by P. N. Elrod
He wanted to burn it.
Tempting, but a bad idea. However secluded, flames and smoke could draw the wrong kind of attention to this place. Someone might feel bound to track down the property owner…Gabe realized he could be the owner. He just didn’t know.
Better to leave it for now. He could always return with a few gallons of kerosene.
That would cleanse the place…every square inch of it.
THE miles back to Chicago seemed to have stretched themselves. He had too much to think about and wished for company. Even Fleming, with his endless questions, would have been welcome. Gabe turned on the car’s radio, and the noise of a comedy show helped.
Michael would not be in a good mood tonight; he was probably making Derner’s life miserable. Half of the muscle at the Nightcrawler was probably out looking for the green Hudson and its missing driver. Fine. Let ’em earn their keep.
Gabe took a wrong turn, tried correcting at the next street, got lost, and pulled over to study the map. He wondered if getting lost was part of his lack of memory or if he’d always been like that.
His clearest postdeath recollection was waking in a cold barn loft where he’d hidden from the sun behind stacks of hay bales. From there he’d gone groggily down, washed off blood and grave dirt in an ice-crusted water trough, and taken his first feeding from one of the milk cows. That had awakened him fully, though the agony in his head kept him from indulging much in the way of thinking. He seemed well able to look after basics like getting food, to know how to deal with his change if not the how or why of it.
The circumstances—his blood-drinking, the bad dreams during his daylight sleep, lack of memory of how he’d gotten into such a spot, and all that came before—didn’t really bother him. It seemed normal to be different. Not knowing himself was just how the world ran, and his instincts told him he’d be fine, just fine. He had a wallet with a driving license that provided a name to use, an address to go to, and more than enough money to get there.
A few nights later, first hitchhiking on country roads, then taking a train, then a taxi, he used a key from that wallet to get into a hotel flat in New York. Though he couldn’t remember it, he assumed it to be his. Old mail scattered over a desk bore the name on the license. The flat was nice, and the clothes there fit. He moved into a stranger’s life.
Pretty soon friends turned up.
Well, acquaintances.
They showed him respect and something he later came to recognize as fear. A very few asked about the white streak in his hair. He found a smirk and a shake of the head to be sufficient reply.
Mike had walked into the flat as though he’d been there many times before, looking uncomfortable and on guard. In retrospect could it have been guilt? He was the only one who met Gabe’s eye and stood up to him like an equal, though.
They had a business meeting, which required going to a bar and sitting in a booth across from a tough-looking man. Michael talked a lot of business that didn’t make sense. The man challenged him on a point. Mike looked at Gabe. At a loss for what to do, Gabe looked at the man, who abruptly backed down, agreed to something, then left, sweating. Mike said thanks in a flat voice and departed as well.
From that point Gabriel decided he’d better learn what the hell kind of job he had.
It didn’t take long. He killed people. He was good at the work.
He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. Not then. Later, he decided that cold murder wasn’t something he wanted to do to anyone.
The roughhouse when he and Fleming had taken on Mitchell didn’t really count. Heat-of-the-moment shooting was one thing, but to walk up and coolly put a bullet into a stranger…that was just wrong.
There had been a couple of times when he’d felt angry enough to do violence, such as when he’d thought Fleming responsible for blowing up the car. But Gabe had wanted to punch him in the nose more than anything else. The gun had been a tool, little more than window dressing to get attention.
On the other hand, Fleming had been pretty clear about what had happened after the car crash last night. Gabe couldn’t remember anything after their car left the road, but something had upset the kid. The lapse was disturbing, but there was damn all to be done about it.
In that first month in New York, Gabe worked out how to hypnotize people. They told him a lot he didn’t like and much he didn’t believe. He decided the whole crowd, including Michael, were considerably crazier than he and far more dangerous. The only way to keep from being consumed by them was to maintain the long-established outward front.
Strangely, no one noticed anything different about him. They all had certain expectations as to how he should behave, and, when he drifted outside those expectations, the mugs simply stretched their limits to accommodate. It was their fear of him. They put on their own fronts, acted friendly, shook his hand, laughed at his jokes, but were still pissing-in-their-pants terrified of him.
Yeah, crazy.
Gabe observed carefully and from them learned how to impersonate the man he’d been. It wasn’t perfect; he’d sometimes surprise an odd look from Mike, but the guy never said anything.
Down deep he had to be terrified of Whitey Kroun, too.
That covered who he had been, next came the what he had become.
He eventually went to the big library with the lions out front and looked up stuff about vampires. It was crazy as well, but since some of it seemed to apply to him, he shrugged, accepted, and moved on, keeping his lip shut.
Gabe had yet to find out exactly how he’d come by the condition.
Somewhere out there a woman—he was sure it was a woman, Fleming’s reckless dig notwithstanding—had done something quite out of the ordinary to Gabe. The details were lost, taken away when the bullet had ripped into his brain.
Very damned annoying, that.
Once the dust was settled on his current problem, he might have to try finding her.
GABRIEL navigated the gradually thinning traffic, pulling up in front of Fleming’s brick house a little after midnight. No lights showed, just like the cabin. He pushed the thought away, strode up the walk, and used his picklocks to get in.
That was also a skill he could not recall learning. Useful, though.
He listened before shutting the door, noticing that the broken window at the far end of the hall had been replaced. Hand it to Gordy, he ran a tight ship.
The place was empty, but Gabriel checked through it before turning on any lights. He didn’t need them, but they’d let Fleming know company was present should he return. If the kid had any sense, he’d be cheering up that sweet blond girlfriend of his. Bobbi. Funny name for a dame, but it suited her.
Gabe got both suitcases and went up to the third-floor guest room. The rumpled bed was as he’d left it, and it almost looked like the one in the cabin, but without the blood.
I gotta stop that kind of thinking.
He straightened the top spread, opened the cases, found a crisp new shirt and the second suit he’d bought. It was identical to the one he had on, black with a charcoal pinstripe, very sharp. He didn’t like to fuss over clothes, just pick good quality and forget about it.
Stripping and taking a shower-bath was a little piece of heaven. He stayed in until the hot water ran out, but emerged clean, shaved…and still feeling well rested. That grave dirt…well, clearly it worked. He’d have to start sleeping with a bag of it in the bed. What a luxury to be dream-free once this was over.
He thought he should save the residue on his discarded clothes and bundled them into a pillowcase and put it in the small wardrobe. Was it too close to the bed?
Only if he slept here for the day. He would use that abandoned store again. Broder and Michael didn’t know about it.
Gabe dressed slowly, liking the feel of new clothes. Fresh and ready for anything, he went downstairs to phone the Nightcrawler.
Derner sounded harried. “Mike’s on the warpath and wants to talk to y—”
“Give him a Bromo-Seltzer and a b
londe.”
“I would, I really would, but he’s in Cicero.”
“Well, that’s his hard luck. What’s he doing in—no, forget it.” It would be business. With Mike it was always business. He could do half a dozen things at once and give each his full attention. Smart guy. Very smart. “Where’s Broder?”
“With Mike.”
Interesting. Broder must have spun one hell of a story to get himself off the hook for the grenade job—unless Mike had lied and faked his surprised reaction. If Broder’s task had been to kill Gabe, then it made sense for Mike to keep him around.
But why does Mike want to kill me? Was it on general principles or for a specific reason? Why wait two months for another try?
“When will they be back?”
“Didn’t say, but I’ve got a number you’re to call.”
Gabe wrote it down on a notepad by the phone. Cicero wasn’t that far. He was reasonably sure he could find it, but a local guide would be better to have along. “Has Fleming turned up tonight?”
“Huh? Uh—no. Probably at his club. He usually calls in before now. You gonna talk to Mike?” Derner seemed worried. More so than usual, that is.
“In about two minutes.” He pressed the hook long enough for the connection to break, then tried the new number. It turned out to belong to a hotel. He asked for Mike and got put right through.
He picked up on the first ring.
“Hello, Michael.” Gabe used a friendly, cheerful tone, intending to be as irritating as hell. “Problem?”
“Where have you been?”
“Are you going to tell me to go back to New York again? Because the answer’s no. Now that that’s settled, how long will you be in Cicero?”
Mike made some strange choking noises. “A couple of days.”
What the hell…? Gabe continued the good cheer. “Fine. I’ll keep busy. The old bastard wanted to get some air. I thought I’d take him fishing in the morning. It’d do him good to get out, have a little fun.”
Dead silence. Lots of it.
Well, I wanted to stir things up.
“Whitey…please.”
Pleading? That was a surprise, though Gabe wanted him off-balance and scared. “I’ve been to the cabin. The place looks great. You should see it.”
“What have you done?”
“Nothing yet. You think I should do something?”
“No games…let’s talk first.”
“Sounds good.”
“When can you get here?”
“I’ve had enough driving. We’ll meet at Gordy’s club.” Mike would think twice about getting frisky in front of witnesses and be more likely to keep Broder in line as well.
“Okay. I’ll get there soon as I—a couple hours.”
“Why so long?”
“Business.”
Gabe snorted and hung up. Must be some business. From keeping company with a girl to calling in extra muscle. Or arranging an exit.
For himself or for me?
Mike had agreed too readily. That could mean a lot of things. Gabe started to list the possibilities and how to counter them, then abruptly let it go. He’d find out soon enough and deal with it then.
Broder would be along, somewhere in the background, watching. Gabe knew how to keep his back to a wall, but Broder was nearly a ghost himself. He moved fast, quiet, and was a dead shot. If Fleming could be talked into helping out…but did he really need to know all this?
Yes. Better to have him as a friend than not. He’d want an explanation for the sickening things Sonny had said.
Both of us want that.
WAITING around the Nightcrawler held no appeal. Derner would be trying too hard not to ask questions. Gabe wanted a couple hours of not being watched like a zoo animal. He looked up the number for Fleming’s club but got no answer. He would wait there; Broder and Michael wouldn’t expect him to go to a closed club, and maybe Fleming would show. It would also be quiet. You could hear if someone tried to sneak in.
He snagged a newspaper from the pile on the front porch, kicked the rest inside, and relocked the door, then drove to Lady Crymsyn. Funny name for a club. Maybe Fleming had gotten the idea from his girl and her funny name. He could have spelled “crimson” right, though.
Gabe recognized enough landmarks on the trip to avoid getting lost. The club’s inside lights were on, including the one in the upstairs office. A little glow escaped around the drawn curtains. Fleming must not be answering the phone or had just arrived himself. The parking lot was empty. He’d have walked or cabbed over, what with his car being all blown up and burned.
The street was clear of stray cops; Merrifield and Garza apparently had other duties tonight, leaving no one to watch as Gabe let himself in the front. He left things unlocked. It was always a good idea to have an escape route ready.
The light behind the lobby bar was on, and something was odd about the bar itself. As he drew closer he saw that dozens of matchbooks with the club’s name on them had been propped open and set on end. Little red inverted Vs marched every which way, covering the whole length of the bar. What the hell…? If Fleming had been here, he had some pretty odd ideas about how to fill the time.
The bar light flickered, not quite going out.
Gabriel stared, then called Fleming’s name loud enough to reach upstairs.
No one replied. Why had he left all the lights on? Spendthrift.
The building was empty and dead silent. And big. Big, silent, and…
The light steadied.
Then the lobby phone rang. Louder than should be normal.
He didn’t jump, but jerked around, stopping in midreach for his gun. He debated whether to answer or not.
The ringing was continuous, and then trailed off as though the bell had exhausted itself from the effort.
He waited, but no second ring came. Wrong number or a phone company hitch.
The bar light flickered again. Fleming had said there was a short.
His problem, not mine.
Gabe went upstairs to the deserted office. It wasn’t as fancy and large as the Nightcrawler’s but had the usual stuff except for a gaping space opposite the desk. From the dust pattern on the floor some large piece of furniture had been removed from the spot. A couch, maybe.
On the desk were several oilcloth packets. They were heavy and smelled of earth.
Well. Damn. What was Fleming doing? Moving house?
He checked the lock on the door. It was a particularly sturdy model: wood panels over thick metal. The windows—bulletproofed, with heavy curtains—confirmed that this was one of Fleming’s daylight bolt-holes. Not bad. He did all right for himself.
Gabe shed his coat and hat and sat behind the desk. The chair was comfortable; you could tilt back and put your feet up. Not bad at all. He dropped the packets out of the way into one of the drawers, opened his paper, and settled in to read. It had been a busy day. New pieces had effectively edged out further mention of the car explosion in the Bronze Belt, the Alan Caine murders, and even that movie actor and his flashy foreign wife.
Those were all that interested him; the rest just didn’t mean anything. He looked for and found the funnies. Hey, a crossword puzzle—he liked those.
The radio came on. All by itself.
He looked at it for a good long while, considering a variety of causes. The elusive electrical short seemed the most likely. Someone leaves the radio on, when the power returns, it warms up, then surprise: dance music.
He didn’t mind, but wouldn’t be able to hear anyone coming in. He shut the radio off.
While he was trying to work out if the clue to seven down was “gable” or “table,” the front door downstairs opened and closed. Gabe listened, following the progress of the ensuing footsteps…a man’s shoes by the sound. He got partway across the lobby and paused.
Bet he’s wondering about the matchbooks, too.
The newcomer started up the stairs. “Jack?” he called.
Gabe didn’t know
the voice. He shifted his gun from its holster to the desk, slipping it under the paper.
The visitor pushed in and froze at the halfway point, his body partially shielded by the door. He was surprised for a moment at seeing Gabe, but clearly recognized him. The man was tall, lean, and angular. His face was all angles, too, with bony cheeks, a big blade of a nose, and needle-sharp eyes. He looked familiar…the dying man from the hospital. Gabe’s last recollection had him flat on his back, unconscious, black-and-blue, and with a death stink rising from his skin. He’d been in bad shape then, the worst.
“Hey, pal, you’re looking better,” Gabe said.
“Thanks to you, Mr. Kroun.”
English accent. Fleming hadn’t mentioned his partner was from that far out of town. The way he spoke, this bird apparently knew everything. Until he had come to Chicago no one had known about Gabe being a vampire. Fleming might as well be broadcasting on the radio.
The man continued. “I’m very grateful for what you did. It can’t have been easy. Thank you for saving my life.”
“So long as it worked.”
“Was there any doubt?”
He didn’t know how to answer that one. “It’s Escott, right?”
“Yes. Charles Escott. Jack said you were staying at the house.”
“Only part-time.” Why didn’t he come the rest of the way in? Why the stony expression? Usually people relaxed after introductions. He probably knows my reputation. “I’ll be leaving soon.”
“Indeed?”
“I can leave tonight if you want.”
“No need to trouble yourself.” He took a quick look around the room, his gaze pausing on the empty space on the floor. “Why are you here?”
The man’s tone was off. He had things on his mind. “Catching up on my reading. Yourself?”
Escott made no reply, but glanced at the paper on the desk and must have made a fast guess about what lay beneath the pages. He moved, smoothly, with much confidence. He’d been hiding one hell of a big damn revolver behind the door. He aimed it at Gabe’s chest. “Raise your hands. Now.”
“Hey, just hold on a minute…”
“Now.”
Gabe hesitated, throwing an involuntarily glare. He didn’t know what he looked like, but the outward change always took the starch out of the toughest mugs in New York.
