The Vampire Files Anthology

by P. N. Elrod

  That rotten-fruit smell had taken on a more familiar tang that I knew to be fear. He had no idea what was coming next. I was tempted to keep him hanging, but this wasn’t the time or place.

  I sat on the sofa, grunting as I stretched my legs out. The blood spots on my pants were more than simple stains.

  He was a grating, insane, self-important bastard, but give him credit, he’d planned this one through. If I somehow freed myself from the table, this was his insurance to keep me anchored in flesh, allowing him time to either escape or wound me enough to restrain again.

  The spots on the trousers were nail heads, not bloodstains. While I’d been in my day sleep, he’d pounded the metal into my legs right through the cloth.

  I pointed to one of them, then at the pliers in his hand. “Pull it out.”

  “Wh-what?”

  “You put ’em in, you pull ’em out. Make it fast, and I’ll let you keep your ears.”

  He knelt, made an effort to still his shaking, and did as he was told. He gripped a nail head with the pliers and pulled hard.

  I hissed, and made an effort not to shoot him. The damned nail was a good two inches long. And I’d been able to move with all those in me? Jeez.

  “Next one,” I said, my voice thick and harsh.

  He repeated the operation, faster. I hissed again, and once more did not shoot. That was moderately encouraging to him. “Mr. Fleming, I’m sure we can—”

  I suddenly grabbed his hair with my free hand, twisting his head around almost to the breaking point, and shoved the gun hard against his nose, the muzzle half an inch from his left eye. “You say another word—one more goddamned word…”

  No need to finish. He got the idea and continued in sweating silence.

  The next few minutes weren’t fun for either of us. I had to endure his ham-fisted surgery, and he had to not talk. Suffering was likely equal for both parties.

  When the last nail came free, it was better than Christmas.

  I wasn’t there anymore. My poor body vanished into that sweet, gray, healing nothingness.

  Dugan gave a surprised yelp, falling back. I could imagine him looking around in confusion, wondering what would come next.

  He bolted.

  I heard a door jerked open, there was one in the kitchen, and swooped myself that way, following his panicked breathing as he pelted toward some goal.

  A car, as it turned out. I went solid right behind him as he scrabbled at its door handle. He screeched in panic as I caught his collar and spun him to the ground.

  My mind was very clear now that the pain was gone. In a glance, I took in the back of a small, plain house, trampled snow, the little yard surrounded by tall, overgrown holly bushes. They blocked the view of whatever lay beyond and worked better than a brick wall for concealing everything within.

  This included two holes in the middle of the yard, one long enough to hold a body, the other smaller, located several yards from the first. Both were deep. I was surprised Mr. Genius had applied himself to so much physical labor.

  Dugan’s legs weren’t supporting him, but he tried to run anyway. His version of instinct was trying to get him clear, but I wouldn’t allow it. I dragged him toward the larger hole and let go just at the edge. He sobbed and rolled around to face me, hands pawing the air, begging. I still held the revolver.

  He was not a pretty sight, his groveling made it worse. I’d been here before, on the edge of murder, and there is no satisfaction to killing a man, however deserving. Dugan’s death would just create another dark burden for my tattered soul to haul around for however long I walked the earth. I had too many of those. No need for more.

  I’d throw a good scare into him, tie him up, remove all trace of myself from this place, and drop him at the nearest police station. He had to pay for all those deaths. A judge and jury were needed, not me.

  “Please…” he said.

  Then again…

  “That—” I told him “—is another goddamned word.”

  20

  KROUN

  A slow, dull pounding awakened Gabriel. The vibration of each impact thumped against his cold, cold body, irritating him to no end.

  Can’t a man get some sleep?

  Apparently not. The heavy, regular thumps continued, getting louder. He tried to roll away from it, pulling a pillow over to cover his ears, but was unable to move. That was when he became aware of the weight pressing him. Evenly distributed so he had no sense of being crushed, it held him solidly in place, like a bug suspended in amber. Strangely, he did not find that to be alarming.

  Thud. Thud. Thud. Like God knocking on a malleable door, coming closer, closer.

  Gabe was unsure whether that was a good thing or not. After some thought he leaned toward the more negative assessment, certain that God had debts to call in. Better not keep Him waiting. Gabe pushed against the weight, managing to wriggle a little. He tried to take a breath to speak and got a mouthful of dirt.

  Oh, cripes, not again.

  The pounding stopped when he made a sudden frenzied shove that caused earth to shift above him. The weight fell away from one of his arms, and he clawed free air.

  A hand grasped his wrist and pulled.

  He emerged spitting and blind, frantic to escape his second grave. He shook off the help, scrabbling up and over the sides, not stopping until he was yards from it. He rubbed his eyes clear, catching impatient glimpses between blinks.

  Snow. Trees. River. Sleet. Wind. Lead gray sky. A flashlight on the ground, its beam toward the disturbed grave. A man standing by the hole. Lean and angular body. Dour face.

  Despite the bone-freezing sleet, he was in shirtsleeves, sweating. A shovel lay discarded on the broken ground. The man held a large revolver now.

  Gabe rubbed his face, his fingers gritty, and stared at the company.

  “What—what is it with all the guns?” he asked.

  Escott aimed down the sights like a duelist. “That depends, Mr. Kroun. Who are you tonight?”

  What a damned stupid question. “Who do you think?” He spat more dirt.

  Escott picked up the flashlight and pointed the beam at Gabe’s face.

  “Hey!”

  “Open your eyes,” he snapped.

  He made it sound important. As Gabe found himself unarmed, he complied as best he could. The light seemed to pierce right through his skull—which began to thunder inside. He grabbed a clump of snow from a drift and pressed it against his head.

  “You done yet?” he growled, squinting.

  “Normal as can be expected.” Escott switched off the light.

  “Huh?”

  “Your eyes. Last night what little iris you had vanished entirely. I don’t think the others noticed, not that it matters to them now.”

  Gabe stayed put, applied another snowy compress, and began shivering in the wind. “You wanna fill me in? ’Cause I’m thinking you’re nuts.”

  Escott slipped the gun into its shoulder rig and retrieved his suit coat, which he’d hung on a low branch. “You’re correct in that assessment. It can be the only explanation for why I’m here.” Next he drew on his overcoat. He left both unbuttoned, his revolver within easy reach. “What do you remember of last night?”

  “You pulled a gun on me again. That’s pretty vivid.”

  “And?”

  Gabe shied away from more, but couldn’t ignore the holes and blood on his mud-covered suit. “Mike shot me,” he muttered.

  “What about your actions leading up to that point?”

  He wanted to put off thinking about that until his head pain eased. At this rate it might never happen. Sleet flecked his face, and the wind flayed his exposed skin. “Where the hell are we?”

  “A place familiar to you.”

  Cripes. This was his lucky night. “How’d you know they’d take me here?”

  “I asked Mr. Strome to wait within sight of the club and follow your brother and Mr. Broder when they departed. He tracked them to this dismal sp
ot, then phoned me when he could.”

  “You set me up. You knew they’d kill me.”

  “Yes—though I did not foresee the method. I suppose your brother was trying to make it painless for you. Injecting an overdose of cocaine should have rendered you unconscious. Instead, there were some unexpected and singularly unpleasant consequences before you succumbed.”

  His memory on that was disjointed. Someone else had been running the show except toward the end. He’d asked Michael a question and gotten no answer.

  “You set me up,” he repeated.

  “Because it was the right thing to do.” Escott had an edge in his tone that stated he was immune to reproach. “There is a terrible darkness in you. We saw Whitey Kroun last night, and he is a monster. Have you any control over him?”

  He winced at the word monster and that someone else used it so accurately. “If people left me alone, I’d be just peachy.”

  “You can’t, then.”

  “I—”

  “Yes?”

  “I did. A little.”

  “Indeed?”

  He rubbed his numb hands. “I was scaring the girl. Tried to tell her I was sorry.”

  “For scaring her? Just for that?”

  What more do you want? “It wasn’t me. I’m not like that. The dope pulled that out. It’s over.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “What kind of proof can I give you for that?” Exasperated, Gabe looked around. The hole he’d crawled from wasn’t his original grave. This one was much closer to the river.

  “Where’s Ramsey?”

  Escott nodded toward the right. Farther into the trees was the mound of black earth. There had been changes since Gabe’s visit. Someone had tamped down the top and arranged large river stones over it into the shape of a cross.

  “How’d you know which one to dig up?”

  “Yours was unembellished.” Escott grabbed the shovel, bracing it upright against a tree. “I suppose your brother thought God wouldn’t have you.”

  “He was right.”

  “Come along, Mr. Kroun. I’ve not yet decided what to do about you.”

  That made him pay attention. “What do you mean?”

  “Pick yourself up.” Escott said it the way someone else might say, “Time to settle the bill.”

  I hate this place.

  With less effort than anticipated, Gabe got to his feet. His day’s rest in the ground had restored him. His scratches were gone, and the chunk torn from his shoulder was filled in, no longer hurting. There was a scar, but it was well healed. Another day, and it might be gone entirely; the same went for the hole in his chest. His head continued to throb, probably a hangover from the dope.

  Following a well-trampled path in the snow, Escott trudged toward the clearing and the dark cabin. Gabe did not want to go there.

  The hinges creaked, and Escott left the door open. Inside, he lit a few candles. Shadows jerked and quivered, as though surprised by the intrusion.

  I should have burned the dump when I had the chance.

  Gabe forced himself up the step and in. The wind followed him, carrying the whirring sound of the pines singing to themselves. He slammed the door on it.

  The cabin looked smaller and meaner. The bloody, mold-eaten blanket and mattress had been thrown back on the bed. Gabe scowled and sat on a bench as far from it as possible. A fire in the potbelly stove would be good, but take time to start, and he didn’t want to linger any longer than necessary. Escott obviously had some things to say. Let him get it out, then they could leave.

  “You talked to Mike,” prompted Gabe. He tried to not look at the bloodstains by the bed. Escott had to have noticed them.

  “At length.”

  “He pay you off?”

  “He did not. After a call to Gordy to establish my bona fides, I persuaded Mike to accept my help and silence in exchange for the truth of what happened in this cabin.”

  “What’d he tell you?”

  “It was Miss Cabot’s story that convinced me you needed to be dealt with. She and her mother were present. Broder had been hiding them from you in Cicero. What you did to that girl…”

  Gabe made a cutting motion with his hand. “Never mind that.”

  “No, I will not.” Escott’s voice lowered, taking on a harsher tone. “You crossed a line.”

  “Shuttup.”

  Surprisingly, he did. Escott used a candle to light a cigarette, smoked it to the filter, and stubbed it out.

  During that pause, Gabe tried to fit things together with this new information. He couldn’t. “Ramsey was supposed to kill me, thought he had, and the girl was in the way, a witness. All I wanted was to find out if she was okay.”

  “She’s as well as can be expected. Perhaps her mother is right, and she may find some shred of peace now that you’re dead to her.”

  “But I couldn’t have—”

  “Mr. Kroun, you don’t remember your death or what led to it, not one moment of it. Please have the courage to face the truth: Ramsey had no orders from anyone to kill you; he just couldn’t stomach what you’d done to that poor girl.”

  “I did nothing! There’s no way I’d have hurt her. You got that yet?”

  Escott was silent for a long moment. “You absolutely believe that.”

  “It’s true.”

  “It is not true, yet you believe it. Were that not so, you would never have hypnotized her last night and demanded she tell her story again. That would have damned you on the spot, but you tried anyway, thinking she’d exonerate you.”

  “Listen to me…”

  “No.” Escott cut his gaze away and pulled out his gun. “None of that. Try to put me under again, and I will shoot you. Look at the floor. Now.”

  That was stupid. He did as he was told. He was fast enough to rush the man, but it would put a stop to learning anything else. Escott would fire, and that might bring the monster out. Gabe was angry, but he didn’t want to risk killing Escott.

  He put a hand on the side of his pounding head and wished for more snow. “All right…what did she say?”

  “You’re ready to hear the truth?”

  “Just tell me.”

  “Very well. Two months ago you did hire Miss Cabot’s services as a companion for what you termed a ‘fishing trip.’ She understood that much and went willingly as the money was good. Ramsey drove and turned a blind eye; that was his job. You stopped at the asylum to show her off to your father, then continued on to Wisconsin.”

  Gabe’s shivering abruptly ceased as heat crept up his neck and face. He was ashamed of what he’d done even if he couldn’t remember it.

  “This cabin was not the warm winter lodge she’d been led to expect. Soon as you arrived you gave yourself an injection of your chosen poison, then gagged her to keep her quiet. I shall not repeat what followed, only that it was brutal and went on for some while. Ramsey waited in the car as ordered, but when she managed to get rid of the gag, he heard her screams and came running. He burst in, did not like what he saw, and shot you dead.”

  Sickness rolled through him; Gabe shook his aching head. “You’re wrong. I could never do that to a woman.”

  “Why would she lie?”

  “I don’t know.” God, it hurt. “Keep going.”

  “Along with a hysterical girl, Ramsey had the problem of how to explain your death to your brother. Fearing the reception of that news would result in his own swift demise, he decided to get away and make himself scarce. He said as much to Miss Cabot, telling her she should do the same.”

  “Did she kill Ramsey?”

  “Yes. Miss Cabot was in a bad state, fearful for her life. She knew how things worked in your world and had little trust that Ramsey would just let her go. By then she really was a witness to murder or at least a justifiable homicide. Perhaps he said something to make her doubt him. She said it was self-defense. She took the car back to the brothel.”

  “Why not to her mother?”

  “Didn’t
know where to find her. The girl had fallen in love with some man when she was fifteen, run away, and some years later wound up working in that house. The madam there called a doctor for Miss Cabot, and since you were involved, he, in turn, called your brother.”

  Gabe risked looking up. “Then Mike knew all along?”

  “No. It happened that Mr. Broder answered the phone. He took the next train to Chicago to sort out the mess. It was he who eventually found Mrs. Cabot and got her daughter home again. He paid her a sum to keep quiet. If she had any trouble, she was to phone him, which she did when you arrived unannounced at her diner. Her trunk call to New York got her message passed on to him here, and he came running.”

  That explained the car crash and grenade-throwing. “Why help her? What’s his stake in this?”

  “Because he is at heart a decent man.”

  “Decent? The man’s a piece of walking granite.”

  “Who still had pity for the girl and wanted to spare your brother from having to deal with you.” Escott let that sink in. “He found the broken grave and Ramsey, but you were missing. He buried Ramsey and left. Thereafter, he was careful to keep an eye on you. Broder accepted the story you yourself put about—that you’d been grazed by a bullet.”

  “Okay, some of that adds up, but not the rest. Not what happened here. Nelly was hysterical, she mixed things up. Or she was afraid of what Mike might do to her. She figured out a story that would keep her alive. She’s not the first dame to accuse a man of—look, just get me to her. If I can put her under for five minutes, you’ll hear the truth.”

  Escott stared, thinking maybe. One-handed he pulled out another cigarette and lit it with a candle. He kept the gun’s aim steady. “It’s truly lost to you, isn’t it? Not just what happened that night, but everything. Otherwise, you’d never say that.”

  A hot spike hit that spot on his skull. Gabe flinched.

  “You insist on your innocence because you don’t remember who you were.”

  Gabe managed a snort despite his pain. “What gave you that idea?”

  “I also had a long talk with Gordy. Jack mentioned you’d been getting information from him, then making him forget. I found that a little prodding on my part brought back some recollection of your conversations. It was clear to us both that you had no memory of who you used to be before that bullet hit your brain.”