The Vampire Files, Volume Five, page 52
part #11 of The Vampire Files Series
“Tell her that I made you promise. Pretend I was the one in the wrong about something and began the fight. You’re only protecting my good reputation with her.”
That was one hell of a favor. Too much of one. He’d done enough. “She’d never buy it. I can’t—”
“You most certainly can and will. It worked tolerably well on Shoe.”
The implications of that sank slowly into my thick skull. He’d put one over on Coldfield? I couldn’t see how Escott had gotten away with it, but if anyone could…“Really?”
“Best to agree before I change my mind.”
“Okay, okay!” I put my hands up, surrendering. “Is Shoe going to ease off being pissed at me?”
Escott went somber. “I doubt it. Not for a long, long while. Whatever the circumstances that led up to this near disaster, and whatever the miraculous cure that averted it, he’s not going to cease blaming you.”
I didn’t expect otherwise. But, damn, it was tough. I valued Coldfield’s friendship.
“Just give him time, Jack.”
“Yeah, sure.”
He glanced at his watch, shuffled the mail and food leavings to one side, and tapped his pipe empty. “Well, nothing here that cannot wait until the morrow. I’ll be glad to sleep in my own bed tonight.”
“Uh—there’s one thing…” I told him about the break-in at the house. “It could be Kroun’s two buddies messing around. Until I know what’s going on, you should stay at Shoe’s hotel.”
“Bloody hell. I don’t want some unknown thug dictating where I sleep.”
“Me neither, but you’re settled in already, aren’t you?”
“At Shoe’s quite forceful insistence.”
“Go along with him. There’s no harm in it. He’ll feel better.”
“Where will you doss down?”
“I’ll be at Lady Crymsyn. If it looks safe. For all we know, it was just a regular burglar.”
“You don’t believe that.”
“Not these nights, no. Another thing—your Nash might not be home for a couple days. I’m having the steering wheel fixed.” I thought he’d be happier not knowing about the bloodstained upholstery. “You can call Derner at the Nightcrawler about it.”
“Why, thank you. I’d not given it any thought.”
Well, he had been sidetracked.
A car door slammed down in the street. “I think Shoe’s back.”
“Somewhat early. He’s giving me a ride over to see Vivian.”
It occurred to me that Escott could stay with her for the night, but I kept quiet. How he conducted his big romance was his own beeswax. “You going to tell her any of what’s happened?”
He gaped in shock. “Hell, no!”
WHILE I stood quiet in the office’s back room, Escott locked up and went off with Coldfield. The lights were out, but enough glow came through the blinds to allow me to dial the Nightcrawler.
Derner picked up on the first ring. “Yeah, what is it?”
He must have been having a full evening, too. I let him know it was me and asked how things were going. Michael and Broder had come by and were down in the club. They wanted a word with me—or Kroun, who was keeping his head low in the office. Derner gave the phone to him.
“Thought you’d be here by now. What’s the holdup?”
“I had things to do. I still have things to do.”
“You can kiss your girlfriend later. Come over. Quick. I’ll meet you on the street in the back.”
It didn’t sound like an emergency, more like impatience. If so, then why wait for me? He could get a car and go off on his own easy enough. He damned well better not want to make an expedition up to that cabin. It was distant enough that we couldn’t manage a round-trip in one night, and I was not leaving town without seeing Bobbi again.
GOOD thing Kroun waited outside, there was no parking anywhere close, including the alley behind the club. A delivery truck blocked the entry. Several large guys in dark coats (and probably up to no good) glared my way as I rolled by at a snail’s pace. Stuff was being dropped off or picked up—bodies or booze, I couldn’t tell what—business as usual for the Nightcrawler Club.
Kroun emerged from a shadow, stepped up on my running board, and opened the passenger door.
“Keep moving,” he said before I could hit the brake.
I kept moving, feeding more gas once he was inside and had pulled the door shut. Even he had to work hauling it to, because of the armor and thick glass. “What’s the deal?”
“Just head west and watch the mirror.”
“What’s got you spooked?”
“Broder. I think he saw me. I ducked and got scarce, but you never know with him.”
“Why not just hypnotize him?”
Kroun didn’t answer.
“Or maybe you tried once, and it didn’t work? Crazy people are immune. Is he crazy?”
He thought that one over. “Single-minded. He’s Michael’s watchdog. Won’t work for anyone else.”
“Nice pals you got. Just talk for a minute and get ’em off your back.”
“I have nothing new to say and better things to do. Michael will see it differently and waste time for everyone.”
Sounded reasonable. “Why am I here?”
“I need you to drive while I figure the roads.”
“Where’re we going?”
“That mirror clear?”
“Seems so.”
“Make sure.”
I made sure. Broder was the kind of mug one should always avoid.
Kroun twisted around to watch for tails. His mood was considerably improved and more energetic, and I wondered why until an intake of breath tipped me to a faint trace of perfume clinging to his clothes.
I got uncomfortable pretty fast and opened my mouth without thinking. “Is she all right?”
“What?”
“The girl you were just with. Is she all right?”
“You followed me?” He was more surprised than anything.
“I can smell her on you. Is she—”
“She’s fine. Cripes, can’t a man have some privacy?”
“How much did you take from her?”
He didn’t reply, apparently overcome by sheer disbelief for the question. “What the hell—?”
“Figure it out. The things Sonny said, the hints Michael dropped about you making trouble, and the other night you were harping at me about feeding from—”
Kroun cut me off with one burst of gutter language and slammed the back of his hand against the door in frustration. I kept driving, ready to hit the brake in case he took a swing. Instead, he steamed a while, shaking his head, then barked a short laugh.
“Fleming, it is no goddamned wonder that people want to kill you.”
“Just doing my job.”
“Now you start,” he muttered. “Okay, fine. I understand. I’ve got a bad reputation, so I’ll let this pass. On the level—the lady is just peachy. But don’t take my word for it, find a phone, pull over. I’ll even give you a nickel to call the joint.”
He named one of the more expensive brothels under Gordy’s supervision, the name of the madam, and the girl in question. A phone call wouldn’t take long. My eating crow was preferable to letting him get away with something ugly. Of course, Kroun could have hypnotically primed everyone with a story.
His reaction was not that of a guilty man, but then Michael had mentioned Kroun’s lack of a conscience. Gordy’s accounts of cold executions backed it up. Sonny’s obscene ravings—none of it seemed to fit the man on the passenger side of my car. I measured that against Kroun’s saving Escott’s life, getting me off the death list, and his behavior in general.
But some people were very good at hiding the dark inside.
I glanced at him. He was angry, but there was no sign of that hell-pit emptiness in his eyes. For all I knew, the same thing showed in me when I went off my rocker. Maybe it was part of our shared condition.
“I’ll check on it later,” I finally said.
“Lemme know what you find out.”
“I have to do this. It’s not connected to Michael’s orders.”
He thought that one through. “Yeah. I see that. You’re a stand-up guy, you can’t help it.”
I didn’t expect that response.
“But you know,” he continued, “you could try, just try not to be such a pain in the ass while you’re at it.”
That was more like it. “Just part of my charm.”
A few miles of twisting and turning around the Loop convinced him we were in the clear. He gave me a direction.
“West,” I said. “Not Wisconsin.” And I’d been braced for a fresh new brawl for refusing to head north.
“Nope. I want what you wrote down on getting to the cabin, though.” He had a pencil and another Nightcrawler matchbook.
Rather than drive while reading from my shirt cuff, I passed him the copy I’d made.
He grunted a thanks, then checked the paper. “This is word for word.”
“Just a knack. Again—where are we going? And how long will it take?”
“Can’t say. I don’t know the area.” He folded the paper into the matchbook, shoving both in a pocket, brought out a map, and wrestled it open. A black circle around a thread-thin line of country road marked our general destination.
Closer than Wisconsin, but not all that close, and I’d planned to see Bobbi tonight. I pressed hard on the gas. “You need a chauffeur, not me,” I grumbled.
“I’m keeping you clear of Michael.”
“So he doesn’t know about your visit to Sonny.”
“He’ll find that out on his own. This is just to keep the peace.”
“How?”
“You’re both used to being in charge, and neither of you likes to be bossed. He pushes people, that’s how he operates. If he pushes you the wrong way, then Broder has to step in; someone could lose an eye.”
“You don’t trust me with your friends?”
Kroun didn’t laugh but was mightily amused. “You trust me with yours?”
“I didn’t have a choice. What’s going to happen to Charles?”
“He’s better?”
“Like he was never sick. And he’s asking questions. Is he gonna become like us?”
“Why should he?”
“Because our kind of blood is different. It changes things.”
He stopped smiling. “Sure as hell does.”
“You knew it would help him, but how’s it gonna be for him later?”
“Damned if I know.”
“You don’t know?”
“Yes, I said that. I really did. You wanna figure it out, read a book.”
“There aren’t any. I’ve read everything on what we are, and nothing mentions a word about what you did. All I’ve got is you.”
“Then you’re out of luck, because I don’t know. I’ll say it again if that hasn’t sunk in.”
That exasperated me, and I let him see it.
“I don’t,” he repeated. “Really.”
“And why is that?”
He shook his head.
What the hell? But more questions wouldn’t work; he’d pulled on his poker face. Escott might have better luck getting an answer.
Maybe—and I was disinclined to believe it—Kroun was giving me the straight dope after all.
I’d suffered a blackout about my death. I’d lost days of time, though most of the memories had eventually come back. Perhaps he had that, too, and didn’t want to admit the weakness. It would explain a lot. The bullet in his skull might make his case worse, blotting out who had made his change, how he knew certain things.
I opened my mouth to throw that at him, then caught a glimpse of his profile. His head was pressed against the window so he could gape up at the buildings as we rolled along State Street. His grimness was gone, and he suddenly looked like a farm kid marveling at the wonders. Everything would seem different because of the internal changes. Those towers would be new, shining and miraculous under a night sky that wasn’t dark anymore.
No need to interrupt that. I turned on the radio and found some music to distract me.
GO far enough away from Chicago, and eventually you run out of city. It trails off grudgingly. In the last ten years a million people had moved in—I was one of them—and while most clustered in close to the lake, there were plenty spread around the outer areas. Instead of tall buildings full of flats, you saw individual houses that gave way to fields and trees with no sidewalks running under them, no fences cutting between.
The roads turned rough, the solid-rubber tires made them bumpy as hell, and most corners lacked a signpost. If you didn’t know where you were, tough luck. There hadn’t been much traffic to break up the last snowfall, so I had to go slow in spots. The heavy car skidded uneasily when the solid tires weren’t trying to rattle our teeth loose. It got too noisy to hear the radio. I shut it off to focus on driving.
Kroun scowled at his map and didn’t answer questions. Annoying, but nothing new. I played chauffeur and paid attention to the route to remember it later.
“Pull in there,” said Kroun after half an hour.
Suspecting he’d lost his bearings, I did, braking near some gas pumps standing sentinel before a run-down white building. Dropped onto a wide patch in the road, it was shaped like a shoe box with square windows cut into the long sides. Faded signs informed drivers that they could buy gas, hamburgers, and hot coffee, the latter two emphasized by bold, inexpert artwork.
The place was open; a lone light, the only one in view, shone over the screen door. Even in the most isolated spots out in farming country you can nearly always spy a light in the far distance and know that people might be there or had once been there. This would be the joint shining that light. Nothing else but trees and wind and loneliness lay beyond in all directions. When I cut the motor, the silence crowded in like an unwelcome witness.
The muddy slush between the building and the gas pumps indicated customers had been by that day, but no sign of them now. Kroun got out and looked around, his manner telling me that this was his intended destination. Who the hell did he know here? Another crazy like Sonny?
He struck off, heading for the door. I followed, and we went inside.
Like any hunter I scented the air: the stink of old cooking grease, onions, and stale coffee dominated. I’d eaten in countless diners just like this during my newspaper days. For twenty-five cents you could get a filling meal that sometimes digested without incident and flirt with the waitress if she was in the mood for it. This country-cousin version inspired the kind of nostalgic pang that made me glad I was now drinking blood.
The woman behind the counter looked to have had a hard life, but a lot of that was going around. Her black-and-gray hair was pulled back and pinned tight, her face amiable enough despite the lines. She had to get all types in, but nothing recent that looked like us. We got the quick assessing stare reserved for newcomers, and she asked if we needed gas, food, or both.
Kroun took his hat off. “No, ma’am, thank you. I’m looking for Mrs. Cabot.”
“Who wants her?”
“I’m supposed to deliver something.”
“You’re no mailman. What is it?”
He hesitated, then pulled out a letter-sized envelope, holding it up. “Not sure. Looks like money. They don’t pay me to be curious.”
“Money for what?”
“I don’t know. Are you Mrs. Cabot, Nelly’s mother?”
She went dead still, her eyes going flat. “What about Nelly?”
“I’m here to make sure she’s all right. If I could talk to her a minute…”
The woman pointed toward the door. “Get out, the two of you. Now.”
“Mrs. Cabot—”
“OUT!” she bellowed.
He moved closer instead, but she was faster. Before he could even begin to give her the evil eye she pulled a Colt six-shot from under the counter, leveling the muzzle square on his chest.
“Our mistake,” I said, and backed toward the door. I caught Kroun’s arm and tugged. He retreated a few steps, reluctant.
“Please, ma’am, I only want to talk, there’s no need—”
“OUT!” Her eyes blazed wild.
“C’mon, Kroun.” I pulled harder. “Haul it.”
She gave a double take. “Y-you’re Kroun?”
He offered a hopeful smile. “Yes, ma’am. If you’d put that d—”
The barrel roared fire, short, ugly, and deafening in the confined space.
Kroun had hellishly good reflexes and ducked a bare instant ahead of the shot. I vanished entirely, came back, and grabbed him while the smoke still billowed.
The next second we were out the door in craven retreat for the car. Mrs. Cabot was right behind, taking aim, one-handed. Shaking and cursing as she was, she missed. Kroun slammed the passenger door shut in time to stop the third round. The thick glass chipped and went opaque right where his head was; he flinched back in the seat, and in a strange, strained voice told me to get us moving.
Good idea, but under certain circumstances it takes a damned long time to start a car and work the gas and clutch just right. I managed. In the meanwhile, she slammed two more shots into his window, each making progress toward shattering it completely.
We were suddenly bouncing onto the road, the motor howl drowning out any more gunfire though I was sure something pinged off the back. I didn’t slow until a sharp turn half a mile down made it a necessity.
“Pull over,” said Kroun.
“No, thanks.” Just because I was more bulletproof than when I’d been alive didn’t mean I enjoyed getting shot.
I put another mile between us and Mrs. Cabot, and he repeated himself. I’d gotten my own shaking under control by then and obliged. An unpaved lane leading into trees opened on the left. I went far enough in so we were hidden, cut the motor, got out, and went still.
Kroun got out on his side. “What is it?”
Held my hand up. “Listen.”
He did, then shrugged. “Nothing. Just wind.”
“Yeah, no siren. She should have called the cops by now. Even the ones in the sticks have radio cars.”
