by P. N. Elrod
I knocked on the changing room door.
"Not yet!" Someone within yelled.
I'd seen undressed females before. The view never fails to fascinate. I opened the door two inches and called through. "Dorothy? You decent?"
"Let him in, it's all right," she said.
Her mother did the honors, reluctantly, not giving me much space to squeeze through. She'd provided Dorothy's somewhat hatchety face, but the grim look was all hers. Mama tigers were less protective. "She's not ready," she stated.
Dorothy was on a chair, using a shoehorn to lever her feet into some obviously new mules. She had on a graceful blue traveling dress, just the thing for a new bride to wear on her honeymoon trip. "I am now, Momma. Let him by."
"Just a few questions, ma'am," I said to Mrs. Huffman. My hat was already off or I'd have tipped it to her.
"You're the one," she said. Apparently her husband had had a word with her.
I didn't have a reply that would preclude getting my face slapped, so I smiled meekly and nodded.
The place looked like the backstage dressing rooms at my club, but much larger. A tornado had roared through, leaving behind all manner of clothing, makeup, and other feminine debris. My girlfriend had the same kind of clutter in her bedroom. God knew how they kept track of it all.
My coat was draped over a table on top of some long flat boxes. Not knowing where I'd end up or for how long, I pulled it back on again. It smelled of Dorothy's perfume. Nice stuff.
The maid of honor was busy folding the wedding dress into another long box. She was enough like Dorothy to be a sister. From the near-smirk on her face, she would be the bratty one of the brood. She glanced past me, looking puzzled for a blank second. That's when I saw a full-length dressing mirror in a corner. I angled out of range before she got a solid gander and realized I was missing from its reflection of that part of the room.
Finished with the shodding, Dorothy stood, smoothing her skirt down. Her makeup had been repaired. Her eyes were still puffy, but clean of black tear trails. Nose powdered and with a funny little blue hat atop her dark head, she seemed ready for anything. Don't ask me why, but a woman in a hat always looks able to take on any emergency. "What is it, Jack?"
Mrs. Huffman's face twitched. Her daughter being on a first-name basis with the hired help was none too pleasing to the lady.
I guided Dorothy out of immediate earshot of family, taking care not to trip over a set of matched suitcases. They were monogrammed, one each for the bride and groom: D.H.S. and J.K.S., respectively. I'd have to pass that detail on to my girl. She'd think it was cute.
"Why did you pick Cooley over Becker for chaperone duty?" I asked.
"Uh-um—I just did." Dorothy blinked more than was necessary.
"For a reason."
She hemmed a little more, her voice going so low that I had to lean close to hear. "Becker likes me. But he'd never—I mean if he—well—Daddy would kill him."
"Becker likes you. How'd he handle you being engaged and married, then? You must have noticed."
Her face reddened under the powder. "Actually, no, I didn't. I was so caught up planning the wedding and being with Jerome—you think Becker's done something?"
"I don't know. What do you think?" Distracted or not by her nuptials, she knew more than I did about the household, what was normal and what was not.
"Now that you mention… he was hanging close during the cutting of the cake. And I don't remember seeing him afterward—but then I was looking for Jerome. We need to get him, make him talk!"
"Hold your horses. If all Becker's doing is carrying a torch, there's nothing to that, he'll get over it. You make a big fuss and your father—"
"Would kill him, yes."
"You understand that's a literal thing, right?"
"I know my father. He's why I wanted to handle this myself. I was afraid he'd blow his top with Jerome."
"He'd do the same with Becker—who could be innocent."
"We still have to make him talk."
"That can be arranged. Any other unrequited loves?"
"Umm—don't think so."
Someone thumped hard on the door. Mrs. Huffman opened it a crack, then backed off to allow in another middle-aged woman. She had on diamonds. Not many, but the fires sparking from them looked obscenely expensive. I made a guess that she was the groom's mother. She'd also been crying, and wasn't done with it yet.
"Gerty?" said Mrs. Huffman, abruptly unbending. "What's wrong?"
"We found it on the table with the wedding gifts!" Gerty waved a scrap of brown paper in one shaking fist. "Sheila—it's terrible!"
Mrs. Huffman read it, her face clouding over. "Louie will kill him for this!"
"For what?" Dorothy grabbed the paper. "Oh, my God. Momma, you can't let Daddy know."
"Too late, he already does," wailed Gerty.
The maid of honor crowded in and had her turn to read and react. She dropped the scrap, scampered from the room, and about two seconds later screams of fury and dismay from the bridesmaids erupted in the hall. Another minute and whatever it was would make the Tribune's bulldog edition.
Gerty was sheet white. "Sheila, you've got to stop Louie from doing anything. This has to be some kind of mistake. This isn't like Jerome—I raised him better than that."
I picked up the paper and read:
Dear Dot,
I can't be your husband. Annul the wedding. I won't bother you again.
Jerome K. Schubert
There were things about the note that bothered me, but what jumped out the strongest was the scent of human blood on the paper.
THOUGH I DON'T BREATHE REGULARLY I TEND TO notice bloodsmell. It comes with my condition, no escape. That telltale whiff stopped me cold. Maybe Jerome had cut himself shaving… and maybe I'd take up sunbathing on Michigan Avenue.
Two edges of the crumpled sheet were uneven, torn from something larger. The writer could have lifted this from any waste-basket between here and the lake. No one puts a good-bye note in pencil on parcel wrap, though. Someone had been in a hurry and probably improvising.
I turned the sheet over. The back was marred with ordinary grime which served along with the dark paper to obscure the rusty traces of blood. It was not more than an hour old.
Dorothy looked like she'd taken a gut punch and jerked when I touched her arm. "Over here," I muttered, tugging.
There was no booze handy this time, so I made her sit and dropped on one knee before her, taking one of her cold hands. It was a parody of a proposal tableau, but no one was smiling.
"Dorothy." I said it sharply. "Come on, snap out of it. The note's fake."
She shook her head and blinked. "What? How do you know?"
"You're going to tell me." I nodded at the monogrammed suitcases. "That's what you were taking to the train station?"
"Some of it. The trunks are already aboard."
"Right. Well, if Jerome had run off on his own don't you think he'd stop here on his way out to grab a packed bag?"
"Maybe—unless he went back to his parents' house."
"Let's figure he didn't. Look at the note. Is this his handwriting?"
"It's uneven… but yes."
I chose to take that as good news and had to hope he was still alive. "Next, what's he call you?"
"Darling… sweetheart… Dorry-kins…"
"Name? Dot or Dorothy?"
"Dorothy. Only my family calls me—Oh, no. You can't mean—"
"Not done yet. How about Becker and Cooley? They call you Dot, right?"
Her brown eyes started to kindle, and she made that dangerous back of the throat sound. "If they've laid a finger on my Jerome—"
"Atta girl. Now read it again. What's wrong with it?"
She did so. " 'Annul the wedding'? He wouldn't say that, he'd say 'marriage.' And he'd never sign his name with me. He always signs a J followed by a dash. Someone made him write this?"
"Looks it." She started to rise; I pulled her down. "But you'
ve got to play like you believe it. Someone could be watching your reaction."
"But I have to—"
"That's my job. You know the layout of this church? The whole shebang?"
"Most of it."
"Make me a general sketch. I want to poke around and not have to ask directions."
"You think he's still here?"
"If only one person was in on it—maybe. Otherwise I'm just eliminating possibilities."
"But the ushers searched everywhere."
"Then they missed something." Like being able to pick up bloodsmell in the air. "Do the sketch and make like you believe the note. Ask for your father to come back here. If he's with you then he won't be hunting for Jerome."
DOROTHY SLIPPED ME HER ROUGH MAP JUST AS Louie Huffman arrived. He looked like a bear with a headache, but didn't let that roll along to his daughter. I'd suggested she let her parents know the note was a fake, and that they not share the information with anyone. The three of them went off in a corner, heads together, expressions grim. If it turned out that Jerome had disappeared himself after all, then it was his own hard luck if the Huffmans ever caught up with him.
Missing from the picture were Cooley and Becker. A different set of armed goons in imperfectly fitting tuxedos stood guard at a respectful distance. I asked after the missing lieutenants. Cooley was down the hall; no one knew where Becker was.
I was just guessing about a possibly lovesick Becker being the perpetrator. That would make things simpler, but any of the mob muscle working for Huffman could be behind it. This shenanigan might not be about removing a rival for Dorothy, but a diversion. For all I knew Siggy Schubert could have been slipped a ransom note on the side. He was damned rich.
No point questioning him just yet. I had to let this play out as expected and keep my eyes open.
Since Jerome had vanished from the reception hall, I went there first.
A couple questions got me the location of where he'd last been with the bride: at a table shaking hands and helping serve out wedding cake. The table was in front of double doors leading to a kitchen where a number of ladies were washing up and in deep discussion about current events. There was a collective pause when I walked in. I smiled and gave a "don't mind me" wave, checking for other doors. One led to the outside, another to a different hall. Either worked well for a fast exit.
It wouldn't take much for someone to sidle next to Jerome, jam a gun muzzle into his ribs, and tell him to come along quietly. Done right and it would seem as though he'd truly vanished. Take him into the kitchen, then where—outside to a car trunk or stash him in a quiet spot in the church to write a note to the bride?
"Excuse me—were any of you ladies here when the groom went missing?"
That netted me half a dozen replies at once. I finally got that they'd been away to see the cake-cutting and get a closer look at the wedding dress. Only one had remained in the kitchen, and she'd not noticed anybody ducking outside.
I thanked them and tried the hall. Dorothy's map got vague at this point. St. Mike's was pretty huge.
The lights were out, indicating the area was closed for the night, but there was enough glow from the windows to allow me to navigate. More doors lined the wall opposite, and I tried a few. Classrooms and meeting rooms. I made fast work of them, listening for heartbeats, sniffing for blood.
A broom closet stinking of floor polish, old rags, and dust came up trumps. On the floor was a cravat; its dark blue matched the color of the bridesmaids' dresses.
Bloodsmell. All over it.
A broad stain on the material made my corner teeth itch.
Still damp. If Jerome had bled that much… damn.
I backed out and checked the polished floor for blood spots. None visible, but two parallel drag marks such as might be made by shoe heels led farther into the building. I'm no trail scout, but they were as good as a neon arrow.
They ended at a stairway going down into profound blackness and silence. I looked for a light switch, but the walls were clean.
Dammit.
My eyes could make use of the least little shard of light—if it was present. An interior chamber like this put me back on a level with normal humans. Maybe this check had discouraged the ushers on their initial search for Jerome. Couldn't blame them; it sure as hell had me hesitating.
It's wholly irrational and no one knows of it because it is a source of great personal embarrassment to me, but I hate the dark. Forget an ordinary dim room, I'm talking about the kind of utter absence of light that makes you think you've gone blind. That's enough to freeze me. I always have to fight off a stab of panic.
Crazy enough for a grown man, but a vampire?
I've got reasons. Bad things have happened to me, and though much took place in well-lighted spots, enough occurred in pitch blackness to leave permanent scars.
Wincing, I pushed forward. I couldn't let it keep me from doing my job. If my partner had been along I'd have bulldozed ahead, bolstered by his moral support and dry humor. On my own I had time to imagine and remember past terrors.
I made it to the first landing before my nerve gave out and I stumbled back again, getting away from whatever creepy things lurked unseen below.
Stupid, stupid, STUPID.
I couldn't kid myself out of it, either. It hadn't been so very long ago that I'd been trapped and helpless in another black cellar. The memory was only too ready to surface. I closed my hands on a banister rail to keep them from shaking.
Schubert didn't have time for this. Chances were good that he was down there in need of help. I took a deep cleansing breath to clear my head… and picked up a faint trace of blood-smell.
Damn. I had to force myself no matter what, but internal terrors aside, it was truly dangerous to go blundering around in unknown territory. I needed a flashlight or—
Oh. Big Catholic church. If anyone had candles by the gross…
A minute later, sheepish and annoyed, I took the stairs with considerably more confidence. I found candles and a box of matches in the broom closet. They made me sane again.
I see more by a single candle flame than other people can get from a lightbulb's glow, but a flame jiggles. Shadows dancing and leaping in the corners spook me the same as anyone else; I took it slow and listened.
The only noise was above and behind me. Someone came striding up the hall at a good clip, closing on the stairs. I didn't want to be caught, so I vanished.
Handy talent. Now I was one of the creepy things lurking unseen.
Pressing my amorphous presence against a wall, I floated gently downward until coming to a turn, then held myself out of the way in the corner. My hearing was muffled in this state; all I could tell about the newcomer was that he seemed to be alone. I waited until he was well past before going solid again.
Returned to reality as well, the candle burned cheerfully bright. Huh. I'd known that might be a possibility, but it's still interesting to see firsthand.
I eased down a little farther, then halted again and vanished as a second person followed the other guy. He had his shoes off, moving along swift and quiet.
The temptation to reappear behind him and lay a hand on his shoulder like Death's harbinger was very strong, but I resisted. When this one was well ahead I took form again and listened, but apparently he was the caboose of the train.
They must have had flashlights. Past the glow of my one flame I picked up the brighter radiance of modern invention playing against the walls of the bottom landing.
It faded, though. I hustled to catch up.
The basement was enormous and used for storage, lots of storage. All kinds of stuff, ecclesiastical and other, more worldly items, filled the place to the ceiling. Tables, stacks of chairs, candle stands of every shape and size, sporting equipment, folding beds, and a thousand dusty crates kept me from seeing very far into a maze of junk.
Deep into the jumble someone had left on a light. I moved toward it. My candle was a liability. I pinched it out.
<
br /> Just a fraction too late I caught a surge of movement on my left.
Something cracked against my shins and down I dropped. In the background against that burst of pain I heard a woman gasp and let fly with a short scream. Almost at the same instant something far worse slammed into the back of my skull. I kept on dropping, but was unaware of hitting bottom.
It was cold there, though. Really cold.
IF I GET HURT BADLY ENOUGH VANISHING IS an involuntary thing. My body simply takes over and gets me away from whatever grief has inflicted itself—unless the injury involves wood. I don't know why, and I sure as hell try to avoid it, but wood hates me. It shorts out my disappearing act, leaving behind what others might mistake for a dead body. I go completely inert, no breathing or heartbeat, dilated and fixed pupils, the works.
Considering my circumstances as awareness trickled back, being dead was a pleasant alternative.
I lay on my back, limbs sprawled, and an unbearable pressure between my ears had the world spinning. Eyes open or shut, it made no difference. Muscles twitching, I wanted to vanish and thus heal, but wouldn't be able to until the shock wore off.
That would take a while. My head would have to be smashed flat by a steamroller to feel better. I took care to keep still and not groan.
When raising my eyelids seemed like something that could be done without too much agony, I gave it a try.
Not good. Pitch black all around, but the head pain was distracting and staved off the usual stutter of panic. When I'd recovered enough that the darkness bothered me I snarled at the monsters hiding there. In my present mood I'd strangle anything within reach… when I could move again. Getting what should have been a fatal bash to the brain had tossed my nebulous fears into the next county.
After a few minutes I figured out someone had thrown a tarp over me. That's what you do with the dead, cover 'em up because it could be catching. Entirely true: soon as I was able, I would kill someone for this.
Before long I thought sitting up wouldn't be too bad, and it wasn't—it was horrendous. I pushed off the tarp and let my body get used to being almost vertical. Whatever light had been on was gone now.
