The Vampire Files, Volume Five, page 47
part #11 of The Vampire Files Series
Good enough.
The picklocks got him inside.
It might have been some kind of store before things went bust on Wall Street. There were a few long tables, shelving, and a single counter for the clerk and cash register, but no other indication of its history. The dust was thick and the stale air cold, but Gabe had known worse places to spend the day.
He found a small storage closet in the back. Solid door, no windows. Good. No room to lie down…not so good, but he’d live with it. He scrounged around the shop and found a spindly wooden stool that would serve. A few swipes with a forgotten rag cleaned the dirt off the seat. Gabe took it in the closet and positioned it just right. He sat, back against the closed door, legs braced so he wouldn’t fall over. No one could sleep like that, but then his bout of daylight immobility couldn’t really be called sleep. Better this than sitting on the floor in his new clothes.
Gabe let his head droop forward, shut his eyes, and waited for the sun to smother his conscious mind for the day.
The dreams did not disappoint.
THE monsters that had retreated into the shadows hurtled free again. There was no losing them, not when they called the inside of his head home.
His trip through hell began with the exploding car. He felt the fire, the ripping within his chest as the smoke seared him from the inside out. Close, too close. He could have died there. Died again. The changes in his body prevented that, but the awful recovery…
He was swept farther back and heard the wind threading through the pine needles again. How he loved that sound. Peace, pure peace. It did not last. The soothing music cut off as earth, wet and icy cold, was heaped over his inert body.
Yes, it was bad. One of the really bad memories.
He’d been buried and would stay there, deep in his grave.
No ending to this one. Death was like that. It was forever. He was dead and aware of every grinding moment, every second passing him by.
Aware of the loneliness.
Never mind the soul-killing panic, the weight crushing his chest, the dirt clogging his mouth, nose, and ears, the absolute paralysis, the cold; he was completely alone in the blackness. No angelic choir, no hell’s chorus, no afterlife at all, only infinite, unrelieved isolation. He’d go mad from it; anyone would.
No. Not for me.
He had to get free, somehow.
The earth was heavy, but he could shift it if he tried. Maybe.
Some shred of will returned to what was left of his consciousness and transferred to his dead limbs, generating feeble movement.
He struggled and squirmed, gradually working upward. He hoped it was up. There had been stars framed by pine branches above him before that first shovelful hit his face. He just had to dig toward them.
Hard going, though. The hardest thing he’d ever done. Had they heaped rocks atop his body? He pushed at whatever it was, shoving it to one side rather than lifting—
His frozen hands clawed air.
More effort, and he worked his torso free, then his legs, boosting himself upright but dizzily swaying. He grabbed at a tree trunk and held on, spitting dirt, blinking.
Woods. Darkness. A small cabin not fifty feet away through the trees. No lights. No sound but the wind and the soft lap of water. A lake…no, a river. He came here to do his fishing. That, and…and…what was it?
He was filthy, and he stank. Smells were painfully sharp: the clean cold wind, the scent from the pine trees, the muddy earth, the blood. His clothes were soaked with it.
And God in heaven, his head hurt. He pressed palms to his temples and tried not to whimper like a sick dog. Take a lifetime of headaches all at once, triple their pain, and it might come close to what he felt. It rushed over him like a lightning storm.
It hurt the most…there…some kind of bump…no, a ridge, right in the bone. As he touched it, the pain exploded. He dropped in his tracks, unable to bite off the scream. He writhed on the broken earth of his grave and shrieked until his air was gone. Not replacing it seemed to help. Strange as it was to go without breathing, he understood it was all right. He was dead, and things were different now.
Dead. Just not a ghost. Something else.
He’d remember when the agony eased.
Only it didn’t.
After a long, long time he realized it wasn’t going away.
He swiped dirt from his eyes. His vision blurred and failed for a few moments, then returned. Blinding pain: he had the firsthand meaning of that now. He’d just have to get through it. He was in danger from…something…the sun. It would rise soon. He had to find a place to hide from it.
Back under the earth?
His grave? No. Not there again. Not ever.
Besides, there was…no, that couldn’t be right. For a tiny instant he forgot his pain, trading it for curiosity.
Gabe touched an oddly familiar shape half-submerged under the loose clods and rust brown pine needles.
His numbed fingers slid over a layer of grit, brushing it off.
When he realized what it was, he yanked his hand back as though from a fire.
GABRIEL shot awake, one hand twitching up to the left side of his head as though to keep his brain from bursting through the bone.
He had no comparable pain, but remembered what he’d felt then. How the hell had he gotten through it?
Where was that place? Not near Chicago. It was…the cabin…and it was…
Gone now. The sunset took it from him, damn it.
The thing he’d found…what was it? He could almost feel it again under his fingertips…
The sunset took that as well.
Damn.
His raised hand was a fist now, and he considered punching a hole in the wall, then thought better of it. This deserted and forlorn old shop wasn’t his property to damage. He made himself relax and stretched out of his braced posture.
Not too bad, just a little stiff. He’d lose that on the walk back to Fleming’s house. Gabe wasn’t fully rested, but he would make up for it later.
Patience. Another day’s worth of dreaming might get him everything.
In the meantime he’d talk to the old bastard and see if that would help.
7
FLEMING
THE neighbor’s attic had some heat seeping up from the lower floors, but it was still cold. It took a few minutes to get myself moving again. My usual sanctuary was fairly close to the basement furnace, and I missed its comfort.
After floating back to the house, I made sure that no one had moved the trunk from the trapdoor, then descended through the floor and down the stairwell to the front hall. The kitchen phone was ringing as I materialized.
It was Bobbi, calling as she’d promised.
“How’s Charles?” I asked.
“He’s fine, sweetheart, just fine. It’s a miracle.” The jubilation in her voice flowed through me, warm and reassuring, and I sagged as the worry fell away. I knew she was smiling, and the spark would be back in her eyes.
“I’ll be right over.”
“Don’t go to the hospital. He left.”
I thought I’d not heard her right. “Come again?”
“He was well enough to check out this afternoon. The doctor wanted him to stay, but Charles insisted on leaving.”
“What the hell? But last night—”
“He’s better, I’m telling you.”
Miracle, indeed. This I had to see.
“Shoe brought him to the hotel. The one I’m at.”
“I’ll be right over.”
She made no reply.
“Bobbi?”
“You should wait awhile, Jack.”
“But—” Oh.
“Shoe’s still upset by what happened.”
“You are, too.”
“Darling, I know that Charles getting blood poisoning wasn’t your fault, but Shoe doesn’t see it that way.”
“He’s right. It was my fault. If I’d…oh, never mind.”
“What did you two fight about? Shoe won’t tell me.”
“He might not know. It was between me and Charles, and it’s over now. Please, believe that.” My tone begged her to drop it.
She grumbled something away from the receiver that I didn’t catch, but it did not sound kind. Time to change the subject. I asked after Roland and Faustine. They were both fine and making plans to leave for Hollywood as soon as Roland was on his feet again. Things were happening, it seemed.
“Does it have to do with that guy who was there?” I asked. “The fast talker in the funny shirt?”
“Lenny Larsen? Yes, he’s got a deal for them. A real movie deal!”
“He’s crazy.”
She went indignant. “For getting them work?”
“No, he’s just a crazy guy. He’s too slick by half.”
“Jack, you only saw him for a minute.”
“It was enough. Don’t you let him spin you around, okay?”
“What do you mean spin me around?”
“Con you. The guy’s got to be a con man.”
“Well, of course he is. They’re like that in Hollywood. You just have to make sure he’s working for you when he’s giving others the business.”
Oh, God. She sounded as though she knew what she was talking about.
“What was that?” she asked.
“Nothing. Look, I’ve got to see Charles. I could find a way in if you tell me which room, which floor.”
“The same floor as mine and Gordy’s—he’s better, too, by the way. He found it’s easier to just rest than to argue with Adelle.”
“That’s good. I’ll want to see him.”
“Am I on your list?”
“You’re first up, baby.”
“That was the right answer.”
I told her Derner’s news about her apartment being clean and ready for her. She didn’t exactly turn handsprings. “I’ll go with you if you like,” I added.
“You certainly will. I’m not sure I want to see the place yet. I’d like to stay another night here.”
“At a noisy hotel?”
“It’s about the same as my place, only I know everyone. I feel safer here with them around. How nuts is that?”
After what she’d been through in the last few days, it sounded perfectly sane to me. “It’s a vacation. Not nuts at all.”
“There’s more.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“It can wait. When do you plan to sneak in?”
“Uh.”
“Thought so. You’ve got business, right?”
“Has to do with Gabriel Kroun.” I braced for a touchy reaction.
“Oh. That’s okay, then.”
What the hell? “Hey, you’re not—”
“Mad? Jack, he saved Charles’s life. If it wouldn’t make you jealous, I’d give him one lollapalooza of a big kiss.”
“Uh…um…uh.”
“Oh, relax. He’s safe. I’ll just shake hands.”
“Uh-nuh…um.” I cleared my throat next. It seemed the best response. “Well, uh, if you really want to thank him—”
“Yes?”
“He likes Adelle, seen all her movies. Maybe she could autograph a picture, put his name on it so it’s specially for him?”
Bobbi thought that was a great idea. She wanted to know more about Kroun, but I didn’t have much to say since I didn’t know much. Telling her about the run-in with the cops, with Michael and Broder, the burgling of the house would just throw a cold, wet blanket on her high spirits.
We moved on to other topics, such as when Lady Crymsyn might open again and how to replace Roland and Faustine’s big dance number. As always, I thought Bobbi should do the whole show, but her instincts were better on what to put on a nightclub stage. While I never got tired of hearing her sing, the customers might have other ideas.
Someone knocked on the front door, loudly rapping out “shave-and-a-haircut” but skipping the “two bits.”
Bobbi heard the noise. “That your friend?”
“Not exactly friend, but I think so.”
“Bring him over. Shoe won’t have a problem with you if he’s along.”
Optimistic of her. “Maybe. I gotta go, don’t know how long it’ll take. Expect me when you see me?”
“Don’t I always?”
We hung up.
I moved a chair from under the doorknob and let Kroun in. He had a few smears of dust on his new overcoat and declined to say where he’d spent his day.
“What put you in such a good mood?” he asked after giving me a once-over.
“My girlfriend.”
He glanced around. “She’s here?”
“She phoned.” I told him about Escott’s recovery. “He’s at Coldfield’s hotel—the one where Adelle Taylor is staying with Gordy.” As I’d hoped, the mention of her got Kroun’s attention.
“Maybe we should go over, say hello,” he said. “Ya think?”
“You got anything else to do?”
He grimaced. “Unfortunately, yes. I’ve an appointment and need a ride.”
“Where? For what?”
“Later. I need a shave first.”
He took one suitcase upstairs to the guest room and soon had water running in the bathtub. He might be a while.
With little to do but kick my heels, I gathered up the day’s papers from the porch and brought in the mail. Nothing in the latter was for me, but the papers were full of reworked angles on Roland Lambert’s escapades as Chicago’s newest gangbuster. Fresh pictures of him grinning or looking devotedly at Faustine were below the fold but still on the front page. Speculation was again raised about Hollywood doing a movie based on their exploits. No pictures of yours truly being affectionately assaulted by Faustine were there, though a couple papers mentioned me as a nightclub owner involved with the mobs. In one they called me “Jim Flemming.” I was almost used to people spelling the last name wrong, but they could at least get my given one right.
The Alan Caine murder had moved to page two, small photo, with the cops apparently following a new lead. There were hints they had a suspect and were close to capturing him. Hoyle had been found. On page four was a two-paragraph filler about a man’s body in a basement under a garage, foul play was suspected. No name, no mention of the address book I’d planted, no connection to the Alan Caine investigation. The cops were playing it close to the vest there.
Back on page two the header on another column read, SINGER’S SUICIDE WAS MURDER! with a quote from the coroner about Jewel Caine’s autopsy proving she had not taken her own life. Cold comfort. Very cold. For a few seconds I wished Mitchell alive again so I could kill him, then discarded it. If I had a wish, then better to use it to bring back poor Jewel instead.
Though the cops were still on the hunt, tomorrow the story would be considered a dry well by most editors and passed over for other news. There might be something in the obituaries about Jewel’s funeral, but no more, a sad and unfair end to a tough life. What was the point in trying if this was all a person had to show for it: a few lines in a paper and a headstone no one would visit. Some people didn’t get even that much.
I tried to shake it off, as this was just the kind of thinking that would annoy Escott. Better come up with a distraction…like the damned broken window at the end of the hall. Despite my makeshift patch, there was quite a draft blowing through.
Taking advantage of being the boss once more, I called Derner. He knew someone who knew someone who could fix the glass after hours.
“I’ll be by the club later,” I said, “to drop off the house key.”
“He won’t need no key, Boss,” he assured me.
The surprise was that I wasn’t surprised.
BY the time I’d worked through the rest of the papers, Kroun came downstairs, ready to leave. His singed hair and eyebrows had filled out sometime during his day sleep, and he looked better for a shave and a fresh shirt.
“Where to?” I asked, resigned to playing chauffeur for the time being.
He gave me a matchbook from the Nightcrawler. There’d been some scattered on the office’s big desk. This was the one he’d scribbled on during his one private call.
I opened the matchbook. An address was written inside. I knew the street, but not the number. “What’s this?”
“Let’s go see.”
We didn’t have much to talk about on the drive over, so I switched the radio on and listened to a comedy show to fill the time. It had me chuckling in the right places, and Kroun snorted now and then. He wasn’t the type to go in for a full belly laugh, though he clearly had a sense of humor. When the show was over, he turned the sound low and asked how long I’d known Adelle Taylor. I filled him in and told some harmless tales about her work at the Nightcrawler.
“She’s a real humdinger,” he said, drawing the word out, looking content.
I grunted agreement and pulled my heavy Buick to the curb, having found the address. It was some sort of a rest home and private hospital in one, to judge by the discreet sign attached to the iron driveway gate. An eight-foot-high brick wall with another foot of iron trim on top ran around the entire block. The trim ended in sharp spearpoints poking up through the latest layer of snow, giving me an idea of just what kind of patients were inside.
Kroun had his box of cigars in hand. He tucked it under one arm and led off.
The gate was locked, and a sign posted visiting hours with a warning no one would be admitted without an appointment. Kroun pressed an intercom buzzer, gave his name, and the gate rolled open along some tracks as though pulled by an invisible servant. It ground shut once we were inside. I thought they only had stuff like that in the movies.
A paved walkway that someone had shoveled clean wound to the main building. It was red brick like the wall, three stories, and on the plain side. The fresh drifts of snow softened its lines, but it didn’t seem too friendly. Most of the windows were dark, with their shades drawn.
