The Vampire Files Anthology

by P. N. Elrod

  “You might need some help there,” he said.

  “I’ll be talking to the madam and bouncers, not the girls.”

  “Just thought I’d make the offer.”

  Adkins’s two men now passed by, all of us exchanging looks but not saying anything.

  “This don’t look so good,” I said.

  “Indeed.” Escott kept walking. “Have you considered more area might be covered if Shoe and I go off in one direction and you take another? We do know the city rather well.”

  He was going to try talking me into it, and I was tempted to listen. He had ways of getting people to cooperate that were nearly as effective as my hypnosis, and here he was just getting started on me. “Thanks, but this is something I gotta take care of myself. I’ve had some experience at this kind of work.”

  “Escott! Fleming!” Adkins hurried up behind us, the doctor, cop, men, and Maxwell in tow. We waited for them. They delivered the news that Calloway had just died. I didn’t have anything to say about it and just frowned like the others. For me, Calloway had been dead since I found him, the declaration only a formality, so I’d already had all the thoughts I wanted to about the waste of human life, no matter whose life it was.

  “My condolences,” Escott said to the cop, who made no reply, just stared at us.

  Adkins’s face was all frozen over, his voice just as cold. “It’s a double-murder investigation now, maybe triple if it’s connected to the other killing at the hotel. I want you two to come with us.”

  “To assist in your inquiries? Sadly we’ve already given you all the information we have.”

  “We need full, written statements.”

  I looked him square in the eye, knowing redemption when I saw it. “Not from me, you don’t. I gotta be someplace else.”

  Not a blink. Hard to tell if I got to him. Then: “All right. You can go.”

  “Myself as well,” Escott put in.

  But Adkins rounded on him. “No, you’re staying here.”

  “Jack . . . ” Escott’s sharp gaze was on me. My conscience also gave me a good solid jab, but I endured the pain.

  “Not this time, buddy.”

  I turned and kept walking and, with the idea of taking the sting out of it, didn’t look back so he’d miss my grin.

  NO cops stopped me on my way to the front, though I saw several in the halls. Maybe Calloway and Baker would also be treated as heroes by their colleagues. It’d be good for the department to take that path with the public. No need to wonder what the papers would make of four cops shot in two days, three of them dead. There’d be plenty of editorials, every one with their own solution to the task of how to make our streets safe. Good luck to them; people had been trying to figure that one since streets were first invented. Once upon a time there’d been roving gangs of hoodlums running crazy in old Byzantium, terrorizing folks and generally having a good time committing murder and mayhem. When the emperor couldn’t stop them, he started laying bets on which group would win their next fight with rivals elsewhere in the city. Nothing changes much.

  The urge to write the whole present-day business up as a story and send it to the Tribune was very strong. I wanted someone to know the truth of what was really going on, of the gangs, the brewing war, of the corruption high and low. The urge would pass soon enough, though. It always did. I couldn’t let myself get officially noticed in any way, shape, or form if I could help it. There was too much dirt on me to take that risk, and I had to protect those around me, Bobbi, Coldfield, Escott.

  Another twinge about leaving him behind. I’d apologize to him later, take him to Hallman’s an extra time or two. Bobbi could put on one of her drop-dead dresses and flirt with him over supper. He never did anything about it, pretending to be immune to her because she was my girlfriend, but you could tell he loved the attention.

  I hoped she was doing all right. I wanted to toss all this in the nearest trash can and go see her, to get back to a normal life again.

  Only one way to do that.

  Of all the people in this town who would know how to find anyone, both Sullivan and Angela, Gordy was my best bet. He had more connections than the phone company and was the one name Maxwell had not mentioned. I’d been careful in my questions, phrasing them in such a way so that the subject of Gordy just didn’t come up. It was part of the reason I got that touch of headache; I’d had to walk a tightrope on tiptoes. I didn’t want Coldfield knowing and then passing the information on to Escott. He was busy now, but if he found a way clear of Adkins, I didn’t need him to be involved.

  It was complicated enough.

  The suspicion I had that Gordy was the one behind the hotel hit and all the rest of it was pretty solid. Now Angela had plenty of motive for that kind of work and was still my first suspect, but Gordy could have done it just as easily. This was exactly the kind of thing to stir up the pond, to get Angela and Sullivan to kill each other off, then he could move into whatever openings presented themselves, and all with the beaming approval of the New York bosses no less.

  I hated it; he was a friend to me, to Bobbi, had done us some outstanding favors, but above everything else Gordy was a businessman and more than capable of giving the orders. I’d have to see him alone and find out one way or another where he really stood in this mess, then somehow figure what to do about it if he was behind it all.

  But that could wait just a little while longer. For now, the cold outside air was a relief after the hospital stink. I gulped it down gratefully, walking fast toward the Nash at the far end of some parking spaces. The idea was for privacy while I questioned Maxwell. It was between street lamps and plenty dark in that patch, but I clearly saw something was happening by the car and broke into a dead run.

  No time to count them, and the numbers didn’t matter, I’d have charged in, anyway, against two or two hundred. I couldn’t see Coldfield, but knew he was there, somewhere in the middle of a knot of men. From the sounds, a couple of them were laying into him like pile drivers with their fists.

  Three guys on lookout spotted my approach and stepped forward. I saw blackjacks and brass knuckles. I noted and forgot them, going semitransparent just before the nearest man got close enough to do damage. His blackjack arced right through my near-invisible body, the force of his follow-through throwing him off balance. Ghostlike, I passed him and his two astonished friends, leaving behind a chill trail where I brushed by them.

  Half a dozen of them, all circled around Coldfield. Another two held him in place while two more took turns hitting him. Bloodsmell everywhere, mixed with raw hate and the sound of dark laughter.

  I burst into the middle of the circle, going solid and taking out a man before he could get his next hit in. His partner was next. I had time to drop a third holding Coldfield, then the rest moved in to stop me. Took some punches, hard ones, but didn’t really feel them, too full of rage for it. I dug an elbow into someone’s gut, something banged against the side of my head, but not enough to make an impression. I was pressed all around by their bodies, by the men trying to hurt me and failing. At one point I was completely lifted from the ground by the crush, and hands grabbed me from behind. Kicked out with both legs, sending a man sprawling. Lots of noise now, lots of cursing for me over spoiling their fun.

  Hadn’t even got warmed up yet.

  Vanished just as we started to topple. Left them behind to be crushed under their collective weight and reappeared a few feet away. Glance toward Coldfield. Only one man held him now, and that one was watching the dog pile. Coldfield was bent double and not doing much of anything but retching, trying to cough air back into his body.

  A man saw me and came fast. He lasted for as long as it took me to get my fist up. Two more, then three, as they got reorganized. Even three at a time, I could take them easy.

  Gun.

  Didn’t see it, only heard.

  Sure as hell felt it. Instantly knew that particular fiery burn as a bullet tore through my guts. When I dropped, my knees hit
the pavement so hard my teeth rattled.

  Pause in the madness. They must have thought it was all over. They stood still a moment, watching, waiting for me to crash at their feet.

  Transparent again. Couldn’t help it. When it came to recovering from this kind of shock, my body rarely gave me a choice. I was there one second and not there the next and the hell with anyone who saw.

  It didn’t take long to return. I was still choked with rage; it gave me the will to come back a lot sooner than otherwise. Five, ten seconds later, perhaps, not enough time for them to even begin to figure out what was going on. The man with the gun was still gaping when I yanked it away from him and slammed the butt on his skull. He dropped as I’d dropped, only without the disappearing act.

  Vanished again. Went solid a few feet to the left. Cracked another skull. And again, this time reappearing on the right.

  Then it was over. I didn’t catch on, was all set to bust more jaws, only the thugs that could still stand were now running off. Started after them, yelling.

  Heard a hoarse shout behind me. Coldfield.

  Last yell, triumph, defiance, rage, take your pick, then went back to him. He was on his side, trying to push the pavement away. He’d just managed to sit up as I came close. I put a hand out to help, but he snarled and batted it off. He started coughing, got some air, then spit blood. He puffed and wheezed and abruptly lurched to his feet, reeling over to lean on the car. The door was open, inside light on, throwing a pale glow across his bloodied face. Two shiners for sure, split lip, he’d need stitches for the cut over his eye, and that was only the damage I could see.

  “Come on, let’s get you out of here,” I said, reaching again.

  He reacted the same, this time with a curse. I knew it wasn’t for me, his glare was strictly for the bodies left behind.

  He doubled over, coughing, holding on to the car to keep from falling altogether. Every time he got enough breath, he swore. Take a breath, swear, take another, swear. Couldn’t blame him.

  A few of the men got up and shambled off. The bulk of their friends were heading for two cars parked farther down the road, looking nervously back to see if I was following. I stayed put in case another bright boy decided to try shooting again. Someone got a motor started.

  Four men remained, casualties of battle, four of the ones who had been holding Coldfield, hitting him.

  Before he’d quite caught his breath, he staggered to the first and kicked him once, hard enough to break ribs. I heard the crunch.

  Got his balance, went to the next, and did it again, all the time calling him every name in the book.

  Made a similar visit to all of them, cursing and cracking ribs.

  I stayed where I was.

  The first car moved past us, slowly picking up speed. One of the men leaned from the window, shouting. Couldn’t make out the words, but they were full of hate. It set me off once more. He wasn’t the only one who could hate. I ran toward them, all my attention centered on that one distorted face.

  The car went full throttle and left me in its roaring wake. The second one was coming up. I waited as the driver hit the gas and steered right toward me, but he didn’t have nearly enough speed yet. The vehicle was overloaded, sluggish. It came up; I dodged right and made a jump for the driver’s-side running board. Yanked the door open. Grabbed the wheel and hauled it over. Nearly fell off when the damned thing swerved and jumped the curb, but I hung on.

  The driver yelled, they all yelled. Fist on my face. Ignored it. The car rolled forward, then jerked to a stop when someone found the hand brake.

  Gun. The driver.

  My hand froze over his, squeezing. He couldn’t pull the trigger. I dragged him from his seat. Momentum, balance lost, falling, hard impact. Rolling on frozen grass, his weight on top. More shouts from the others, but no one came to the rescue. The guy on the passenger side slid over the seat, slipped the brake, worked the gears, eyes wide, mouth open, making animal noises of fear. Ignored him. Rolled to get on top to see better. The car juttered away, slewing on the road, then straightening.

  The man struggled to get his gun hand free. For the grip I had, it might as well have been buried in cement. His teeth were set, breath hissing. Made hits at me with his free hand, but no force in them; he was losing to his growing fear. I took the gun away from him. Got to my feet, pulling him up. Pinned his hands behind him. Marched him across the street to the Nash.

  Coldfield, standing in the middle of the fallen, amazed look on his battered face. He’d seen what I’d done and didn’t know why.

  Brought my captive close, pushed him against the car into the faint light so he could see my face, my eyes. Wasn’t going to hypnotize him, knew I was too angry for it.

  “Where’s Sullivan?” I hissed at him. I’d recognized some of the others. They’d been loitering in the carpeted hall of the roadhouse.

  Shook his head. Wrong answer. Shoved the gun muzzle under his nose.

  “Where?”

  A long time, him looking at me. Long time. Then a head shake. He could see I wasn’t going to shoot. He knew enough to be able to read my face, to know that even after all this, his death wasn’t going to come from me.

  I backed off.

  Looked at Coldfield. Didn’t have to ask.

  He understood why now, and moved in, pure unholy joy lighting up his eyes.

  11

  BLOODSMELL in the car.

  Some of it on me. On my hands.

  Wanted to wash and change clothes, but it’d have to wait.

  My turn to drive. Needed to, needed a simple mechanical activity to keep my hands from shaking from the unspent anger, from the aftershock of outrage. Held a heavy foot to the gas, wanting lots of distance between us and the battlefield casualties.

  Coldfield sat partially curled around in the seat, knees drawn up, resting his back against the passenger door. He wasn’t moving if he could help it. Since he’d had a chance to cool down, the knocks he’d taken were making themselves felt, and I’d hear him catch his breath every time we hit a bump. I tried to take it easy on the turns. I also tried to talk him into going to the hospital, but he nixed that.

  “Trudence’ll do better by me,” he said, so I got us rolling toward her sanctuary in the Bronze Belt and didn’t argue him out of it.

  I drove for ten minutes before he looked up, squinting at me in the intermittent light as we passed under street lamps.

  “You all right?” he asked.

  “I’m fine.”

  “But they shot you. I saw.”

  “I’m indestructible, remember?”

  “Saw you fall.”

  “Well, it hurt.”

  “You went away.”

  “I do that when it hurts too much.” My voice sounded wrong. Tight. It takes time to lose a load of anger like that. I shifted my bunched shoulders and toned things down inside.“Don’t worry about it. How’re you doing?”

  “I feel like how Charles looked the other night.”

  “You must feel a lot worse than that.”

  “I’ll get better.” He held an already well-stained handkerchief to the cut over his eye. His knuckles were scraped, but unlike the rest of him, their damage was in a good cause.

  The thug I’d grabbed proved to be very informative, once Coldfield started in on him. It’s one thing to gang up on a solitary man, and quite another for him to turn on you and you alone in a fair fight, to make you the special object of his attention. The thug hadn’t liked it one bit and started talking after a very short time. Coldfield never asked why I’d not used the hypnosis; I doubt it even occurred to him once he got going.

  The news of the fire, murder, and Calloway being brought to the hospital had been passed to Sullivan via one of his other pet cops on the force. Sullivan, who had indeed moved out of the roadhouse before Angela came calling, harbored no doubts that she was behind the shootings and the fire, once he heard about them. He’d dispatched two carloads of stooges to check the whole business out,
some to ask questions, others to keep watch in case Angela’s goons turned up to finish the job on Calloway.

  His men got a description of the Nash from the people at the emergency-room entrance, and that there was a black man at the wheel. They learned about me and Escott, but couldn’t get near either of us in the hospital, so they opted to find and question the driver. They’d just located him and had started in with the fun and games at about the same time I was leaving Escott in the hands of Merrill Adkins. Their question was the same one I was asking: Where’s Angela? Coldfield sure as hell couldn’t tell them, but even if he’d been able to, they’d have kept at it with him. They were in a killing mood.

  That’s why it was important to bring one of them back for him to work over in turn; getting news about Sullivan had only been the second thing on my mind when I made the grab. I’d done it for Coldfield.

  Kicking unconscious men doesn’t give you the same kind of satisfaction as taking out someone who can hit you back. By giving that man to Coldfield, I’d also returned his self-respect to him. Neither of us said anything about it directly, but after he was finished with the fists and questions and the man was taking his turn at lying bloody, beaten, and gasping on the ground, Coldfield looked up and nodded his thanks to me. Only then was he ready to let himself be helped into the car and driven away.

  I found the right street, the right alley, and pulled in, easy does it. Lights showed in the kitchen windows, and as I set the brake the back door opened up. The big man named Sal came out.

  I waved at him. “Miss Coldfield’s brother is hurt and needs help. Go find her, would you?”

  He leaned down to peer in. He shot a look at me I couldn’t read, then nodded and went inside. I went around to help Coldfield and we staggered toward the door like a couple of drunks.

  Trudence hurried into the kitchen and paused just as I eased Coldfield onto a chair. Her face went pinched like she wanted to yell at him, but she swallowed it back and went to work, issuing orders. People jumped to obey.