The Vampire Files Anthology

by P. N. Elrod

  Escott, however, seemed immune. “I know how fast you are, but I can get one clear shot. It may not kill, but it will hurt. As you cannot vanish, you will require time to heal, during which interval I can inflict a great deal more damage.”

  Gabe assessed his options and reluctantly concluded the man was right. And certainly insane. He was breathing a little too slow for the situation, and he looked ready to follow through on his threat. Did his gun also have a hair trigger? “Come on—this is a new suit.”

  “Don’t give me cause to ruin it.”

  Gabe slowly raised his hands. “What’s this about?”

  “Jack Fleming.” Escott watched him, not blinking, holding the gun dead center and rock-steady.

  He finally shook his head. “Still don’t understand.”

  Apparently that wasn’t the right answer. Escott cocked the gun.

  Gabe felt a small jolt in his chest in response, as though his dormant heart tried to jump out of the way. “Hey! Slow down, pal, I’ll help if I can. What do you want?”

  “Jack Fleming,” Escott repeated through clenched teeth. His eyes were the same color as steel and not nearly as soft. “Where the hell is he?”

  Gabe thought his first reply—along the lines of How the hell should I know?—would get him shot. His second—What? You lost him?—was idiotic and would also result in gunfire. He did his best to read the stranger before him and decided that now would be a good time to cease being Whitey Kroun.

  “Tell me what’s happened,” said Gabe.

  “It’s about what has not happened.”

  “Okay…tell me that, then.”

  Escott continued to study, probably trying to read him right back. Something changed behind those hard eyes. He took the revolver off cock, but otherwise kept it ready and centered. “Every night, without fail, as soon as he’s awake, Jack calls his girlfriend or she calls him. That may seem trivial to you, but it is not. For him it is cast-iron habit. Also, without fail, he contacts a certain Mr. Derner at the Nightcrawler Club—”

  “Yeah, he stays in touch ’cause of the business. So he’s late on a couple calls, that’s enough for you to want to shoot me?”

  “A few minutes late, even an hour is acceptable, but not eight hours. That’s much too long. Something’s happened to him.”

  “And you’ve tried to find hi—”

  “Of course! I’ve called everyone and been everywhere. The previous evening he went to visit Miss Smythe, and no one’s seen or heard from him since. That is highly atypical behavior. He is not to be found. His car wasn’t here, but I saw the lights on and hoped—”

  “You talk to Derner?” Now was not the best time to let the man know the fate of Fleming’s car.

  “He wasn’t forthcoming with information. He did admit that Jack had not checked in tonight.”

  “How about I call and straighten this out? Will that make you put the gun down?”

  No reply.

  “Look, I don’t know where he is, either. Last I saw he was behind the Nightcrawler talking to one of the guys; after that, I couldn’t say.”

  “Aside from myself and Miss Smythe, the only person he’s spent any time with has been you. Mr. Derner did impart that you and Jack went on an errand for several hours last night.”

  “We did, but came back to the club, and I don’t see how it could have to do with him taking off tonight. A man’s got a right to keep to himself if he wants t—”

  “No. There’s something wrong. Seriously wrong.”

  That was uncompromising. “You know him better than I do. You say he’s missing, okay, I’ll help you find him. Lemme use the phone. I’ll see what I can get from Derner.”

  Escott nodded, just the once.

  It took Gabe a moment to remember the number for the Nightcrawler’s office phone. Having a cannon aimed at his chest made him that nervous. You learned something new every night.

  The connection went through. “Yeah, what is it?”

  “This is—” Damn, what was he calling himself to this guy? “Whitey.”

  Derner got more respectful. “Yessir.”

  “What’s going on with Fleming? Where is he?”

  “He hasn’t checked in is all I know. Did you call Mike?”

  “Yes, but forget that—I need to speak to Fleming. Now.”

  “Bu—”

  “Hang up, make calls, find someone who knows where he is. Five minutes, then you ring me back here.” Gabe read the number off the dial and dropped the receiver back on the hook.

  “You enjoyed that,” Escott observed. He seemed slightly less on the edge—by at least a quarter inch.

  “It’s good to be top dog, yeah.” He’d bought five minutes, but didn’t know what to do with them. Trying to sit still with a crazy man ready to shoot if he heard the wrong word was not a good way to fill the time. He gave Escott a serious appraisal and thought about hypnotizing him. That would bring on a headache; Gabe couldn’t risk a reprise of the blinding skull-breaker he’d had at the cabin. “Look, I’ve been on the road since I left him in the alley last night, you can believe that or not. He could have had a fight with his girl, gone to a movie, be holed up in a pool hall. That guy Coldfield is pissed with him, maybe—”

  “I’ve asked. He’s not seen Jack. He’s angry, but he’d tell me…” Escott paused, assessing. “You’ve been up to that cabin.” Statement, not a question.

  His mouth went dry. “What?”

  “You heard. What did you find there?”

  “Nothing I want to talk about.” Gabe wasn’t sure that was his voice.

  “Something important, then.” Escott showed a tiny glint of satisfaction.

  How did he even know about…oh. Yeah. “Your partner talks too damn much.”

  “He was only expressing his concern about certain aspects of your visit to the sanitarium. He could not understand why you allowed him along on so private an interview. Perhaps he heard things he should not have known, thus giving you a reason to keep him quiet.”

  “In which case I’d have knocked him off after we left.”

  “And you would certainly know how to do that.”

  Gabe held his most intimidating gaze on Escott, who failed to react at all, much less show fear. The man knew how to focus. “Only I didn’t.”

  “Your original purpose for coming to Chicago was to kill him.”

  “Funny, but that didn’t happen either. I’ve got no motive.”

  “Then perhaps someone with you does. This Michael or Mr. Broder.”

  “I’m gonna do you a favor and ask—I just said ask—you to back away. If they’re involved, I’ll handle ’em. The worst thing you can do is let them know you exist.”

  “The best thing you can do is tell me the why of it.”

  Gabriel considered, then shook his head. “I’ll pass. What’s going on with them has nothing to do with Fleming.”

  “Michael sent him to watch you. That, sir, is not to be ignored.”

  He had a point. Maybe Fleming hadn’t delivered enough details to satisfy. Michael could have gotten fed up and finally turned Broder loose to do something. Broder might well have turned himself loose without telling Mike. That would be bad for everyone.

  The phone rang. Before Derner could speak, Gabe interrupted. “Hold on a minute. Whatever you have on Fleming, I want you to say it to this guy first.” He held the receiver out.

  Escott reached to take it, still keeping the gun level. “Yes?” Apparently Derner did not have good news. Escott fired off questions, but the replies were clearly not to his liking. He said thank you and hung up. “Very well, no one at the Nightcrawler has seen or heard from him. That leaves you.”

  “Only I wasn’t around to do anything.” He’d finally got that the man with the gun was deeply afraid and only barely able to keep himself from flying apart.

  “Yes. You were at the cabin. What did—”

  “It’s a fishing cabin. I went up there to fish.”

  “In the dead of
winter?”

  “I never said I was good at it.”

  Escott wasn’t amused. “That…that is the most bloody stupid thing I’ve ever heard.”

  Gabe shrugged. “The night ain’t over, pal.”

  Another change—lightning fast—shifted everything behind those steel gray eyes. They somehow got harder and abruptly blazed with a lunatic fury. He raised the gun until Gabe found himself looking right down the barrel.

  No…

  Gabe tore his gaze from the gun and stared at Escott. No chance of hypnosis pushing through those emotions. He was too far gone.

  Escott’s heart pounded loud in the silent room, and now his hand shook. But at this distance he wouldn’t miss.

  “Why?” Gabriel blurted out the word.

  Escott blinked once. Better than shooting.

  “Why?”

  He trembled all over, visibly slipping.

  “Tell me, dammit!”

  A thin crack in the man’s intent. He blinked rapidly now, like a sleeper waking. “W-what?”

  “You’re not mad at me—who then? Why?”

  The crack widened, and the moment stretched, and gradually Escott’s pounding heart slowed. The gun lowered by an inch. Then another. It was a long progression, but Escott finally sagged and put the cannon away in a shoulder holster.

  Gabe felt like falling over, but resisted.

  “Mr. Kroun, I apologize for this.” He spoke in a strangely neutral tone that sure as hell didn’t sound right for the situation. “I shall not waste any more of your time.” Escott turned and left, just like that.

  It took a few seconds for Gabe to find his feet and lurch from behind the desk. Escott was halfway down the stairs.

  “Hey! Stop!”

  Amazingly, he did.

  “Get up here.”

  Escott wavered, then turned and trudged back. He walked past Gabe, not meeting his eye, and on into the office. He went to the window, standing before the closed curtains, hands at his sides, shoulders down.

  Gabe came around and peered at his face. There was a lost soul if he ever saw one. He went to the liquor cabinet, picked something strong at random, and poured. He had to fit the glass into Escott’s hand and lift it to get him started. He drank without reaction, and the glass slipped from his fingers. Gabe caught it, not spilling a drop, and guided him toward a leather chair in a corner, making him sit.

  The radio blared on, the volume all the way to the top.

  This time Gabe jumped. He crossed the room in two strides and shut the damned thing off again. When he looked back, Escott was slumped forward in the chair with one hand over his face.

  “Oh, Myrna, what’s happened?” he whispered, very, very softly.

  Myrna again. Who the hell is Myrna? “What do you think has happened?” Gabe asked aloud.

  Escott glanced up, surprised, perhaps, that he’d been heard. He shook his head.

  “You’ve got an idea, or you wouldn’t be like this. So give.”

  He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Gabe put the glass in his hand again. Escott eventually finished the rest of the drink. He still looked lost.

  “You’re scared,” Gabe said. “But Fleming’s a tough bastard and can take care of himself. Why are you so worried?”

  “Things.” Escott cleared his throat. He sounded like a strangling victim. “Things have been…difficult, because of what he went through with Bristow.”

  Gabe frowned. “Yeah. Go on.”

  The man stared at the empty space on the floor where the furniture piece had stood and didn’t speak for a long time. Then, “Here the other night…Jack tried to kill himself.”

  “What?”

  “And…” Escott’s face worked as he fought to keep control. “And I’m afraid he might have tried again…and succeeded.”

  13

  FLEMING

  MY first moments at waking were the worst I’d ever had in a long parade of bad times, and it went downhill from there, headlong into hell.

  The trip was in stages, like Dante’s ten-cent tour, and not nearly as nice.

  It began with a bewildering dream.

  I became dimly aware of being dragged, carried, and awkwardly shoved into a cramped space. My eyes shut, my brain gathered information but was unable to take meaning from it. A single question floated through the shadows—Where’s my earth?—then drifted out again, getting no answer.

  After that, the space was in motion, bumping and roaring over pavement for an unguessable time.

  Another bout of being carried and set down. I was dead, my body not responding to anything, unable to move. My limbs were arranged flat on something, not a bed. My arms were stretched wide, palms up, knuckles hanging.

  Then my earth must have been returned, for the dream ceased.

  Sunset.

  Eyes wide, internal alarm bells on full, I shot awake in absolute darkness. I hated the dark. After my change, my eyes could make use of the least little sliver of light—if it was there to be used.

  This kind of dark was cold, damp, and rock solid. I tried to reach for the cot-side lamp, but something kept my arm from moving, and at the same time hot, sickening agony shot from a spot below my elbow and straight into my brain like a spear. It was so intense that I yelled, tried to pull away, and that made it ten times worse—for both arms.

  Things went cloudy for a long, terrible stretch as my body fought against whatever held it. The more it fought, the greater the pain, until I howled nonstop like a trapped animal.

  When exhaustion set in, it was a blessing. The pain remained, but did not increase so long as I kept still.

  When I was able to think—and that was a struggle—I wondered why I’d not vanished away from the pain. Even as the thought came I tried slipping into the gray oblivion that had always healed me.

  But nothing happened. I remained anchored in flesh, and the effort exhausted me fast, like racing a car in neutral.

  Panicking did no good. I knew that, but still failed to stop a choking wave from sweeping over me. I heard myself bellowing God knows what until the fit passed.

  This wasn’t like the seizures. I could escape them by vanishing, and that had been unaccountably made impossible.

  I forced myself quiet, pushing the fear to one side, trying to find out…anything.

  Flat on my back on something hard, arms spread wide, and hellish pain if I moved either of them, yes, that was pretty damned bad. Whatever rope or chain bound me in place was too tight, and gouging into me in a way I couldn’t figure out.

  The hard surface ran out a few inches from my wrists. My hands were over free space. I could move them, but it hurt.

  The room, cave, whatever, was empty and silent, but…someone was nearby…in another room. There was a little distance and a wall or floor between, but I heard a heartbeat and the quick saw of breath and imagined him listening in turn.

  Of course I yelled for help, but none came, and no one replied. Was he in the same boat? Was he the one who’d brought me here?

  My next wave of panic was more subtle, not as noisy, but there was no coherent thought going on. I struggled, fresh agony stabbed through my arms, and soon the physical pain pulled me clear of the fit.

  Eventually I lay quiet, and again tried to work out what was around me. My other senses failed to provide much help. Arms held in place, pain if I moved them, and the sharp smell of my own blood and terror. Whatever was wrong with my arms…dammit, they were bleeding. A lot, enough to flow over the edge of something and drip to the floor. I heard the soft regular patter as it hit a hard surface, sounding like a faucet leak you can’t shut off. Oh, hell. Too much, and it would kill me.

  I held perfectly still. I had fed well last night but could not afford to lose any of it. Couldn’t tell how much I’d already lost, only feel it as a cooling wetness beneath my forearms.

  They began to itch. Annoying, but a good sign, it meant healing. Whatever wounds were there would seal up quickly enough, even without vanishing. Le
t them be and…

  I was hungry again. God, it hurt. Not as bad as my arms, but given time and no replenishment it would worsen. I never allowed myself to get so starved. Too dangerous. The last time…yeah…the damned meat locker.

  Okay, one thing at a time: what the hell had happened?

  I was no longer on the cot under the seating tiers at Lady Crymsyn. Someone had invaded that sanctuary and taken me elsewhere. Poor Myrna had tried to warn me.

  He’d come softly and cut the timing fine. Had he been in the building earlier, I’d have heard him. In those last moments before sunrise, he must have crept in, and only Myrna had known.

  I had a choice of suspects: Kroun—or rather his cronies, Michael or Broder—near the top of the list. He could hypnotically control them into doing whatever he wanted. The why of it…I couldn’t guess. Maybe he wanted to be the king vampire of Chicago. Great, fine, he could have the job, I’d leave, no fuss.

  Next up was Strome. He’d seen me walking around just fine after having much of my skin stripped off and might have gotten curious over that improbability. Just a couple nights back he’d seen me appear out of thin air, which surprised the hell out of us both. I’d popped him unconscious and been fairly sure he’d not remembered the Houdini act, but he could have faked it. With his stone face, he was the perfect liar. Again, the why escaped me.

  Number one choice—and I hated it: Shoe Coldfield.

  I didn’t want to believe it. The idea made me sick, but he’d shown his violent side by pounding me flat the other night. Standing over Escott’s dying body, he’d promised to kill me. Escott’s recovery might not have been enough to change Coldfield’s mind.

  He had a serious grudge on and knew my weaknesses.

  He was more than capable, but—and I grabbed hard onto this one—it wasn’t how he worked. Coldfield would look me in the eye and slam me through a wall, but hold me prisoner?

  I went back to Kroun again. When he fell into those blackouts where his eyes went strange…but that was also direct and short-lived. Why would he do this? Had he gone back on his decision not to execute me for Bristow’s death?