P. N. Elrod - Vampire Files 03, page 11
"So what kind of woman tips a cabbie five bucks?"
"One that doesn't know what it's worth. You're talking about the idle rich, honey—someone who never had to work for it."
"That's what I thought."
"What's this got to do with things?"
"I'll find that out tomorrow night."
"So when are you coming back?"
"I don't know, baby. Expect me when you see me."
She made a rude noise to communicate her disappointment. "Then get yourself a raincoat. The papers say there's a hurricane moving up the coast and headed your way. I don't want you catching cold from all that wet."
I wasn't certain I could still catch a cold, but took the sentiment as it was given, promising to bundle up for her sake. We said good-bye until the operator cut in again, and then hung up.
The rest of the night went by like paint drying, though I spent some of it scribbling out a note to Escott about Bobbi's views on tipping. I didn't know how useful it would be, but thought it worth pointing out again. After his return I planned to make another visit to the Francher estate, with or without Barrett's permission.
I experienced deja vu waking up in the Glenbriar Inn again. My trunk was in the same place as before, but pulled out far enough from the wall so I could lift the lid. Escott was there this time, stretched out on his bed, and contentedly up to his neck in newsprint, past and present.
"So what happened in Bridgeport?" I asked, when my few seconds of confusion passed.
"Nothing, as you may have gathered by our return here. I went to taxi companies and examined police, hospital, and as many hotel records as I could manage. I checked morgue records for Jane Does…"
He got a sharp look from me.
"… as a matter of course. She might have thought to use an alias, so I searched for Barretts, Flemings, and Franchers as well as Does and Dumonts. There is no official indication she stopped at all in Bridgeport. She may have merely passed through it, but then one could say there is no real evidence she ever crossed the sound in the first place."
All that footwork and probably a hangover to boot, no wonder he looked stretched and discouraged. "What'd you think of my note?" I'd left it on top of my trunk in Port Jefferson for him to find.
Now he smiled thinly. "We have returned, have we not? I'm strongly inclined to agree with the insights the two of you have concerning that excessive tip. All our roads appear to lead back to the Franchers. A new beginning is in order and we need to start with them."
"That's what I wanted. I'm going out to the house again tonight to see if I can fix up a private little talk with Emily. You have to figure she must know something. Unless Barrett got one of the maids to impersonate Maureen, Emily's just right for the part."
"What about Laura?"
"Too tall. Maureen and Emily are about the same height and build."
"Excellent point."
"You get any more from the locals today?" I noticed that a general lassitude permeated his manner and movements and guessed that he'd been working his butt off in one of the taverns again.
"Most of the talk was about a hurricane that's been coming up the coast. The papers are forecasting massive death and destruction to arrive here soon, and people are busy tying things down in preparation. There's already been a little rain."
I groaned inside. Not so many nights ago, I'd had enough rain to last a few lifetimes; much more and I'd be tempted to move to Death Valley.
"Perhaps you should wait until it blows over," he suggested.
"Nah, I'm all ready to go do it now. I'll go crazy if I have to sit around a hotel room another night memorizing the wallpaper."
"I see your point."
"Look, Charles, this could take a lot of time. Did you really feel like coming along just to wait out in a damp car?"
"Put that way, it does sound most unappealing."
"Besides, you did all that work today; it's my turn now."
He surrendered without argument. "By all means go on without me. I could certainly use a quiet evening of rest."
Lightly put, but he was tired, and I felt better for having him safe at the Glenbriar—away from Barrett and any unforeseen problems.
I wore a dark shirt and black pants with my raincoat. The few tourists hanging around the lobby gaped at me as if I were an out-of-place mobster. They quickly huddled back into their mah-jongg game to resume discussion about how run down things were becoming with that Democrat in the White House.
The rented Ford was in a gravel lot behind the inn. I braved a stiff breeze and a few thick drops of rain and nosed it onto the road.
The possibility of Barrett discovering me going about my unlawful trespass of his employer's property kept my mind unpleasantly busy. Not that illegal entry was something to weigh on my conscience; I was simply shrinking from the embarrassment of getting caught. I planned to be very, very careful.
Preoccupied with the evening ahead, I took a wrong turn and found myself going in a miles-wide circle back to Glen-briar. The rain was coming down heavily and the wind gusted against the car, rocking it. I couldn't go back, the road was too narrow for a U-turn, and I didn't want to chance getting stuck in one of the steep ditches running along either side of the paving. I squinted ahead for a crossroad or driveway to use.
A mile later, the rain was pouring so hard that I was going less than half the posted speed limit. The wind drove the water straight at the front window, making the wipers useless. The headlights only bounced off a shimmering quicksilver wall, illuminating nothing. My night vision was no good for this kind of a mess. The speedometer pointer dropped down below ten miles an hour and I still felt I was going too fast.
Escott had had the right idea about a quiet evening resting up. It was past time to call it a night. At this point I wasn't all that sure of finding my way back to Glenbriar, much less getting to the Francher estate. Even if I did reach it, I was facing a long walk through the woods, and I could hardly conceal my presence while leaving a dripping trail throughout the house. Unless the hurricane blew it into the sound, the place would still be there tomorrow.
Its taillights were on—the only warning I had of its presence. I hit the brakes, skidded badly, but stopped just short of back-ending a car stopped in the road. I punched my horn once. They didn't move. Disgusted, I decided to pull around and hoped no one was coming up in the other lane to hit me.
A semi-clear patch opened in the shifting gray curtain of water. My headlights just caught the bright blue-and-yellow check design on the trunk of the car.
Glenbriar was only a small town and John Henry Banks was someone I'd be bound to run into again before our business was ended, but I suddenly got very cold inside. The uneasy feeling persisted the longer I sat and thought about it, getting worse instead of better as I tried to come up with a good reason for Banks to be out here tonight. Scowling at the rain, I swallowed back my fears and levered out of the car into the hurricane.
It was like standing under Niagara, except the water was horizontal instead of vertical because of the wind. I put my back to it, steadied myself with a hand on the car, and staggered over to the passenger door of the cab. It was on the lee side and offered some minuscule protection against the raw force trying to bowl me over.
I couldn't see inside the window for all of the water streaming down. I thumped on the door a few times on the off chance that I was interrupting a lovers' rendezvous and opened it.
As it turned out, I wasn't interrupting anything. It was all finished by now.
Banks was heeled over on his right side, one arm curled beneath him and the other trailing off under the dashboard. His eyes sagged open, looking at nothing. His pockets were turned out and a few stray coins littered the floor. Blood covered his head and face and flooded the seat where he lay. The red smell of it smothered my senses and jammed all thought.
Maybe I said something. I don't know. The shock had hit like a block of ice, leaving me stunned. As though someone else were doing it for me, my hand went out in a futile effort to find a pulse.
"Cha…"
I jumped like I'd touched a hot wire. Banks was alive.
"… nged." Nonsense slurred from his slack mouth. His eyes were still open and fixed. He was unaware of me.
I leaned in close. "Banks, who did it?"
"Change," he said clearly.
Disturbed by me, a quarter dropped from the edge of the seat and hit the floor. The sound as it landed was lost, masked over by the storm.
"Who hit you, Banks? Who did it?"
"Not."
"Who was it? Did you know him?"
"Lie."
I didn't dare move him. I needed help, but didn't know where to go to find it. A house with a phone could be only yards away, but invisible in the rain. Maybe I could flag down another car if it passed by.
"Was it a man? A woman?"
"Tall."
"Who, Banks?"
"F-fine."
"Banks!"
His eyes were still open, but he'd slipped away. My hand was touching his neck and I felt it happen. The knowledge spread up from my fingers straight to the brain and coiled down my spine. One second he was a man with dreams and needs and desires like the rest of us, and the next he was an inert, empty carcass.
A slow and sticky kind of sickness started in my guts and began working its way up. I quickly backed out of the cab, holding on to the door for support, and sucked in drafts of cold air and rain. I did not vomit in the ditch running along the roadside, though it would have been a kind of release. My condition doesn't always allow me the luxury of a human weakness. The bile stayed in my throat, clinging to the back of my mouth, and wouldn't go away.
I checked Banks. He was dead, I'd not made a mistake. The side of his head was smashed in, hard. The killer had been very fast; so fast that Banks had had no time to blink. I reached in and closed his eyes with numb fingers.
The bile surged inside. Maybe I was going to be sick, after all. I backed out again, the rain whirling around me, and leaned on the cab for support.
I heard a close, sharp thud.
My feet slipped away from under me. I toppled forward against the cab, cracking my chin hard on the wet roof.
Thud.
I felt the second blow and sprawled flat on my face on the streaming road. Water bounced up from the paving, stinging and filling my eyes.
The third was much harder. My head was firmly braced against the unyielding road surface. Whoever was doing it could bring a lot of momentum to bear with their downward swing.
The fourth.
I couldn't hear the rain hissing anymore. The world was reduced to cottony silence and the softly pulsing light beneath my eyelids.
The fifth.
The light was gone.
I don't remember the sixth or seventh.
Just as well.
Chapter Seven
RAIN PELTING AGAINST my sodden coat.
Light.
A hand on my wrist.
Mitch, are they—
My God, Elma, get back in the car. Fear in his voice.
Footsteps. A door slams shut.
The man keeps saying my God over and over again before he finally backs away and leaves.
His voice raises in a shout, then a curse.
The wet rush and roar as a car drives quickly past.
Rain.
Wind.
Another car. The road under me announces its approach.
He shouts again. This time it stops. Light pierces my sightless eyes. Voices.
… get to a phone …
… Trent place, just up the road…
… police first, it's too late for…
More lights, more voices. Questions.
An eternity of rain and wind.
… thought something was wrong so we stopped…
… Johnnie Banks, don't know who the other fella …
Hands probe my pockets.
… out of town. Must be his car behind Johnnie's…
The light gets stronger. It beats on me like the rain. Hands turn my body. Rain strikes my face.
… cracked open like an egg…
Want to scream. Can't.
… multiple blows with a blunt instrument, both of 'em. That's as much as I can tell…
… musta been a robbery, but who…
Hands on my body, lifting me.
The rain stops. Full daylight. Blinding, burning, killing daylight.
Want to scream. Want to scream.
They drop a blanket on me. The rough fabric covers my face. Grunting and swaying, they carry my body out of the wind.
The blanket diffuses the light a little.
Can't move or talk.
A car rumbles under me.
Hands and movement. Hands tugging, pulling at me, at my clothes. No way to tell them to stop.
Searing white light cuts into my brain. Cold air on my bare skin. Icy water sluices over me. Nose and mouth clog with it. They turn my head. The water drains away.
Hands probe my broken skull.
Can't scream.
… we'd like to respect it, but in the case of a homicide, we have to have the doctor…
Arguments drift over me. One voice is vaguely familiar.
Someone closes my light-blind eyes. Red and black patches drift under the lids.
… notify his family…
… working for me, it's my job to…
The voices fade. They throw a heavy sheet on me. Out of sight. Out of mind.
The sun works free of the clouds. It beats silently against the covering.
Someone lifts the sheet. The sun flashes over me like a furnace. Something is shoved under me, firmly pushed under the small of my back.
It's the peace of the grave.
Out. Out. Out.
Sweet night.
A voice. A question.
And pain. Far too much pain.
"… hear me? Jack?"
My head feels like a bomb crater. If I lie very, very still, it might not get worse.
The voice whispers anxiously.
I remember the rain and the road and yes, I can hear you, so shut up.
A hand touches my bare shoulder. He tries shaking me awake. It moves my head. I scream. It comes out as little more than a bubbling exhalation.
"Jack?"
Dear God, stop the pain.
"Can you hear me?"
More bubbles. The taste of mud.
"Jack?"
A series of small coughs. Someone whimpers.
The questions stop. He carefully turns my head to the left. It eases the pressure on the cracked and broken plates of bone. He's as gentle as possible.
It's too much.
Out.
A clock ticking. A heart beating. Both are nearby.
"Jack?"
The pain had subsided a fraction. This was heaven by comparison.
"Can you hear me?"
Leave me alone.
"Can you understand me?"
Yeah, now go away for a few weeks.
"Please answer me, Jack."
I inhaled to speak, but couldn't get the mouth to work.
"What's my name?"
If you don't know, you're in worse trouble than I am.
"Answer me."
Inhalation. "Charl…"
A long sigh of relief. Not from me. He'd been afraid. Of what?
"Do you know what happened to you?"
"Road… rain."
"Yes, you were driving."
And then I stopped. An accident?
"You found the taxi," he prompted.
John Henry Banks. Johnnie Banks. Slumped over, mumbling nonsense. His head smashed in… no more, I don't want to think.
"Do you know who did it?"
God, was that me asking Banks or Escott asking me? I really couldn't tell.
"Did you see them?"
"Hurt, I hurt."
"I know. Do you need blood?"
I needed something, like an aspirin the size of a boxcar. "Try."
He put a thin rubber tube to my lips like a straw. I drew the stuff in. It was no longer warm from being in the animal, but still wonderful. The blood spread through me with its promise of life and healing, and then I didn't think about anything until it was gone.
"Better?" he asked, his voice faint.
"A little."
He pulled the tube away and ran some water, cleaning up. He liked to have things clean and neat. The water stopped.
"Can you open your eyes?"
Why not? The darkness seeped away for an instant. Escott's worried face hovered close to my own and was gone.
"Did you see anything?" he asked.
"Yeah. Fine."
F-fine. The last thing Banks had said and then—
"Try it again."
I did. They stayed open a few seconds longer. "Okay?"
"Excellent. They're a nice healthy red."
The white-hot hammer and anvil on the side of my skull wasn't pounding quite so hard.
"Think you'll be able to travel soon?"
He had to be out of his mind. I didn't want to move for a month.
"I have to get you out of here before morning."
You'd better have a damn good reason. "No. Rest."
"Yes, at least for now. Do you know who did it?"
That question again. "Banks knew. They get me?"
"You were struck from behind. The doctor found wood splinters in your scalp."
Multiple blows from a blunt instrument. The phrase repeated through my brain like an echo from a dream. Wood. Deadly, deadly wood. No wonder I was so helpless. "How bad?"
"You've a hell of a fracture, they hit you several times. I was worried you might not be—did you see them at all?"
"No."
I noticed the general darkness, or rather the absence of artificial light for the first time. He was also keeping his voice low, almost to a whisper. Faint outside illumination came from a high, uncurtained window. The dimness turned his skin ghost white and simplified his features.
As I drew air to speak, the smell crashed in: formaldehyde mixed with the sweetness of old death. A chill shuddered all through me that had nothing to do with the cold air.
"Where?"
"I'm afraid we're at the local funeral parlor," he explained, as though embarrassed by the fact. "It doubles as the coroner's examination room in the case of questionable deaths or homicides."
"Deaths?"
