by P. N. Elrod
And came to see what lay ahead.
What she’d go through—I couldn’t do that to her. I’d carry the remorse with me forever. But weren’t you supposed to shed that at death? Apparently not. I could deal with my private failures and mistakes, but not the wrongs I’d inflicted on others. Added up, they were worse than my time in hell hanging from the meat hook.
But this was out of my hands. Someone had taken my life and all chance to make things right with anyone. Bobbi would never…
The helplessness returned again. My regret had weight like a thousand anvils, and it dragged me toward the empty shell below. I hovered close to what had been familiar features. His mouth sagged, and his eyelids were at half-mast over dulling orbs. That was a dead man’s face. I didn’t want to sink into it and pushed away, just a tiny distance.
Bobbi will look for you and cry and wonder and worry and never know…
She deserved better than that. I couldn’t let her go through what I had endured when my lover, Maureen, had disappeared. For years I’d searched, always wondering; the grief and anger and the not-knowing had eaten me hollow.
I brushed against the cold, leaden husk and recoiled. How could I possibly take up its burden again?
I couldn’t. That wasn’t for me anymore.
It was over; I had to leave.
At the end of the day, at the end of life, it’s the same for us all. We get the answers we’ve always sought. Things are finally clear. Everything would turn out all right. Bobbi would go through a bad stretch but get past it. Decades from now, at some decisive future point, her time would come, and she would hover like this over her body. I’d be there waiting for her—
Unless she made the change and became Undead.
A small chance, but possible.
Then she would live on and always wonder and never know and perhaps blame herself, just as I had. Only she’d never find me. She would never find me.
I couldn’t allow that.
I had to get back to her.
Desire and will added weight, and I sank lower. There was an invisible barrier between me and my cooling flesh. It seemed permeable, but I sensed that would not last long, growing thicker and more difficult to breach the longer I delayed.
With hard effort, I pushed past it and instantly felt the awful press of gravity dragging me into agony and blackness.
RELUCTANTLY I came to, the taste of cold animal blood on my tongue and clogging my throat. I gave in to a convulsive choking swallow and got most of it down. Whatever reviving magic it possessed began spreading through my starved body. Everything woke up at once: the constant pain, the helplessness, the rage, and especially the hunger. That hurt the worst.
Someone held my head at an awkward angle and had a cup to my lips. He cursed as the stuff sloshed past my mouth. I got another gulp down and another, and then it was gone. I still hurt, still needed—
“More,” I whispered.
Dugan stared. There was a smear of my blood on his cheek. “It’s disgusting.”
“You’re the one…who wants this.”
He didn’t move. He seemed to be having second thoughts.
“More…or I die.”
“You won’t. You’re immortal.”
There’s no arguing with an idiot. My eyes shut again, and I didn’t respond when he slapped me.
That worked. He hurried away and returned with more blood. I didn’t want to gorge, but couldn’t stop. My previous out-of-control overfeedings had been to sate an addiction; this was pure survival. That was what I told myself, and from the way the stuff gusted through me, sweetly filling out the corners, it was the truth. I’d come that close.
After several trips upstairs and back, Dugan must have run out of stock; he stood over me for a time, watching and asking variations of “Are you all right?” at intervals until I mumbled at him to shut up.
That seemed to reassure him. He went up and didn’t return. He left the basement light on. An oversight, perhaps. What had happened must have spooked him badly.
That made two of us.
I kept still, resting, recovering, thinking of ways to kill him. None seemed a brutal or painful enough payback.
My brain cleared; I listened to his movements, heard the splash of water. Yeah, things had gotten very messy; he’d want to clean up. Wish I could. This place had running water, electricity, I’d not yet heard a phone. It was information, perhaps useful, perhaps not.
Then he paced. Restlessly, uneven, up and back in a not-very-large room, to judge by the number of steps he took.
Then things went quiet. I thought he’d fallen asleep until a very faint scratching sound came through the floor to me…a pen on paper. The son of a bitch was writing.
What would it be? A harrowing and heroic account of his first feeding? Perhaps another essay arguing the social practicality of killing off inferiors or maybe a scientific record of his reaction to my blood. How about a grocery list? Memo to self, stop at butcher shop for another gallon…
I’d recovered enough to laugh again, softly.
The other me turned up again at last, walking into view the same as a real person. He looked sad now. He was right, I’d had my opening to escape and chose to return. Neither of us had reason to believe Dugan’s promise about freedom on the third night. He would kill me and put what was left where it would never be found. Bobbi would still never know…No, dammit. Stop thinking like that.
I would figure out something. I would get back to her.
Things had improved, such as they were. I’d taken in enough blood to ease my belly pain and allow me to think. I didn’t feel very smart at the moment and looked to my benign doppelgänger for suggestions.
He shrugged. “What would Kroun do?”
That one was easy: not get caught in the first place.
His extra caution, not letting even me in on where he spent his days, had worked well. Of course, Dugan didn’t know the man was a vampire, having assumed I’d been the one who saved Escott.
Unless Dugan wanted me to think that. No, let’s keep this simple. He would have said or asked something by now. He had a trapped audience; there was no way he could resist crowing about his cleverness.
Had Kroun been here, he’d probably have tried hypnosis. It wouldn’t have worked. Hurley Gilbert should be locked in the booby hatch down the hall from Sonny. Even if I’d been free and clear of giving myself a fatal headache from the attempt, the old evil-eye whammy didn’t impress members of their club.
“Anything else?” I muttered, confident that the other me had the benefit of my internal reply.
“What about Escott? How would he get out of this?”
He’d be dead if his arms looked like mine did now. Otherwise, he would listen, learn, and use any little shred of information to his advantage.
Dugan’s pen scratched away, fast and without pause. He was just bursting with thoughts tonight. He liked dark green ink on thick notepaper. When done writing, he used his handiness with origami to fold the paper into whatever shape he wanted, which was a very unique way to file things. Was the upstairs of this place filled with little paper sculptures, each one bearing his thoughts? He could make cranes, giraffes, boats, and once left a small paper coffin where I would find it. He’d not written on it, but I got the message that he would be back. Too bad for me I’d let other concerns crowd it out.
“How about Dugan himself?” asked the walking-around me. “What would he do?”
Manipulation. That was his specialty: getting people to go along with him against their better judgment. No one even thought to disbelieve him, such was the effect of his brand of charm. He exploited their weak points. He had plenty of his own I could use against him, but he would be suspicious of anything I said.
On the other hand he knew he was a genius, while I was little more than a talking animal. I’d already played on that. Giving him what he expected shouldn’t be hard.
I winced. I wasn’t good at that kind of thing.
&nbs
p; “Better learn quick, then,” said my friend who wasn’t there.
16
KROUN
GABRIEL blundered his way clear of the alley before the nightclub’s muscle turned up to deal with the noise. He ducked behind a parked car for cover and kept going until his legs decided they’d had enough. He ended up sitting on a curb, holding his head, in too much pain to even groan.
It was almost as bad as his first waking. The main improvement was that he wasn’t covered with earth, blood, and Ramsey’s body.
Broder must have used a blackjack, not that his fist would have caused less damage. He’d hit the perfect spot on the left-hand side.
Gabe found a patch of mostly clean snow, balled some up, and pressed it to his skull. That helped, but he felt sick throughout his body, not just his head. He wanted to hole up somewhere and, if not die, then sweat through this agony undisturbed until he healed.
After the snowball melted to nothing, he was able to stand without wobbling too much.
The next street over had a few other night owls prowling about, but no cabs in sight. He dug out another ten-dollar bill, stood under a streetlight, and held it up at passing cars. As it represented over a week’s wage for the lucky ones with jobs, it didn’t take long for someone to pull over. The risk for this kind of hitchhiking was being found by a mug looking to take the rest of the money. Gabe was in no mood for games.
The man at the wheel checked him over. “You inna fight?”
Perceptive of him. “Yeah, can you get me out of here? My wife’s on the warpath and—”
“Hop in!”
The driver was cheerfully drunk, in a let’s be pals mood, and happy to commiserate about matrimonial tribulations. Gabe turned down an offer to share booze from a pocket flask and talked him into driving clear of the Loop, all the way to Fleming’s house.
“Sure about this?” asked the man when they got there. “Won’t she be waitin’ for you?”
“Home’s the last place she’ll look,” he assured his bleary Samaritan, who thought that to be extremely funny. He drove off laughing, ten bucks richer.
Gabe had trouble with the picklocks. He couldn’t get his fingers to work together. It took nearly a minute to break in. He was well aware that he wasn’t thinking too clearly, but willing to risk that Mike wouldn’t come nosing around. He had a pounding to recover from himself, and Broder might still think his assault had been fatal.
As for Escott, well, he was supposed to be smart and good at his job, but his choice to follow them…
“Nuts. Everyone in this town is goddamned nuts,” Gabe muttered to the empty house as he trudged upstairs in the dark.
He made his way by the faint glow coming in around the window curtains. It was brighter than before, too early for dawn, he thought, until checking his new watch. Damn. How long had he been sitting on that curb? It had seemed only minutes. Maybe he’d blacked out. He’d lost time after the car crash. Wouldn’t that just be the pip if Fleming turned out to be right?
Gabe dug his earth-crusted clothes from the bottom of the wardrobe, grabbed blankets from the bed, and went hunting for the attic.
Behind a hall door he found a narrow stairs that ended in a ceiling trap, which at first seemed to be locked, though there was no mechanism, just a handle. He gave a hard push and the door lifted when something heavy fell away on the other side.
Somehow a trunk had been left on top of the trap. How the hell…?
Oh. Fleming’s disappearing trick. He’d pushed the trunk on the door, then slipped down past it. He probably used the attic for refuge, and this was how he locked himself in.
Gabe shoved the trunk back and cast around for a place to flop. There was a dusty window at one end; he found a spot far from it and curled up around the wad of clothes, covering himself completely with the blankets.
Just in time. His adrenaline gave out. He couldn’t move another inch. Even fresh blood wouldn’t have helped. He needed absolute rest to heal, and the earth would give him that. He cushioned his head on one arm, gritting his teeth until the rising sun brought oblivion.
No dreaming today, but this time he didn’t mind.
He was only aware that he’d slept by the fact his pain vanished between one blink and the next.
Damn. That was…good.
And disorienting. One second it’s dawn and the next full night. He didn’t like that. Unpleasant or not, the dreams gave some sense of passing time. Without them, Gabe felt as though those hours had been stolen from him.
Michael would have had a whole day to get himself out of town to—where? He had friends in Havana…but why should he leave if he thought Broder had—
Take it slow and in order. Mike tried to kill me. He managed to miss. On purpose?
Probably not. That he’d botched it said something for his ultimate reluctance, but he had been serious. The look on his face…that was real. He’d attempted the murder of his brother.
He’d have felt bad afterward, though.
Mike then lost the fistfight, Broder stepped in with his cosh, then gunfire from a third party cleared the playing field. Chances were good that lunatic Escott was behind the noisy interruption. Who asked him to horn in?
Maybe Fleming was back by now. He sure picked a rotten time to run off and sulk about his girlfriend—or else was showing sense by keeping himself clear of the mess. There was a first time for everything.
Gabe pushed upright in stages, cautious about sparking another fireball behind his eyes. He was rumpled and stiff, but otherwise felt fine. He checked his head and so far so good.
Someone was moving around below. Gabe froze. The sounds, muffled by the floors between, were too indistinct to follow. Perhaps the burglar who’d broken the window had returned.
Hell, it’s probably Fleming.
But there was no harm in being careful. Gabe left his makeshift bed, quietly moved the trunk off the trap, and edged his way downstairs.
His gun was still in his overcoat pocket. He pulled it out on the second-floor landing. The other person was in the front room playing with the radio. Static and music, then it steadied on Bergen and McCarthy trading quips. Trusting that the program would cover the sound of his footsteps, Gabe made it to the ground floor and looked in.
Strome was comfortably ensconced in a chair that faced the hall. His feet were up on the low table before the sofa, and he was just raising a beer bottle to his lips. He noticed Gabe right away, nodded a greeting, and drank deep.
Thankfully it was real beer.
“What’s up?” Gabe asked, not putting his gun away.
Unconcerned, Strome reached over to turn the radio down, cutting Charlie McCarthy off in mid wisecrack. “I was told to wait here in case you showed.”
“Why?”
“That English guy asked Derner, Derner told me. If you showed, I was to drive you over to Fleming’s club.”
“You sure it was Escott?”
Strome shrugged. “I’m goin’ by what Derner said.”
“Is Fleming back?”
“Didn’t know he was gone.”
“What do you know?”
“Nothing, Mr. Kroun. Not one thing.”
“Good way to get along.”
“Yessir.” He drank more beer.
As Strome didn’t seem to be in a hurry, Gabe went back up to change his shirt and shave and felt better for it. He was out of suits; the one he was wearing would have to do, though it was creased, and the knees were muddy. The overcoat was past salvage, but Fleming wouldn’t mind loaning him another. The one left folded over a chair in the kitchen was still there; Gabe pulled it on, and the fit was pretty good. He thought he could ignore the bloodsmell since it was his own.
Strome had nothing to say on the trip to Lady Crymsyn. He wouldn’t know anything useful, so it was pointless to ask him stuff like “Does Michael know I’m alive?”
Once again, Gabe pushed away the urge to plan against the unknown. He might have done that in the past, but at the mom
ent it seemed a waste of time. Actuality was always different from one’s expectations. Better to see what’s there, then figure out how to deal with it.
If Escott had arranged this trip over, it meant he’d have news.
If Michael was behind it, then Gabe wouldn’t have to spend the night hunting him down.
The green Hudson was the only car in the Crymsyn parking lot. Gabe had Strome circle the block, but there was no sign of the Studebaker. Strome stopped at the canopied entry, leaving the motor running. Gabe got out and looked things over, ready to duck, if need be.
Escott opened the front door. Lights were on in the lobby behind him. “Ah. Very good. Thank you, Mr. Strome.”
Strome lifted one hand to sketch a salute, shifted into gear, and rolled away.
Escott frowned. “That’s my coat.”
“Mine needs a clean. Why’d you want me here?”
“In the event that Jack turns up. When he does, it will be here, my office, the Nightcrawler, or with Miss Smythe. If he knows what’s good for him, he will have an apology ready for her.”
“What if he turns up at the house?”
“Mr. Strome left a note where it would be found.” He stepped back inside, and Gabe followed, checking the room. They seemed to be alone.
Escott went to the lobby phone booth, thumbed in a nickel, and dialed. “Mr. Derner? The prodigal’s returned, all’s well. Mr. Strome is on the way back. Thank you so much for the help.” He hung up. “Excellent fellow. Very well organized.”
“I noticed that, too. You answered why you’re here, not why I’m here.”
“Sorry, I’ve rather a lot on my mind. I thought you’d want to know what’s happened since we parted company. You’re much improved from last night’s misadventure. I thought that large fellow had split your skull open for sure.”
“Me, too.” Gabe removed his hat, brushing one hand over the white patch. “When did you get to the party?”
“Just in time, apparently.”
“What did you hear?”
“I was too distant to follow your conversation. When things went against you, I decided to make a nuisance of myself.”
