The Vampire Files Anthology

by P. N. Elrod

  Strome would make a phone call to the cops sometime in the morning. He’d ask if they wanted to know where Mitchell stashed Hoyle’s body. The question would make sense to Merrifield and Garza.

  Soon after, the cops would give the place a good going-over, find what I wanted them to find and more that I didn’t. Along with the bullet entry and exit holes, the coroner would certainly note the ripped flesh on Hoyle’s throat and wonder at the lack of blood in the corpse. I’d been clumsy and crazy with hunger, but if the guy was good at his job, he might determine the damage had been caused by something akin to human teeth. There was nothing I could do about it. Hoyle’s body was needed to set up a false trail to Mitchell, and that was more important. The authorities would be more inclined to think “mad-dog cannibal killer” than “vampire.” When working as a reporter, I’d seen stranger things while covering the crime beat.

  I emerged into the fresh air, thankful to be clear of that claustrophobic tomb. What I’d done there was shameful and would always be with me, but I had gotten good at distracting myself from the darker memories swarming in my skull. In time, the worst of them would fade.

  That was what I told myself.

  KROUN and I headed back to the Nightcrawler. Strome went off to God knows where to do God knows what. I did not care to inquire.

  I drove slowly, certain that Derner would have more minutiae requiring a decision from me. When I’d taken over this branch of the mob, the arrangement was for me to be just a figurehead until Gordy got better, but somehow it had turned into real work. I figured I should get paid for services rendered, and the sum should be offensively high. Derner would squawk, but that was chump change compared to what the Nightcrawler raked in from the gambling in the private club. Gordy would shrug it off and call it a bargain.

  Once I had the cash in hand I’d turn the reins over to Derner. Bobbi would be happy. That was all I wanted.

  Derner, again on a phone, hung up when we came in. His hands weren’t shaking this time so his aim was better.

  “Your car’s back from the shop,” he told me. “It’s parked out front.”

  That was good news. I’d had it towed to get new tires and some eager beaver decided it needed to be fancied up. I tossed the keys to my borrowed ride on the desk. “Have someone get these back to the guy on watch at the hospital. I got another car to fix.” I told him about the bloodstains on the upholstery in Escott’s Nash that needed to be cleaned off. No need to explain to him how they got there; this was a messy trade.

  “They’ll just replace everything, it’ll be easier,” Derner said. “Like another color?”

  “Just match what’s there and have them put on a new steering wheel. The old one’s bent.”

  He did not ask how it had come to be damaged either, only made a note. “Your girl’s hotel flat is clean. She can go back tonight.”

  Somehow I didn’t think Bobbi would want to do that just yet. “Thanks. I’ll let her know.” I’d tackle the details about my getting paid when Kroun wasn’t around. He might not care, but then again, he might. “Anything else?”

  “Everything’s copacetic.” That meant all other business was under control, no immediate problems, but Derner glanced at Kroun as though expecting a cue, mindful there could be more. Kroun just stood in place and looked back steadily, which was confusing until I caught on. He was doing the same thing that the cops had done to us earlier. Stare long enough, and you’ll get the other guy feeling guilty about something.

  “My new clothes?” Kroun prompted.

  Derner looked relieved. “Yes, sir, got ’em downstairs in a dressing room. The costume lady’s in tonight, I told her to get the stuff packed for you—if that’s okay?”

  “Sure, fine. Which dressing room?”

  “Uh, not that one.” He meant where Caine had been strangled.

  “Good. When she’s done, have a guy put them in Mr. Fleming’s car.”

  My, weren’t we formal? On the other hand, he’d just let Derner know I was back up on my rung of the ladder. However temporary, I was to get respect, same as Gordy.

  Remembering something I should have asked Bobbi hours ago, I gave an internal wince. “How’s Gordy doing? Any news?”

  Derner’s usually gloomy face brightened a little. “I talked with him on the phone for a minute today. He sounded good.”

  “You sure?” I knew Gordy could put up a front. There wasn’t a poker player born who could beat him at a bald-faced bluff.

  “Yeah, Boss. His girlfriend said he’d be resting for another couple weeks, maybe more, but he was feeling a lot better.”

  Okay, Gordy could lie, but Adelle would not. “That’s great.” I’d risked myself, pushing right to the edge to impart one last hypnotic suggestion to Gordy so he’d stay in bed until fully recovered. I’d come that close to blowing up my brain from the inside out, but it was worth it if it kept him alive.

  “We’re done, let’s go,” Kroun announced. He’d reclaimed the box of cigars—no one had dared touch them—and resettled his hat.

  Fine with me.

  OUTWARDLY, my Buick looked exactly the same, just cleaner. The paint and chrome gleamed as though fresh from the factory. There wasn’t a scratch or dent to be found, and I knew there’d been more than a few scars in place the last time I’d seen her. The windows were different, the glass thicker, but that was the only other sign of the special tinkering.

  Kroun’s suitcases were on the backseat, and the keys were in the ignition. Just like the cigars, no one had dared touch the car, not while it was under the eye of the club bouncers.

  We got in, I tried the starter, and damned if the motor wasn’t running more smoothly than before, and the gas tank was full. I could get used to being the boss with stuff like this as part of the job.

  Shifting gears, it took a firmer foot on the accelerator to get her to move the extra weight. Just how much armor plating had they put in? She rode heavy; I had to haul the wheel to make the corners and put the brakes on sooner with more force. The solid-rubber tires gave off a different sound against the pavement, and despite the special shocks, I could feel the change in how they handled the bumps. No improvement there.

  I’d just have to get used to things unless I wanted to buy a new ride. That Studebaker came to mind, but there were still plenty of miles left in the Buick. It didn’t make sense to spend the money.

  “Wanna stop at the Stockyards?” I asked. If Kroun had further business tonight, he’d made no mention of it.

  “Why? You hungry?”

  “I could be. You have to be.”

  He appeared to think about it. “Guess so. But find a butcher shop instead.”

  “Risky.”

  “How so?”

  “There’s only so many times you can tell the counter guy your wife’s making blood pudding.”

  “Huh.” That amused him. “I’ll take the chance.”

  “It won’t be fresh.”

  “Fresh enough.”

  “But—”

  “I just got these clothes, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to slog through a stinking stock pen just to get a meal. I’ll make the counter guy forget.”

  All right, put it that way.

  Only I wasn’t sure where to find a shop. I knew every angle about getting in and out of the Stockyards, but not much about where to buy their end products. “There’s a place near the house. Charles goes there when he wants to cook something.” Which was almost never. The butcher’s was next door to a Chinese restaurant, and Escott was their chief source of income. He loved his chow mein.

  Behind us, a car horn blared. I checked the mirror. The vehicle’s headlights flicked on and off. The driver hammered the horn again, rapidly.

  “What the…?” If it was a hit, they’d have pulled up even to us without warning. I slowed and stopped at the next corner.

  Kroun shifted slightly. The cigar box was on the floor, and he had a gun in hand instead.

  “I think I know ’em,” I said.r />
  “Make sure.”

  If there was a problem, I did not want to be trapped behind the wheel. I put the car in neutral, pulled the brake, and got out.

  The other driver did the same, trotting quick to meet me. He was one of the bouncers from the Nightcrawler. “Derner sent me,” he called.

  “What’s wrong?” Something like this could only mean trouble.

  The man’s face screwed up with thought, apparently recalling specific instructions. “He said to say your girlfriend said to come to the hospital right away.”

  “What’s wrong?” I repeated, my gut going hollow.

  “She said to say your partner’s gotten worse, and you’re supposed to—”

  I dove back into the Buick.

  KROUN at my heels, I charged past the hospital’s main reception. When the elevator didn’t open fast enough, I tore up the stairs to the third landing, finding the right hallway in the maze.

  Bobbi stood a few steps from Escott’s door, her posture tense, arms tightly crossed as though to hold herself in one piece. Coldfield had his back to the wall opposite. There was no anger in him. Anger would have been normal, welcome. Instead, he seemed lost, punch-drunk. More than anything, that scared me.

  Bobbi turned, tears brimming in her eyes. She didn’t move, just waited for me to come up and took my hand in both of hers. I couldn’t speak. The look on her face…

  “What’s happened?” Kroun asked.

  “They won’t say,” she whispered. “Relatives only.”

  That said just how bad it was.

  A nurse inside the room heard and came out. “Are you the family?”

  I remembered putting myself down on paper as being Escott’s cousin. “Me. It’s me. Is he okay?” It was a damned stupid question, but the kind that pops out when you desperately want a positive answer. Of course he wasn’t okay, not with so many people in white uniforms milling around in there. They were busy, which was hopeful. It was when they stopped work and didn’t meet your eye that—“What’s going on?”

  “The doctor will tell you.” She went back in.

  I could feel it swelling, a mix of rage and terror growing too quick and too strong. I flinched when a hand dropped on my shoulder.

  Kroun. He shook his head once. That was all. Then he took his hand away.

  It was enough.

  One instant I was ready to hit the roof, and the next a chill calm replaced the anger. I still wanted to punch through walls, but that wouldn’t help. That was why Bobbi and Coldfield were so pulled in on themselves. They had to be, to keep control. Kroun, on the outside of things, took up a post next to Coldfield.

  “Tell me?” he asked softly.

  Coldfield blinked. “It…uh…it was Gordy’s man, the one watching the actor. He checked on Charles, didn’t like what he saw, got the nurse, started things moving. When they couldn’t find Fleming, they knew to call my place. Bobbi called the Nightcrawler, and we drove…”

  The guard himself came up. “Boss?”

  “What’d you see?” He didn’t hear me the first time; I had to say it again.

  “I looked in like you asked. His color wasn’t so good, and he was breathing funny, sweatin’ bad.”

  But Escott was all right. Just hours ago he had been weak, bruised, and tired, but otherwise all right. A good night’s sleep and he’d be better in the morning…

  “I seen it before,” the man went on, shaking his head, not meeting my eye.

  “Seen what?”

  “Mr. Fleming?” This from a doctor. He looked—I didn’t want him to look like that.

  “Yeah, what’s going on?”

  I didn’t want him to say what he said: his words came out in a low sympathetic tone, words that said my friend was dying.

  The words washed past. I just stood there. It was someone else doing the listening. Some other guy was going through this, not me.

  “Can’t you do anything?” Bobbi asked the doctor.

  “We’re doing what we can.”

  “But he was fine earlier.”

  “I’m afraid septicemia can work very fast. Once an infection’s passed into the bloodstream…” He went on, not pulling punches. The odds were against Escott. Six out of ten people died from blood poisoning, died quick and ugly. I grabbed at the hope that he might get lucky and be among those who threw it off and recovered.

  They finally allowed me in to see him.

  One look.

  I knew he wouldn’t make it.

  But I wasn’t a doctor. I could be wrong, desperately wanted to be wrong. I found myself in a chair by the bedside, looking at Escott’s face. His skin had a blue cast; he was sheeted with sweat yet shivering, jaw clenched, his breath coming fast and shallow, eyes sealed shut. He didn’t react when I said his name. I got a whiff of his sweat when I spoke, and that took me back twenty years to some nameless hospital in France where young men who had survived gas and bullets and shelling and disease succumbed to infections just like this one.

  The stink was the same, exactly the same. My friends had died then, and my friend was dying now.

  I’d put him here. I’d killed him.

  Bobbi slipped up next to me. “He’s going to be all right, Jack.”

  “They’re gonna do something?” Maybe they had better medicine now. Twenty years was a good long time. Someone must have figured out how to cure this.

  She made no answer.

  “We just need get his fever down,” said Coldfield, who seemed to be talking to himself. He’d come in to stand on the other side of the bed. His sister was a nurse; he might know more. But all he did was put a damp cloth on Escott’s forehead. “We need some ice in here, that’s all. A little ice.”

  The doctor was out in the hall talking to Kroun. I didn’t bother listening. Only one nurse remained; the others had vanished. The old janitor from earlier worked his way slowly past, pushing his mop around an already clean floor.

  “Some ice, please?” Coldfield said, his voice mild. He used another cloth to dab at Escott’s face and neck.

  The nurse nodded and left, not hurrying, and she should have. If Escott had had any kind of chance, she’d have moved faster.

  Eventually she returned with a bowl of ice and a full ice bag. Coldfield took them both and thanked her. She backed off to stand by the door.

  It was my fault. I did this.

  Coldfield shot me a murderous look, and that was when I realized I’d spoken out loud. “You’re goddamn right on that,” he whispered. “And you know what’s going to happen next.”

  Coldfield would kill me.

  I didn’t care.

  “Stop. Both of you,” said Bobbi. Her fingers dug into my shoulder. She was trying to keep her balance. Tears spilled steadily from her eyes. She couldn’t have been able to see through them.

  I got up and made her sit. She gently took Escott’s near hand and bowed over it, bowed until her cheek lay on it, her face turned away from me.

  That smell again, the rapid rasp of his breath, his shivering—he wasn’t going to wake up. They wouldn’t even try to wake him. Better that he just slip away in his sleep, that was what they’d say.

  The room went blurry.

  My hands closed hard on the cold, white-painted iron of the bedstead, and I held tight to keep on my feet. Something was wrong with my knees; I couldn’t feel them or anything else except the nausea slithering in my gut. A knot of it clogged my throat, high enough to choke on, but too low to swallow.

  I couldn’t take this. I couldn’t stay here and watch.

  But I’d have to. Somehow.

  He’d stay for me.

  6

  AS the night crept by, the nurse periodically checked Escott, making notes on a clipboard for whatever good that would do. Coldfield kept up with the compresses. The doctor came again, but didn’t have anything new to say, just looked tired.

  Escott got worse, sinking as we stood by. The sound of his fast, shallow breathing filled the little room. It was the only sou
nd in the world. I hated it, and I didn’t want it to stop.

  I thought about calling Vivian Gladwell. Escott hadn’t wanted her to know he was in the hospital. Would he want her here now? Would it help? I couldn’t work it out, couldn’t decide, couldn’t do anything.

  Faustine came in. Gordy’s man had gone off, maybe to get her. She’d shed the reporters. I hardly noticed when she hugged me, then moved on to speak to Bobbi. Couldn’t hear what she said, but after a minute the two of them left. Bobbi held herself together until they were in the hall. Soon as she was out of my sight, she broke down sobbing. I went to the door. Bobbi wept and clung hard to Faustine, who slowly took her toward Roland’s room, speaking in Russian. The words didn’t matter; the soft, caring tone in them did.

  Kroun was still out there holding up the wall, hat in hand, overcoat draped over one arm. He watched Bobbi, frowning.

  “Hitting her pretty hard,” he observed. “Must really like him.”

  “They’re close friends, yeah.”

  “Friends with a dame. How ’bout that?”

  I’d heard him say it before. “It can happen. Like me and Adelle Taylor.”

  The mention of her name caused Kroun to crack a brief, pleased smile. When it came to Adelle, he was starstruck. “She’s friends with your pal in there?”

  “Yeah. She is. Listen, you don’t have to stay.”

  He shrugged. “When you gonna do something?”

  I shook my head. “They can’t do anything.”

  “Yeah, I got that from the doc. What about you?”

  “I can’t—I…what?”

  “Give him some blood.”

  Must have misheard him. “What?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  I did. I’d thought of it. A lot. But I couldn’t decide; I just didn’t know what Escott would want. “It might not work. He might not change. It hardly ever—”

  Kroun gave me an odd look, then went in the room. The nurse was writing a new entry on the clipboard. He walked around her to the bedside. Coldfield straightened to glare first at him then me.

  “He looks like hell,” said Kroun, his attention on Escott. “Why haven’t you done anything yet?” This was directed my way. He dropped his coat and hat on the chair.