The Vampire Files Anthology

by P. N. Elrod

  Gunshot.

  “Jeepers!” she yelped. “Are there more?”

  “Stay down,” Barrett ordered.

  She didn’t argue with him. How the hell did he do that?

  “Jonathan?”

  “It’s all right. That fellow—Mr. Brogan I think—flushed a rabbit. Startled them both. His pistol accidentally went off. Nothing to worry about.”

  Damn, he was smooth.

  Substitute Swann for rabbit, and it would have been the truth. Barrett made it sound all right, though, distracting Izzy with an invitation to help him find tea things.

  * * * * * * *

  * * * * * * *

  Brogan returned, and if his decisive re-establishment of himself as boss had shaken him up, he didn’t show it. He was as tense as before, but quieter, his whole focus on me. “How the hell did you do it?” he demanded, unknowingly echoing Clapsaddle.

  Who looked on, interested.

  I shrugged.

  Brogan pointed at the parlor. Considering the situation, he was being remarkably patient. “You were in there right next to me. How’d you get out?”

  About now I would have whammied them both into forgetting certain uncomfortable details, but that card was no longer in my deck, and I didn’t want to be dependent on Barrett to put in the fix. I’d known that sooner or later I’d have to learn how to get along without the evil eye. Might as well start now.

  “Mr. Brogan?”

  “Yeah?” What a lot of hostility he could pack into a single word.

  “Mr. Brogan . . . I have absolutely no explanation for you.”

  He started toward me, but Clapsaddle interposed. “Fleish, never mind. Naomi’s safe, that’s all that really matters. Let the lad have his trade secrets.”

  Brogan grumbled, looking at the parlor doors, then nodded.

  Reluctantly. With much suspicion.

  I was never going to be the guest of honor at any of his parties, but we could both live with it.

  “Now what, sir?” I asked. This was a good time to be humble and helpful. I was learning all kinds of new skills tonight.

  “Now you and your pal and that little pippin in the undertaker’s coat pretend none of this ever happened. If you don’t, you wind up like Endicott.”

  That Barrett and I had already wound up exactly like Endicott was information he did not need.

  “Clear?”

  “Yes, sir, like glass. He’s still out there, you know.”

  “I know, and you’re going to help me take care of him.”

  I am?

  “Clappie’s going to drive Mrs. Endicott into town with your friends. She’s going to relax at a good hotel for a few days while I arrange to clean up this mess.”

  He didn’t wait for a reply and went to the parlor, opening both doors wide.

  Naomi stood by one of the couches, waiting. She must have read something on his face, because she broke into a relieved smile and rushed to him. He caught her up in a fierce hug.

  “It’s over, baby. You’re all right,” he whispered.

  “Oh, sweetheart,” she murmured back.

  I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, I just happened to hear is all. Clapsaddle thoughtfully closed the doors on them.

  “There’s little enough happiness running loose,” he said. “Let them have a moment.”

  “Why don’t they get married?”

  “I’m sure they will. It’s coming up seven years since her husband officially went missing. She can petition to have him declared dead and finally be free.”

  “And every day Brogan risks her finding out.”

  “I think not. Once you’re back in Chicago, and I return to my usual round of parties and hangovers, the risk diminishes to nothing.”

  “She’s got no problems with his business?”

  “Of course she does. He’s aware of them. The last few years have improved him. He’s made an effort to legitimize himself. The nightclub’s completely legal, that’s something.”

  “I saw plenty of shifty types there.”

  “Yes, and you were one of them. I’m sure you’ve no control over who buys drinks at your place, either.”

  How’d he know about my club? I buttoned my lip, though. If I asked, it might start a conversation I couldn’t finish.

  Clapsaddle worried me. He hadn’t actually seen me vanish or witnessed Barrett’s supernatural rampage, but he wasn’t the type to let a mystery float past unsolved. He’d probably give Izzy the third degree later, but she wouldn’t be much help. I’d go back to Chicago and let time have its way at eroding his memory. Fine points would fade, logic would fill in the gaps, booze would blur details. He’d eventually let it go.

  Unless he was like Escott and read too much.

  Maybe I’d have a word with Barrett after all.

  * * * * * * *

  * * * * * * *

  A phone would have been helpful, but Brogan made do with what he had, which turned out to be me for the next hour.

  Once again, I made an unpleasant re-acquaintance with the noisome remains of Griffin Endicott. I wouldn’t have liked him when he’d been alive, and had come to loathe him in death. Disrespectful, I know, but showing consideration for those who have passed is easier when they’re sealed up in a box with six feet of earth shoveled in between.

  I helped carry the tarp-wrapped Endicott and load him into the back of the big truck that was still parked by the hedge.

  Thorp and Remke were gone.

  I found where Thorp had fallen and bled; there was a blood trail leading toward the break in the hedge, two sets of tracks in the snow, and blood on the truck.

  “Why didn’t they take it?” I asked.

  “They tried,” said Brogan. He lifted the hood, flicked on a pocket-sized flashlight, and reconnected the battery terminals. “I had one of the boys fix things when no one was looking.” He slammed the hood, got in the cab, and finished the hotwiring job Remke had probably started.

  “What’ll you do wi—never mind.” I boosted onto the passenger side. I didn’t need details on what would happen when Brogan caught up with them.

  “You know how it has to go,” he said, answering anyway.

  “Yeah, I learned from Gordy.”

  “How’s he doing?”

  “Better.”

  “Glad to hear it. You give him my regards.”

  I promised to do so. Gordy would want to know all about this night.

  Brogan drove down a long lane, went left on a more traveled road for few hundred yards, then left again up the long paved drive to the Endicott house. He parked in the back, and I again helped load in a corpse.

  Swann’s, of course.

  He looked asleep . . . except for the bloody entry wound an inch above his right eyebrow. He and Endicott had something else in common besides being dead, having both been killed in the same manner by the same man. The exit wound I took care not to look at, but there was a hellish amount of blood on the snow under his head when we lifted him.

  It is truly an awful thing to pick up a dead body. I was too-aware of every ounce of its slack weight as Brogan and I hoisted it into the back of the truck.

  Hell, yes, it made me sick.

  Not so many minutes ago Swann, the end result of generations of countless ancestors, had been alive, kicking, and desperate to escape. I’d been in that position myself more than once, but that’s where my similarity to him ended.

  He’d literally bet his life on an ambitious plan to put himself in charge of God knows what. He’d been willing to casually kill others to get it. What, in this sad and sorry world, could possibly have been worth that much to him?

  Some guys like power; they crave being in charge.

  I’m not one of them.

  I could understand killing to protect yourself or to save another’s life. Heaven help me, I understood about killing for revenge and in the heat of blind rage, but to kill to put yourself a few steps up on a ladder to nowhere was insane.

  In those last seco
nds, if he’d been awake to see Brogan closing on him—I didn’t know—he might have figured it out.

  Kaiser was missing, which was a relief. I didn’t like him, but I’d had enough death for one night. That, and it would have been hell getting him into the truck.

  After we left the house, Brogan stopped once to use a pay phone outside a closed gas station, then continued, on.

  He kept a boat at a marina not two miles away. He let drop that in the summer he and the lady sometimes took it out for leisurely turns in the Sound around Davids Island. She always packed a good lunch.

  “Sounds nice, but I’m not going out on the water,” I said as he backed the truck toward the dock.

  “What? You ’fraid of it?”

  “Something like that.” Free flowing water and my condition don’t mix.

  “We’re loading,” he stated.

  “I can do that. But no sailing.”

  “It’s a motor launch.”

  “Then no launching.”

  It turned out to be a big motor launch, a long, lean former rumrunner with a surfeit of power and speed, perfect for the deeper areas of the Sound where bodies and body parts could disappear forever if you put enough weight on them. I mentioned the point. Brogan said he’d cover it; he planned to return well before dawn to finish the job. The gray water looked calm enough, but I did not envy him his sea trip.

  We loaded the tarp in a locker and shoved Swann in another. I was glad to be shed of them both, but paused before jumping back onto the dock.

  “Mr. Brogan, you religious?”

  He finished checking something by the wheel and gave me a funny look. “Yeah, I guess I am. What’s it to you?”

  “When you go out there with them, when you’re doing what you need to do . . .you might want to read a service. One of those burial at sea things. Y’know what I’m talking about?”

  “I know the service, but I don’t get you.”

  “I’m not superstitious—not much, anyway—but maybe Endicott will stop coming back if you just lay him the hell to rest. The same for Swann.”

  “You serious?”

  “Yeah. The dead have a way of coming back when they don’t get their due. You’ve seen that tonight. It nearly got you and the lady killed. Say a prayer over her husband and the other bastard. What can it hurt?”

  He stared at me a long, long moment, then barked laughter.

  I’d kind of expected as much. “Hey, I just—”

  He waved a hand. “It’s not that, kid.”

  “What, then?”

  “When Gordy pointed you out to me he said you were crazy. He also said you had a truckload of smarts and to not let the crazy part fool me into forgetting it.”

  That was interesting.

  “For what it’s worth, I think you’re right. I got one of those books on board with the service in it. Must have belonged to the previous owner. I can do that. Like you said: what can it hurt?”

  * * * * * * *

  * * * * * * *

  We returned to the house to find little had changed. A few of the walking wounded had recovered enough to escape when Barrett wasn’t looking, the rest he left where they lay.

  Mrs. Endicott had taken care of Izzy, plying her with brandy-laced tea, sandwiches, and loaning her a coat. It was still too long, but a better fit in the shoulders. I was glad to get mine back. It covered up the wrecked suit.

  Barrett got a coat, too. It was seven years out of style, the previous owner—having been stuffed into a boat locker—had no use for it. Barrett graciously thanked Mrs. Endicott and assured her the smell of mothballs was of no importance at all to him.

  The lady retreated upstairs to pack for her jaunt to the city.

  I wound up in the billiard room, keeping watch on groggy bad guys, but not for long.

  A fresh wave of Brogan’s men began to arrive, responding to the phone call summons from their boss. There was no way to tell if they’d been suborned by Swann, but it no longer mattered. If they’d not turned up before, then maybe they were loyal. It wasn’t my problem; I cleared out of the way while Brogan directed traffic.

  Casualties ended up in the truck, getting a miserable cold ride to who knows where. If Brogan ran things like Gordy, he would have a number of places to take wounded troops. He’d probably have a talk with each of them, too. Not a show I’d want to sit through.

  Clapsaddle sat down for a drink and a quiet chat with his favorite protegé. Izzy wore a serious face and didn’t clobber him or anything, so apparently it turned out well. He nodded to Brogan at one point, indication that she would keep the confidence.

  This might work out after all, I thought.

  The drive back to the city in Mrs. Endicott’s sedan was embarrassingly quiet. A lot had happened worth talking about, but there were topics that had to be avoided entirely. Naomi sat in front with Clapsaddle; Barrett and I were in the back with Izzy between us. She got drowsy and nodded off. I made sure she wound up leaning against me. Barrett seemed unconcerned. I’d be on a train headed west soon enough. He could bide his time.

  Clapsaddle took us to Park Avenue and escorted Naomi into the Waldorf-Astoria. Our next stop was to drop Izzy at her more modest lodgings. He escorted her inside as well. Before leaving the car she gave us each a kiss on the cheek and a brief hug.

  Barrett took note of the street and number, then caught me glaring at him.

  “What?” he asked.

  “How hard did that guy hit you in the head?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Nothing. Just . . . thinking.”

  * * * * * * *

  * * * * * * *

  “A last drink to top off the evening?” Clapsaddle suggested as he pulled up next to Barrett’s Champion. “I know several delightful places that are still open.”

  Barrett beat me to the punch and was more polite about it. “That’s most generous, but another night would suit me better. I want to go home and clean up.”

  “I shall hold you to that rain check, sir. Until then, adieu.”

  “Indeed.” He shook hands with Clapsaddle over the backseat and got out.

  “And you, my lad?”

  “I’m with The Saint,” I said, nodding toward Barrett.

  “You read Leslie Charteris?”

  “My girl does. She doesn’t have trouble with the big words the way I do.”

  Clapsaddle gave an unamused snort and muttered, “Philistine.”

  I’d lived down to his expectations, which cheered me to no end. “What’s with you reading lurid literature?”

  “I have an acquaintanceship with the author. Like most novelists, he’s a pain in the backside, so I read his works and point out their flaws whenever we meet. I think he quite enjoys the aggravation.”

  “You’d be the expert.”

  “I may have to give that seat up to you if you decide to stay.”

  “Not me. Tomorrow I’ll be on the Twentieth Century Limited shaking off the dust, but if you’re ever passing through Chicago . . . ”

  “I’ll know to keep going. Cheers, my lad.”

  We shook hands, and I got out. He drove away, probably heading for one of those still-open bars. I could wish for him to cut back on the booze, but it was his life and liver, not mine. I had my own drinking problems.

  Barrett waited until the other car had turned, then vanished and poured through the driver’s side window. When he was solid again, he reached across to unlock the other door.

  “Thought you’d be too tired for that,” I said.

  “I am, but it’s my only way inside. The keys are in my overcoat, which is still at Brogan’s nightclub if I am not mistaken.”

  “You’re not. But the club’s closed.”

  “Which presents no difficulty to us.”

  “Never mind, just get outta the car.”

  “Why?”

  “So I can get under the dash and hotwire this buggy. You can get your coat some other night.”

  He opined that to be a good
idea and vacated the seat. I showed him how to start a car without a key and got the motor running, then slid over so he could drive.