floor for the whole time and pretended not to see or hear him.
Later he mumbled something about talking to Laura.
“No, Barrett, stay here.”
“I have to—”
“She’s dead.”
The man was in pieces already and it was my lot to smash them into smaller shards.
“I found her. She’d put some sleeping pills in a drink.”
The truth, but not all of it. He didn’t want to believe it and then he couldn’t help but believe it. All he had to do was look up at my face and see it there. I stared at the damned floor and memorized the carpet pattern.
“I think maybe it was too much for her, and in the end she was sorry.” The one thing I could give him was the cold comfort of a lie. He needed it badly.
Then it came pouring out of him, and I listened and let him talk because he had to get it all out. He repeated what I’d learned from Laura, everything about Violet and Maureen and Banks; the words tumbling swiftly until they ceased to be words and turned into an unintelligible drone.
“I wish I could have helped her,” he said at the end.
“You could have,” I said, adding one more lie to give substance to his illusion.
He accepted it.
Escott was cooling his heels in the main hall outside the parlor when I came up.
“Ready to go home?” I asked.
“What about Barrett?”
“We talked. He’ll be all right.”
“What will he do?”
“I don’t know, but he’ll be all right.”
“Did you tell him about Laura?”
“He knows she’s dead.” Barrett didn’t need or want the truth. Maybe he’d figure it out someday, but he didn’t need it now.
Barrett walked up. His shoulders drooped, but he’d buttoned his shirt and tucked it in. It was a minor thing, but I took it as a good sign.
“I thought I’d ride with you as far as the gate,” he said. “The Mayfairs will be long asleep by now and I’d rather not disturb them.”
I started to say something, but forgot it—a small, soft sound distracted me. Barrett heard it, too, and automatically swiveled his head in the right direction. From where I stood I could see the parlor and noticed a white rose lying on the floor next to the casket. It was the rose Emily held to her breast. Somehow it had fallen out.
Barrett stared at us with sudden, agonized hope and dashed in to her.
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Ace Titles by P. N. Elrod
The Vampire Files
BLOODLIST
LIFEBLOOD
BLOODCIRCLE
ART IN THE BLOOD
FIRE IN THE BLOOD
BLOOD ON THE WATER
A CHILL IN THE BLOOD
THE DARK SLEEP
LADY CRYMSYN
COLD STREETS
SONG IN THE DARK
DARK ROAD RISING
THE VAMPIRE FILES: VOLUME ONE
THE VAMPIRE FILES: VOLUME TWO
RED DEATH
DEATH AND THE MAIDEN
DEATH MASQUE
DANCE OF DEATH
The Devil You Know
Kindle Edition, Front Matter and License Notes:
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please return to Smashwords and purchase your own copy.
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The Devil You Know Kindle Edition copyright 2011, P.N. Elrod
VampWriter Books Edition copyright 2009 P.N. Elrod
Cover design copyright 2009, 2011 Jamie Murray
This is a work of fiction. Names characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
* * * * * * *
* * * * * * *
Jonathan Barrett and his reclusive girlfriend Emily were the only others like me that I knew of; we’re a rare breed. He’d been the one who’d made Maureen, who, some decades later, made me before vanishing out of our lives forever. We’d both loved her. She was a sore spot between us, though that was gradually healing. Barrett had been around since before the Revolutionary War, giving him a longer perspective on life, and he wasn’t above rubbing that in when he thought I needed reminding. Though our case with him was long over, I knew Escott kept in touch. Sometimes the mail would have an embossed envelope with Barrett’s distinctive copperplate handwriting on it. The fancy calligraphy was always made by a modern fountain pen, though, not a quill. He wasn’t the type to stand fixed in the past.
—Jack Fleming, Song in the Dark
* * * * * * *
* * * * * * *
The Devil You Know
A Novel of the Vampire Files
Chicago, February 1938
The telegram arrived while I was throwing out that evening’s disruptive drunk, which involved shoving the barely conscious mug into a taxi and slipping a dollar tip to the driver. How he collected his fare later was his business, so long as it was done away from my nightclub. As the cab chugged off, a uniformed messenger boy on a loud motorbike slipped into its place by the curb.
“Parking’s on the side,” I said, jerking my thumb that way, my mind still on the drunk. He’d guzzled about five bucks in booze in record time, broken thirty cents worth of glassware, and it had cost a buck to get rid of him. The balance sheet was still in the black, so I’d allow him inside again, but keep a better eye on things. He would return, too, being so far gone in his cups he’d never remember his eviction.
“Telegram for the boss,” the kid bawled over the bike motor, unimpressed. He cut the noise and, still straddling the saddle, slammed the kickstand down with an efficiency that only comes with practice. He dug into a big
leather pouch strapped across his chest.
“That’s me.”
“Oh, yeah? Prove it.” He was half a year shy of his first shave, but had “Chicago tough guy” all over him like an old tattoo.
“You’re looking for Jack Fleming, you found him.”
“Don’t go kiddin’ me. You could be anybody.”
He had a point. I got out my wallet and showed him my driving license, an old press pass I carried for luck, and a quarter that had somehow appeared between my index and middle knuckles. A magician playing at my club had taught me a couple of sleight-of-hand tricks.
Still unimpressed, the kid squinted at my paper, made the two bits vanish, and slotted the corner of a yellow telegram envelope in the same space. “Thanks, Mack,” he said. The bike clattered to life. With a move reminiscent of a cowboy kicking his horse to a gallop, he bounced it off the stand and roared on to the next delivery.
Telegrams never bode well. A few years ago Western Union had tried to mitigate their bum reputation with the singing variety, but the kid had spared me from an a cappella solo in the street. I tore open the envelope, worried about my parents in Cincinnati.
The first line told me the message was from Long Island, New York.
“Bad news?” asked Escott, not quite looking over my shoulder.
I managed not to give a start. During my tango with the drunk, Escott had obligingly held the club’s door open but I’d missed that he’d also come outside. When it suited him my occasional partner in mayhem was good at not being noticed.
