The Vampire Files Anthology

by P. N. Elrod

Swann turned to face him. “Soon. When we’re done here.”

  “What about that skinny creep?”

  One of these nights I’d have to figure out why some people liked me and others instantly labeled me a creep. Of course, the latter types weren’t the kind I have as bosom chums, so no loss there.

  “Mr. Taylor will shortly be answering questions. We need to organize a relocation. Has anyone a map of the city?”

  One of them had a map in the truck and volunteered to get it. I light-footed it up to the ground floor, wondering why Swann had wanted the body planted under the hotel. Or why hadn’t it been reburied on Long Island? With Barrett and me, the only witnesses, apparently dead and also buried, it would be safe enough there.

  Unless at some point he wanted it to be found. The things the workman mentioned hinted as much.

  I’d figure it out later. Thinking about the fate of Brogan’s late business rival, I wanted to see who they had on the upper floors, though I could guess. I took the stairs cautiously, listening at each landing.

  The place didn’t seem to have an elevator. Maybe the building was too old, its original architect too cheap. I kept an ear open, just in case.

  The ambient light got better on the third floor. There were windows at the far end of the hall allowing in a wash of bright light. The building next door had something important about itself to advertise in garish yellow and red.

  At the fifth floor I wondered if I’d overshot or misunderstood.

  A scraping, no telling what caused it, followed by the soft creak of a rusty hinge.

  One floor to go . . . I took the stairs slow, my back to the wall.

  No one jumped out when I made the landing. I could—if I went very still—hear breathing: one set of lungs going fast and shallow from fear. I’d been quiet, but he had to have heard me.

  I eased down the hall, coming up to the only closed door. It was ajar. Blackness lay beyond the inch-wide gap, and that’s where he’d holed up. I had to assume he was nervous, armed, and ready to shoot.

  Which was pretty much my own state of mind. I held my gun ready to return fire if it came to that.

  Time to use my edge. I kicked the door open and went partially transparent. There was enough of me visible to draw fire, but bullets wouldn’t put holes in me or my suit.

  Nor would bodily assault be a problem. A shadowy blur launched out of the darkness, arm coming down to slam something into my head, and instead it bulled right through me, which was disconcerting. I faded back, grabbing Isabelle around the waist before she crashed into the opposite wall.

  She yelped, but I dropped the gun and clapped a hand over her mouth. She kicked and flailed and tried to hit me again, but I caught her wrist and a length of lead plumbing pipe clunked on the floor.

  “It’s me, Izzy, settle down!” I spoke in a normal tone, trusting that the gorillas below didn’t have my kind of hearing. “It’s okay!”

  She abruptly stopped fighting and sagged. It made her seem heavier, which wasn’t saying much.

  I put her down and knew I’d have to kill someone. She had the makings of a black eye, and tear streaks marred her reddened face. Her clothes were in the kind of disarray that comes from serious roughhousing. She’d lost her hat and gloves, and her stockings were shredded, leaving her barefoot.

  “Oh, Jack. . .” She hiccupped, stifling a sob.

  “It’s okay, doll. Slow down. Where’s Barrett?”

  “He-he’s d-dead.” She pointed into the black room, her arm shook, hell, her whole little body trembled. I couldn’t tell if it was from the cold or shock.

  I shucked my coat and put it around her. “No, he isn’t. Lemme check him.”

  “I already did.” Izzy took a deep breath, working hard to keep control. “He’s gone. That big palooka did it.”

  Going in, I found a blacker shadow sprawled on the floor that turned out to be Barrett, and he wasn’t moving. There was a bloody patch on the back of his head. Just enough light came through the doorway—the window was boarded up—to show his eyelids were at the halfway mark, and his eyes were fixed and unfocused like you see in morgue photos. With no beating heart or working lungs, it was little wonder Izzy had come to her conclusion.

  “He’ll be all right,” I said, closing his eyes so they wouldn’t dry out. “Just stunned him. He’s got a thick skull.”

  “Don’t lie you me, Jack Fleming, don’t you dare!” She came close, glaring, taking small, cautious steps to avoid the trash on the floor.

  “I’m not. What happened at the club? I saw a guy cutting in on your dance. . .” I wanted her distracted from Barrett. He was in a bad way, but would heal up, given time.

  “We have to get out of here, you idiot!” she snarled, turning. “We have to call the cops.”

  I got between her and the door. “It’s under control, I promise. Tell me what happened.”

  She looked ready to bust me one, then cut her gaze to Barrett. “He’s alive? You sure?”

  “I’ve seen him in worse shape and he got better.” Wasn’t that the truth? “Quick now—you were dancing with him. . .”

  “And that joker cut in, and the next thing I know he yanked me backstage. There were all these guys waiting there and grinning, and I started yelling, but the music was too loud for anyone to hear and one of the guys clocked me. Then Jonathan was there and swinging. He got two of them, but this really big mug hit him with a two by four and he just dropped.”

  Wood. Of course.

  I should have been there to watch his back instead letting Swann sidetrack me. Barrett had noticed my confidence, but he wouldn’t thank me for the overconfidence.

  “Then they carried Jonathan out and pushed us into a truck and brought us here. Said we were going to take a lover’s leap. They tied me up, but I got free.”

  “You got a knife?”

  “Small hands.” She knelt and touched Barrett’s face. “Jack, he’s cold. There’s no pulse. . .”

  “He’s going to be fine. Your fingers are too cold themselves to feel anything.”

  She rubbed her hands together, blowing on them. They were red and abraded where she’d slipped off her bonds.

  “That’s some mouse on your eye, you sure you’re okay?”

  “Belt up about me—we gotta get out of here before they come back! We gotta get Jonathan to a doctor.”

  The thought of carrying Barrett down six flights of stairs held no appeal to me, but there was no telling when he’d wake up enough to move on his own. It would help if I did something about the opposition.

  “You won’t like this,” I said, going to the hall to get the gun. “But I need you to stay here and watch him.” I picked up the dropped pipe and handed it to her.

  “What are you planning?” Her shoes were next to Barrett. She hopped from one foot to the other, slipping them on. “How did you get here?”

  “I got kidnapped, too, but the guy guarding me wasn’t up to the job. He’s having a snooze, but let me borrow his popgun. They’re going to come up any minute. I’ll clear a path for us, and—”

  “Fleming, you can’t take on those mugs. They’ll kill you!”

  “No, they won’t.”

  Izzy grabbed my arm. “You can’t. I know you can’t.”

  That stopped me. I knew better, but she didn’t. The Jack Fleming she remembered had been a broken-hearted, part-time drunk who had just enough brains to meet a deadline when he was sober and could only be trusted to answer the dog watch phone when he was not. Maybe she’d felt sorry for me back then. If I had asked her out she would have said no. She’d have been nice about it, but still. . .

  I had to grin. “Isabelle, you are the pip.”

  “There’s too many of them. I don’t want you getting hurt, too. We take the fire escape. I already got the window open before I heard you on the steps. You carry Jonathan, and I’ll look out for anyone following us down. Let me have the gun. I know how to shoot.”

  “I know you do.” When did she start using hi
s first name? Probably while they danced; he was some fast worker. “Listen to me, doll face, I learned a few tricks in Chicago. Soon as we’re out of here I might tell you about ’em. You watch Barrett. If he comes around before I’m back, take the fire escape and get to the city room at the paper. I’ll meet you there later.”

  “No! I’m trying to save your life!”

  It was no easy thing to shake her off. I was irritated by then. “Not so loud! Watch Barrett.”

  “Fleming. . . !”

  “And don’t get my coat dirty.”

  She automatically looked down; the hem dragged on the floor. If she looked up I didn’t know, because I was already on my way.

  * * * * * * *

  * * * * * * *

  At the third landing I slowed to listen for approaching trouble. It gave me time to think too much. Izzy’s utter lack of faith in me was annoying, if understandable.

  But even The Shadow with a few Marines to back him up would have had sensible second thoughts about taking on that bunch below. Maybe I should go back and follow her plan. Get them out and safe, then return to figure out Swann’s game.

  I’d started to turn when at least two of the bad guys began trooping up the stairs. This was not a good place for a fight. Their friends might hear.

  I hurried up two flights and edged around a corner to bushwhack them when they reached the floor.

  “It’s too soon,” said one of them. “Swanny’s not got everything set.”

  “He said to watch her until he is ready. We don’t toss them out until then. Lissen, next time.”

  “How long till he’s ready?”

  “Who knows?”

  “I don’t like doing this to a skirt. It ain’t right.”

  “Then go back and I’ll take care of it.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Thanks. I wouldn’t wanna watch that.” The softhearted one, such as he was, went back down.

  Crap, I wanted them together.

  Soon as the other man made the floor, I grabbed him from behind, swung him around so fast he came off his feet, and slammed him into a wall. He instantly turned to deadweight, and I let him drop. A big patch of plaster, about the same size and shape of his head and torso, came loose and fell on him.

  None of this was quiet. His pal came charging up, yelling his name. I retreated straight back into a shadow. There were no lights here, as long as I kept still I was as good as invisible.

  The bastard snapped on a flashlight as he came level with the landing and saw me right away. Of course he had his gun in hand. I ducked just in time, going transparent as he pulled the trigger. That was one hell of a loud bang in close quarters. His friends would come running.

  He got three more shots off, each bullet zinging right through my insubstantial self as I closed on him. What he made of that I’d never find out. I went solid at the last second and knocked his block hard enough so he wouldn’t remember. The flashlight fell and broke, making it dark again.

  Now I had two more guns and an unknown number of alerted bad guys below.

  A noise made me look up.

  Izzy had ventured downstairs and was braced against the stairwell wall. She had the lead pipe raised and ready for battle, but wasn’t charging forward. I was the focus of her wide-eyed stare. How much had she seen?

  “Fleming?” She sounded funny, unsure of herself. “You okay?”

  Distract her. “Where’s my damn coat?” She’d shucked it, probably to move better.

  “I put it on Jonathan. He’s shivering. Real bad.”

  Strangely, that was good news. “Is he awake?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Go sit on him until he is.”

  “But those men. . .”

  “They’re not moving. I told you—I learned some tricks in Chicago.”

  “No kiddin’. You’re . . . you’re fast.”

  If that’s what she thought she saw, it was good enough for me. “Get up there. I need you out of the line of fire. Capeesh?”

  “Capeesh, but give me a gun.”

  I gave her two, which surprised and pleased her, and she scooted upstairs without arguing, which surprised and pleased me.

  To judge by the sounds below, everyone else in the building was surprised and disgruntled. Shouting at their out-of-commission pals, they demanded explanations. I couldn’t tell how many, more than two, less than a hundred.

  None of them came closer than the third floor. Prudent of them.

  Checking first to make sure Izzy was indeed gone, I vanished and eased over the stair banister and down the shaft.

  I should mention that I hate heights almost as much as pitch darkness, but in this state I didn’t have to see the drop. It was a matter of sinking slow and easy until I was next to them, then sideways to count them. Doubtless each felt a nasty chill as I bumped around.

  There were four. I’d taken on more than that at one time or another, but it’s hard on the clothes.

  Yes. Lives were in the balance, and here I was worried about my damned suit. So sue me.

  This would have to be fast. I went solid on the steps immediately behind the last one, snagged one of his ankles, pulled strongly back and down, and vanished just as he toppled.

  The effect was the same as though he’d tripped. He landed forward, and from the thumps and cursing, one of his pals also discovered the pain of gravity. They took a minute to sort themselves; the other two thought it was funny. I was ahead of them by then.

  They’d paused, looking downstairs, focused on the first man, who insisted that he’d been grabbed. I went solid and shoved the nearest two hard in the lower back, vanishing before they crash-landed.

  No one was in a mood to laugh at that point. There were a lot more thumps and curses, and at least one got a serious injury to judge by the wail he made.

  The first man to recover rightly assumed an attacker lurked just above them. He broke off and charged upstairs.

  I caught him as he passed me and tried that swinging routine again. His own momentum helped; I just shifted his direction and added force. He slammed into the wall even harder than the other guy, but not as much plaster came away. It caved in a bit, sticking to the lath underneath.

  He was out and had dropped his gun. I kicked it away. It skittered toward the stairs and clunked down exactly one step.

  This made an impression on the remaining men. Someone ahead of them in the dark had gotten their pal and had purposely discarded his gun. They’d heard the violence, but couldn’t see us from their angle. The ambulatory ones were cautious about going up, the other one—something was wrong with his ankle—was making a hopping retreat downward, calling for reinforcements.

  Before they arrived, I took out the two that were left. I got bruised knuckles; they got a trip to dreamland. Neither had seen much. A blur in the shadows, that was me; Lamont Cranston would have been proud. Six down, counting the guy I had in storage, one on the sidelines, but he could still shoot.

  I slipped after him and shut him up. Seven for me, zero for them. The odds were getting better every minute.

  No familiar faces among them, so that left Swann and two of the bruisers I’d come with somewhere below.

  Izzy had mentioned a big palooka. None of this batch qualified, though to her every palooka was big. Keep it simple, assume there were more, and allow for it.

  But my trip down to take care of them halted in mid-step when she screamed my name and a gun went off.

  * * * * * * *

  * * * * * * *

  I rushed upstairs as fast as I dared, going incorporeal on the last flight, and swept low along the floor toward Izzy.

  That’s how I blundered into one of them. He was in the hall, probably looking into the room. I went solid and got him in the kidneys from behind, spun him fast, and put him out before he had time to gasp.

  In the room was the man matching Izzy’s description. She’d been conservative. He was the kind of guy who’d be nicknamed “Tin
y” as a bad joke. He was bigger than my pal Gordy, who was built like a mountain.

  And he had Izzy by the throat.

  His hands were enormous. He could only fit his thumb and two fingers around her neck, but those were enough. She hung onto his massive arm for dear life. He’d lifted her clean off the floor, and if she didn’t ease the pressure of her own weight she’d strangle. Her legs twitched in that macabre dance that hanged men do when the fall from the trap hasn’t broken their necks.