The Vampire Files Anthology

by P. N. Elrod

  “I’m sure you do. You’re becoming quite famous, aren’t you? The last thing you need is to have another someone like me turning up and identifying you as Raymond Yorke.”

  “That’s it in a nutshell. I want to know where the rest of them are, the bunch that was in the truck. You know, don’t you? You’d make it your business to keep track of them. How about we start with Katherine Hamilton? Where’s she keeping herself?”

  “She went back to London and succumbed to influenza a year after you murdered her sister.”

  Grant was silent a moment. Thinking, maybe. “You know, I didn’t really mean to kill Bianca, so it’s not really murder. She just hit her head too hard. It was an accident.”

  “And the others? Were the other eleven also accidents?”

  “It’s funny, but I don’t remember much of any of it. That was a lifetime ago. I’m a completely different man now.”

  “You remember all right. Not as I do, but you remember it all the same. Every second of it.”

  “I was just a kid.” Grant’s tone was light, dismissive.

  “And you simply made a mistake?”

  “The only mistake I made was making too much noise. If I’d been quieter I wouldn’t have woke up Queen Bianca. She’s the one who started it all with her fussing. The one thing I did right was not getting caught. What’s so funny?”

  Escott made that dry whispery sound. “Your boundless honesty.”

  “I’m telling you, Archy, he’s off his rocker,” said Ike, who seemed to be on the far side of the room. “You weren’t there to see, but he shot down his partner just like that.” The sound of a finger snap. “Didn’t even blink. Dead as a doornail. I’ve asked him why, and he says it was to keep his friend from trying to save him. He’s crazy.”

  Archy made no reply. I could imagine him giving Escott a good long look.

  Escott said, “And what is your interest in this butcher, Mr. LaCelle? You two met some ten years past, did you not?”

  “More like twelve. I helped him get the new face.”

  “And he began doing comedy work in the vaudeville houses? Became successful at it? He turned out to be a good investment for your time and efforts on his behalf, and you benefited him with connections to people who could advance his career. Quite a fortunate symbiosis for you both. How many others have had to die along the way?”

  “Hey, I don’t have to talk to a crazy man if I don’t want to, and I don’t want to. Archy, if you’re going to do something, do it.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Okay, Charlie, what about Klopner? You remember him? Where’s he?”

  “He died three years ago of a bad liver.”

  “And Eric Lynd?”

  “He was in a motoring accident in Buffalo and died with three others.”

  “Coldfield, is he dead, too?”

  “No, but you’ll never be able to get to him. He’s like you, too well protected. On the other hand, he doesn’t know who you are and likely never will. He never listens to comedy shows.”

  Escott was smart to admit to Coldfield still being around because LaCelle probably knew enough to catch out a lie.

  “So everyone in the company is either dead or unreachable, huh?” Archy sounded doubtful.

  “Yes, that’s it exactly.”

  A sharp cracking sound. A slap. “How many teeth you want to lose before you die?”

  “That’s the problem for you. You don’t yet realize it.”

  “What?”

  “I’m already dead, Raymond. I died a long time ago with them. I should have died with them. Part of me did.”

  “He’s crazy, I’m tellin’ you,” said LaCelle.

  Another slap. “Do the dead feel pain, Charlie? I can put you through an awful lot of it.”

  “You already have. There’s really nothing more you can do to me.”

  A series of slaps, then the unmistakable sound of fist against body, and Escott’s rasping breath. He didn’t have to put himself through this. He must have thought out a way around it. Then I realized this was his way of punishing himself for surviving the murders.

  “You’re going to tell me where the others are, and no crapping around about their being dead,” said Grant. “I don’t have to kill you tonight. I can keep you alive for as long as it takes.”

  There it was, that dry laugh again. The laugh of the damned. “Yes, I suppose you will.”

  More fist work. I started to vanish, to go help him. It didn’t happen. Dizziness swept over and through me. I fell against the table, making noise, but no one in the other room seemed to notice.

  Grant’s voice was thick with anger. “You want I should start with the bolt cutters next or how about some pliers for your teeth?”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Escott murmured. I could barely hear him. “If . . . if you will allow me some paper, I’ll write . . . write out what you need to know.”

  “Now suddenly you’re cooperative?”

  “Disappointed?”

  “Write any lies and Ike will find out.”

  “Keeping me alive until you confirm my information? Wise of you. Very well, now some . . . some paper, if you please. Thank you, but I’ve my own pen.”

  He’s going to do it, I thought. The son of a bitch is going to do it.

  Then the door to my dark office opened, and the lights flicked on. Someone else had heard me. The pacing man, his gun ready. For all that, he was still hellishly surprised. Even more so when he discovered how fast I could move. Maybe I couldn’t vanish, but I still had a store of speed and strength left. It made more noise, though, disturbing the others.

  “Ike! Go tell those bozos to hold it down,” Grant snapped.

  Even as the thug hit the floor I hit the light switch. No time to shut the door. LaCelle was already out and looking around. I softly backstepped into the sheltering darkness and waited for him.

  He went right instead of left, though, having spotted the knot of his men still gathered around Coldfield.

  “What is this?” he wanted to know. “What’s going on?”

  Damn. Coldfield was outnumbered five to one. Escott had the best chance with just the one man to face, but was handicapped by his beating and the leftover booze. But Grant wanted him alive to give information. Coldfield won my mental coin toss.

  No time or ability to be subtle about it. I took another gun off the thug I’d aced and slipped out the door, hiding my approach in the shadows of the huge trucks. LaCelle was just in the process of figuring out who the unexpected visitor was when I slammed the butt of the gun against the side of his head. He dropped fast and made noise as he did, drawing the prizefighter and Shep inside for a look. The fighter didn’t know what hit him, but Shep came in ready for trouble and fired at me.

  The shot cracked too close to my ear, and I dodged fast, hurling around to put the massive body of a truck between us. The last thing I wanted was another wound taking away what little blood I had left. I crouched and waited for him, deciding not to shoot back. It would have given him a muzzle flash to aim for in the dark. Besides, he was using up bullets.

  Some kind of activity was happening outside with Coldfield, and I thought I heard Grant impatiently calling out again from the office. He wanted to know what was going on. Hell was breaking loose all over the place.

  Shep fired in my general direction again while on the run. He took cover behind a ten foot tall stack of oversized tires, which would have worked for him except for my night vision. He probably couldn’t see anything of me except my pale face, and I was keeping my head down. After a few moments he yelled a question to his friends outside, but they must have been too busy to answer. His next question was aimed at anyone else in the garage, demanding they reply and help him, but I’d already taken care that those soldiers wouldn’t be awake for some while.

  Just him and me and a stack of tires.

  I quit my shelter behind the truck and cat-footed toward him from an angle, pocketing the gun. It was just as well I’d put on the black
shirt; the tires were damned dirty as I pushed hard against them.

  Shep must have figured what was coming and tore from his cover like a flushed rabbit just a thin second before the avalanche would have buried him. He was fast, but I didn’t let him make it to the door. He ended up on the greasy cement next to LaCelle and the fighter, but in no condition to complain about any of it.

  Coldfield came in just as I was going out, and we almost didn’t stop in time. He swung his gun away at the last instant and wilted with relief even as I pulled my fist in.

  “Where’s Charles?” he asked, a little out of breath. His coat was on crooked and his shirt torn open.

  “In one of the offices with Grant. Stay low. I don’t know if I got them all.”

  “There’s two by the car you don’t have to worry about,” he said, following me.

  I looked everywhere, but didn’t see any other men wanting to risk open battle. We paused on each side of the closed office door, and I listened hard. The light was still on, but nothing stirred within. Maybe Grant was listening hard himself, wondering what was going on.

  With Coldfield covering me, I kicked the door in. It flew back and banged off the wall, but by then I was inside.

  The layout was the same as the room where I’d hidden, with the same kind of furnishings and not much space between them. No one was there. On a desk lay a blank sheet of paper and some bolt cutters. No trick pen. I didn’t know if that was good or bad.

  “Grant must have taken him,” I said.

  Coldfield cursed, then left, with me close on his heels. He ran toward the front, heading for the cars. I turned and went deeper into the murk of the garage.

  This far in and things were dim even for my eyes, so I listened again and almost immediately picked up the sound of footsteps above me. They were on the catwalk. The other stairway was closest. I tore across to it.

  The upper landing on this side was clear; all the action was at the far end. Against the bank of windows I saw the silhouttes of two struggling men. I recognized Escott’s lean figure, Archy Grant’s sturdy form. Grant looked to be winning. As I hurried toward them, Grant wrestled Escott around and got a choke hold on him from behind, trying to lift him off his feet. Escott’s swollen face was going red as he clawed frantically at Grant’s unmoving arm.

  “Grant!”

  He paused, startled by the interruption, snapping his head toward me. I didn’t know him. The ever-confident, wisecracking entertainer was gone. What was left behind still possessed a ready smile, though, and the exhilarated madness of it was enough to stop me cold.

  “I’ll break his neck,” he said cheerfully, and to illustrate, he hauled back a step, dragging the weakened Escott along.

  I put my hands out, palms skyward. “Don’t.”

  “Hey, it’s you. Well, how do you like that? And here Ike said you were dead. It’s not like him to get things so wrong.”

  Easing closer, I prayed there was enough light coming in the windows for me to be able to work on his mind. I didn’t think there was, and with him gone crazy to boot. . . “Let him go, Archy.”

  “Nah, I don’t think so. How ’bout you get outta my way and I just leave? I’ll let him go later.”

  Not alive, I thought.

  Grant kept smiling. “You don’t think I will? Hey—I’m Archy Grant. Anyone’ll tell you. There was no trusting old Raymond, but my word’s good.”

  If I could only vanish, get next to him. I tried. Nothing happened for me.

  Escott made a wheezing noise, straining to breathe. His face was puffed and bloodied from his beating, and for a bad second I couldn’t tell if he recognized me or not. Grant increased the pressure. “Take it easy, Charlie-boy. We’ll have our little talk soon enough.”

  Escott’s knees gave out; he stopped pulling at Grant’s arm.

  “That’s better. Act nice and I give you some air.”

  “Grant—” I began.

  “No, I’m not talking with you, I’m telling you—back off!”

  I could rush him, but what kind of damage could he do to Escott in the second it would take for me to cross the few yards between us? Then I saw Escott’s hand flapping feebly against one of his pockets. His bulging eyes were staring at me, pleading, but not for help. He wanted time. He wanted Grant distracted.

  “You hear me, punk?” Grant hadn’t noticed anything yet.

  “I hear you,” I said. I went back a pace to show him I was also listening to what I heard.

  “Who’s the other guy with you?”

  “He’s nobody. I’ll get rid of him.”

  “No, you call him up here. I want both of you where I can see.”

  “Okay, just don’t—”

  His thick arm came up half an inch, tightening. “Don’t what?”

  “If you kill Charles you’ll have nothing to stop me from coming for you. Think about it.”

  His smile faltered, then he nodded, all good natured. “Yeah, that makes a lot of sense, but you still do what I say or I give your buddy a lot more misery. Call the other guy. Make it fast, Charlie-boy should be getting pretty blue by now.”

  I yelled at Coldfield, but didn’t use his name, just calling out to him where we were. He yelled back that he was coming up.

  “He got a gun?” asked Grant. “I heard shooting. I bet he’s got a gun. He leaves it down there.”

  Coldfield was almost to the stairs. “Jack? What the hell’s—”

  “No guns,” I said quickly. “He’s got Charles. He’ll kill him if you . . .”

  Coldfield got the idea and told me he was putting his gun down. I didn’t know whether that was true, and Grant didn’t look to be buying it, either.

  Escott had reached his pocket. He got the pen out. Nearly fumbled it.

  I tried not to stare and instructed Coldfield to come up slowly with his hands high. He grumbled and growled, but did just that. He reached the landing and stood next to me, glaring at Grant.

  Grant’s eyes went wide. “Well, trot out the band and let’s have a parade, if it ain’t old home week! I was just thinking about you, Coldfield. Good to see you again. Still got that shoeshine box?”

  Coldfield went still. I couldn’t tell if it was from the question or if he’d spotted what was happening.

  Escott’s long fingers had unscrewed the cap of the pen. It dropped away, making a small noise on the rough cement floor.

  “Yeah, Raymond, I still got that old box,” said Coldfield. “You need a shine?”

  Grant laughed once. “I bet you’d love to hear me say yes. You did the work, but you didn’t much like it, did you?”

  “Not much. Got a different line, now.”

  Escott looked to be gaining ground. Maybe he was getting more air, but he didn’t seem to be able to find the trick catch for the needle. He couldn’t see what he was doing.

  “Got my own place, a nice little club,” Coldfield continued. “Remember me talking about that? You should come over sometime. We got some great music there.”

  “Do I look like a sucker? We all know how this has to end. I want the two of you to start backing up. You don’t come near me or Charlie does his act with the angels from now on. Go on.”

  Hands out, we reluctantly retreated. Exactly one step.

  It didn’t sit well with Grant. “I know you both want to kill me, but it’s not in the cards. You try and Charlie goes first. If I lose, he loses, too. You got that? You got any of tha—”

  Escott jabbed downward with the pen. There wasn’t much force behind it, but it was enough to stab the needle into Grant’s leg. Grant snarled and jerked against the sudden pain. Before I could get to them, Escott twisted partially free and buried his elbow into Grant’s side. He set himself, then violently pushed them both backward toward the windows.

  One of the big lower panes shattered as Grant staggered against it. I was there in an instant, reaching for Escott. Grasping his coat, I hauled him out of the way. He fought me.

  “Let him!” Coldfield shouted. />
  I let go, dimly understanding. Escott wrested clear of me. He swayed, coughing, but was able to stand alone.

  Grant managed to recover his balance and kept himself from going through the window. He braced a moment against the bent frame, staring wildly at us to see what we’d do. No one moved. He looked down and saw the body of the pen sticking incongruously out from his thigh at a right angle. He swatted the thing away, and cursed at the new pain it caused him.

  Panting, Escott raised a shaking hand at Grant. “I think . . . I think things are more even, now.”

  “What’d you do to me, Charlie?” he demanded. “What was in that—”

  “It won’t take long. But it will be . . . extremely unpleasant while it lasts.”

  “Charles,” I said evenly. “What was in the needle?”

  He gave a thick laugh that turned into another cough. “Just a little strychnine.”

  “Oh, my God,” Coldfield whispered.

  Grant shook his head. “No, it’s not. You can’t get stuff like that. They control poisons, so it can’t be—”

  Escott wore an awful smile. “There are small amounts to be found in certain kinds of rat poisons. You can extract a good concentrated dose of it if you know how. And I do.”

  “No, you’re lying—”

  “We’ll see. It should start very soon. The convulsions are the worst. You’ll break your own bones from the thrashing about. You won’t be able to talk, but you will be aware. Every terrible moment of it, you’ll feel . . . ”

  That was too much for Grant. He lunged at Escott, who ducked his head and met him halfway, ramming his shoulder into the other man’s body. There was a solid thump and both grunted from the effort and impact.

  I started to step in, but Coldfield yanked me back. “It’s his fight. Let him.”

  Escott got in one sharp jab, a good one. He may have been handicapped before, but now he was operating on pure rage. Years of it. He cut loose with another few deep punches before Grant tried to get away. As he turned, Escott caught him around the shoulders and, whether by accident or design, steered him toward the window. Grant bucked against this. Escott let him, but hung on, using Grant’s force to carry them around. They swung in a full circle, ending up with Grant crashing into another sheet of glass, breaking it. Grant yelled something, fighting wildly to push himself back. Escott snaked his arms under Grant’s elbows, locking hands behind his neck to hold him in place with a full-nelson. Grant tried to slide sidways out of it. He had the muscle, but Escott had the height and used it for leverage.