The Vampire Files Anthology

by P. N. Elrod

  Right, he wanted to see me, but that I should sneak into the club. “Yeah, I can do that.”

  “Nothing’s going on here, now anyway.” A pause, then in a tone more like normal, said, “You okay?”

  “Can’t complain. Been busy, too. Tell you later.” Maybe I could have figured a way to tell him about Chaven’s death and that Angela had gotten her father back safe, but Gordy had other methods of finding out stuff like that, so there wasn’t much point to it. “And tell my friend . . . send’em my warm regards. They’re really all right?”

  “Annoyed, but safe and sound.”

  “Will I be able to see ’em there?”

  “You can make book on it.”

  “Thanks. Thanks for everything.”

  “No problem. See you then.” He hung up.

  I didn’t think we’d been on long enough for the call to be traced. Fine by me; I could imagine all too well the fun and games if the cops tried arresting this creature of the night. I’d had enough laughs for one evening.

  At least a big load of worry about Bobbi was off my mind. Next to me she couldn’t have a better guardian angel than Gordy.

  Went to the back room, fiddled with the radio, but the works were smashed in. No way to tell the time with any accuracy except by instinct and a look at the sky—and Gordy’s left-handed warning about it being late. I peered out the broken slats of the blinds and saw things were getting lighter, with more traffic taking up space on the slush-covered roads. Not long now.

  Through the washroom wall into the shop’s storage. One of the boxes there was much larger than the rest, but you couldn’t tell that since only the narrow end was visible. The bulk of it was hidden by others stacked around and on top. Under the raspy dust and the rich smell of the tobacco I could scent my earth. Without disturbing the other boxes, I sieved inside.

  Tight squeeze when I went solid, and I hate small spaces. I hoped I wouldn’t be awake for long.

  Dark. Totally black. My eyes can pick up and use the least little shred of light so long as there’s some available. Nothing like that here. Didn’t help my claustrophobia at all.

  I shifted noisily in the damn thing, knees and elbows knocking the sides, until the bag of earth was sitting on my chest, not poking into my back.

  And waited.

  I hate this part, too, the waiting until the sun comes. It makes me think about death.

  The daylight comas are my portion of that long sleep, my payment for cheating it the rest of the time, I suppose. I don’t mind them too much, just the waiting for them to happen. At home, in my hideaway in Escott’s basement, I’d sometimes put off dropping into my earth-lined bed until the absolute last second. It gave me a moment’s illusion that I had some control over the process. No such luxury here. Nor as safe. Once I was out the whole block could burn to the foundations and I wouldn’t know I was being killed all over again.

  Damn, but I hate—

  My eyelids slammed down, and I stopped being me for the day.

  2

  JOLT of panic when I woke, directly inspired by the absolute darkness cocooning me. In my regular sleeping area I always leave a light on. Muddled, thinking I was falling, I twisted in the narrow box and slapped my hands hard on what should have been an earth-filled mattress. Struck wood instead.

  Ow.

  Then I remembered. Made myself relax.

  Usually, my wakings are quiet and smooth, my daylight rest complete and oblivious, and I pick up exactly where I left off, but this time . . . this time I’d dreamed. That wasn’t normal. Though not nearly as clear and horrific as the ones that came when I was separated from my soil, these hadn’t been pleasant, what little I could recall of them. Escott thought they went on regardless of the presence of my home earth, that it only kept me from being aware of them. His idea was that the earth was some kind of safety valve attached to the larger one of the dreams.

  The falling sensation had been me taking another sickening headfirst dive off the Elvira, I was sure. I glumly wondered if this was going to be a permanent thing. Maybe my home earth was wearing out, but more likely it was a last shred of the morphine making itself felt, or perhaps too much had happened in too little time and my brain was having trouble digesting it all. Either way I didn’t want a repeat come the next evening. Not that there was much I could do about it.

  I floated out of the box and stretched. Quietly. From the sounds below, the tobacco shop was still open for business.

  Back through to the washroom, where I brushed my teeth with my finger and rinsed with mouth gargle, fighting off the urge to gag before thoroughly spitting the stuff out. I don’t care much for the process, but sometimes the smell of blood could linger on my breath after a heavy feeding and be picked up by others. Offensive to my friends, it was also a telltale clue to people who knew about vampires being real. Not that there were many of those around, but I was only doing my part to keep it that way, since my one encounter with them had been a pretty lousy experience. They’d decided I was a public enemy and nearly got me killed. Dammit, Stoker should have written his big book from the vampire’s point of view; it might have improved things for the rest of us.

  Speaking of revealing smells, I was fairly certain my wool pea jacket was going musty. Damn this crap. I wanted a real shave, fresh clean clothes, and about five years of vacation. No rest for the righteous—or even those with seriously bruised consciences. Time away from this dog-and-pony show would have to wait until I found out how the day went for everyone else.

  The outer office was as I’d left it. I tried the phone, figuring it pretty unlikely for us to be tapped like Gordy, and dialed the private number for Coldfield’s club, the Shoe Box.

  Escott answered. “Hallo, I thought it might be you.”

  “Time of day tip you off?”

  “More like evening, old man.”

  “You guys all right?”

  “Rested and restless.”

  “But quiet?”

  “If you like that sort of thing.”

  “Heart and soul.”

  “Fortunately one of us has his senses. Shoe and I went out to the Paco mansion today.”

  If I’d had anything like blood pressure anymore, the top of my head would have blown right off just then.

  “Jack?”

  “I’m here. Charles, in the name of God, what the hell were you thinking?”

  “That I cannot operate in a vacuum of information.”

  The man was incurable. I held back the comment wanting to spill out on what an idiot he was and accepted the situation. He’d probably heard it earlier from Coldfield on the drive out. “What did you find?”

  “Aside from a few craters and lines of tire tracks weaving over the grounds, nothing. I couldn’t persuade Shoe to go very close, but as far as we could determine with field glasses, the place appears to be deserted. After a bit of futile observation we came back to the city and took a detour along Lakeshore Drive and noted that the Elvira is back in the yacht basin. She also appears to be deserted. Shoe refused to pursue that one as well. If you were up to it, I thought—”

  “Oh, no, I’m not. I’ve had enough of boats and that damned lake to last me forever. Besides, we both know Angela and what’s left of Kyler’s mob have probably found holes to pull in after them.”

  “Actually, we don’t know that at all. They could be huddled in the mansion cellar, or have left Chicago altogether. Not likely, but it is unwise to overlook all possibilities. I’ve asked Shoe about lending a hand in a search, but he is not too terribly inclined to risk any of his people by having them check around.”

  “I don’t blame him for that.”

  “Nor I. He’s more than willing to help us get out of town, but that is not a path I wish to take in regard to the resolution of this situation.”

  I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Yeah, same again here. It ain’t gonna go away unless I put my foot into it with Angela one more time.”

  “Indeed. The only way out
that I can see is if you could privately talk to Miss Paco and firmly request she cease and desist any plans she may have to eliminate either of us.”

  “I can do that, but I have to find her first.”

  “If you’re not enamored of searching the yacht, then perhaps you would not object to looking the mansion over instead. It might provide a suggestion as to where everyone has got to.”

  I groused and grumbled on for a minute, just so he knew I wasn’t a pushover. My objections mostly had to do with personal comfort. “This is something that can wait until I’m ready for it. Trudence took one look at me last night and thought I was a bum, and I’m ready to agree with her. I’m going to go by the house first and change.”

  “If you feel the need.”

  “You’re damn right I do. I might as well check the mail while I’m at it. You want anything from there?”

  “I left my pipe and a pouch of tobacco in the front room, and you might pull a bit of cash from the safe. Fifty should do it.”

  He’d surprised me. “That much?”

  “I don’t know how long this will take and want sufficient funds for at least a few weeks.”

  “Jeez, Charles, if this goes on for that long, I’m gonna be bug-eyed crazy.”

  “Then we shall have to marshal our best efforts toward concluding things as quickly as possible.”

  We meaning me. “Yeah, yeah. But only after I pull on a pair of shoes that don’t squeak. Gimme a couple hours and I’ll come by the club with your stuff.”

  “I’d be most obliged.”

  I cradled the receiver. He’d want to hitch along, but on this I’d do my Rock of Gibraltar imitation against getting talked into it. I’d cracked some ribs once—hell, they’d been broken—and hadn’t liked it one bit. He was going to rest or I’d save him the trouble of suicide by overwork and kill him myself.

  The next call was to Gordy’s; he didn’t let it ring so long this time.

  “It’s me, how’re things going?” I could take a good and probably accurate guess, but wanted to give him the chance to recognize my voice.

  “Not so bad. Your friend sends regards back, wants to talk with you pretty soon.”

  “It might be a while before I can come over, I got some business to clean up first.”

  “How about we meet somewhere?”

  “Sounds fine. Maybe you and my friend could go out, get some air, then call me at home in about an hour.” By then I’d be in a fit state to talk to my beautiful lady.

  “Can do,” said Gordy, and hung up.

  One cab ride later—and looking the way I did it was damned difficult to find one—and I was approaching the house by way of the alley that ran behind the buildings. Things looked all right there, though it’s a sad day when you have to act like your own home is a bear trap. A shame, too, since it’s a nice enough place, certainly much better than the cheap hotels I’d flopped in since I first began writing for newspapers and found out not everyone, myself included, has Pulitzer potential.

  The house was three solid stories of brick. A couple of decades back when the neighborhood wasn’t so nice it used to be the local brothel, then Escott bought the empty hulk last year and started fixing the insides up. I had a couple of rooms and a bath on the second floor, and a very unofficial chamber hidden behind a false brick wall in the basement. In its secret and silent fireproof safety I usually slept the day away in reasonable security and comfort. At night it also doubled as my office, so the clatter of my typewriter wouldn’t disturb Escott’s attempts at overcoming his insomnia.

  I always entered this retreat using my sieving through the walls gimmick, but there was also a concealed trapdoor under the kitchen table. Escott used it to duck down to my room the other night in order to hide out from yet more of Kyler’s men. When they couldn’t find him, they ransacked the place and hung around waiting for me to turn up. It wasn’t to present me with a bunch of posies.

  Because of me, Vaughn Kyler had missed collecting the payment on an important gambling debt. He had one solution for those interfering in his rackets: make the poor bastards disappear forever. He was too crazy for me to hypnotize and knew about my own kind of vanishing act, which made him a major threat to me and mine. While I was still trying to figure out how best to deal with him, Angela Paco had dropped herself into the fight like one of her own grenades and with about the same effect. Her game was getting her kidnapped father Frank back along with the control of his gang, and she didn’t much care who she had to kill to do it. Since Kyler had felt the same way about her it was a hell of a mess for me, the cops, and all the other gangs in the city. Though Kyler was safely dead, the dust had yet to settle. I could figure everyone who had a hint of what was going on was waiting to see what would happen next between his lieutenants and little Angela.

  Just put me at the head of the line.

  All was dark and quiet now as I circled the area of the house, just the usual cars parked in their usual places, including my dark blue Buick out front. Escott usually kept his Nash (a secondhand purchase from Coldfield) in the garage out back, only now it was in a shop somewhere getting fixed. The motor was fine, but when the cops see a car drive past with the glass starred and cracked and the body pocked with a hundred or so bullet dents along one of its extra-thick steel sides—courtesy of Kyler’s goons—they get curious.

  The back door to the house was locked; I left it that way and slipped inside nice and quiet, re-formed in the kitchen, and listened.

  Nothing to hear but more quiet. The place had a hollow, deserted feel to it that I didn’t like. My back hairs were up, but I wasn’t sure if it was for something real or imagined. Hard for me to tell the difference after all I’d been through, my nerves were much too sharp, the edges ready to cut. A man shouldn’t have to live like this. Grimacing, I shrugged the stiffness out of my shoulders.

  We hadn’t had a chance to clean up much since all hell broke loose. I’m not as demanding as Escott when it comes to keeping things neat, so that wasn’t the problem so much as the fact the house had been invaded. Someone had broken into my private territory and the violation hit me the same as with the office: I wanted some skulls to bust, preferably those of the ones responsible, except they were already dead. Guys like Chaven, Vic, Hodge, Kyler . . .

  Had to stretch once more as my shoulders stubbornly bunched up again. I was giving names to roaches, and who in their right mind feels guilty about a dead roach? It was past time to stop doing this to myself or I’d be ready for the loony bin like Frank Paco.

  Walked slowly into the hall, still listening. Nothing. Good. Went to the front door, unlocked and opened it, and pulled a wad of mail from the box, got the papers, too. My arms were full when I backed inside, kicked the door shut, turned, and abruptly came nose to muzzle with a gun.

  I don’t know who was the more surprised, me or Deiter.

  Escott’s Webley, I thought a split second before disappearing again, mail, papers, and all. Having been shot several times too many, I didn’t care who saw.

  Through my distorted hearing I heard Deiter’s sharp cry of horrified shock. He’d been on the boat last night, had pulled the tarp from my apparently dead body and dragged me toward the edge of the deck ready to roll into the water. Chaven, repeating what Kyler had said, had told him about my being able to vanish; until now Deiter had no reason to believe him.

  Great, another loose end to tie up. Well, I’d put a bow on this one.

  “Where are you?” he said, his voice shaky and hoarse. “Where?”

  He had guts. Given the same circumstances, I’d have hoofed it out of there and kept on going.

  I floated around him to the front room where he wouldn’t see me and went solid only long enough to drop everything on the couch. No need to move after that, hearing the noise of it, he came to investigate. He walked right through me, which was not so much fun for him because the air gets real cold in the space I occupy. According to Escott, the chill goes a bit more than bone deep, as in ri
ght down to the soul.

  “Where are you?” Deiter demanded, still sounding like a kid whose voice had just broken. You could almost feel sorry for the bastard.

  I reappeared right behind him, grabbed the gun with one hand, and snaked my free arm around his neck, lifting him clean off his feet. Being tall enough, I got away with it slick as sweat. He choked and struggled, and managed a kick or two to my shins, but never really had a chance, and I think he knew it. I wrested the gun away, firmly tapped the side of his head with the grip, and felt the sudden sag of his weight. His heels making long black marks on the wood floor, I hauled him around, dropping him on the couch with the other junk.

  Listened again. Nothing. Not at first.

  I tiptoed into the hall and noticed the door to the understairs closet was open. He’d been hiding there, being particularly quiet, and slipped out to shoot me—Escott really, since I was supposed to be dead—while I’d been busy with the mail.

  Time to close my eyes and really concentrate. Now that I was focusing on it I could hear them, like rats in the walls. I’d almost rather have the rats, they’re smaller and harder to catch, but they don’t pack any heat. Had to assume the human vermin lurking upstairs were all armed—they’d sooner be caught with no pants than leave their guns at home. Couldn’t blame ’em for it, it’s a rough world.

  I checked the Webley. Deiter had reloaded it, though where he’d turned up the .455 ammunition I’d like to find out. Escott often complained about the stuff sometimes being too scarce for him to target-shoot regularly.

  Tempting as it was, I left the Webley on the hall table. I wouldn’t really need it this time. Too noisy. No reason to disturb the neighbors, after all. Besides, Escott did have a number of other useful weapons lying handy around the house. Left over from his acting days were a few working crossbows, spears for the spear carriers—stuff he’d made as stage props. There were other, more practical items tucked away in odd places and overlooked like old pencil stubs. Also a dried out fountain pen, scrap paper, rubber bands, a bowie knife that needed sharpening, and a couple of blackjacks—normal stuff for this joint. Grinning, I picked out and hefted the larger blackjack, liking the feel of it.