The Vampire Files, Volume Five, page 53
part #11 of The Vampire Files Series
“Maybe Sheriff Hickory is on the other end of the county ticketing cows without a license.”
Good point. “What did you do to that woman?”
“Nothing. I wanted to talk to her daughter if she was there.”
“About what?”
But he wasn’t sharing. The wind threw itself through bare tree limbs and brush, which always made me nervous. It sounded like a ghost army was prowling around us. I was born on a farm but preferred the city. The sharp angles made it easier to pick out people when they came at you.
“Back in,” I said.
“What?”
“We gits while the gittin’s good, before the law comes.”
“We’re staying.”
“So they can find us? They know these back roads and can figure where we might hide. I’d rather be a moving target. We leave now, and we might slip clear.”
“Jack, calm down. I can handle any cop who comes by.”
“Like you handled her? No thanks, I’ve had enough.” I got in, and so did Kroun, but he yanked the keys out.
“We’re waiting,” he said.
Goddammit. A flash of anger went through me, and I understood that woman’s urge to shoot him. “Just tell me what you’re trying to do!”
To give him credit, he thought about it. I could see wheels spinning and gears grinding behind his dark eyes, and for one naked moment glimpsed painful indecision there. Then he shut it down. He shook his head, pressing his palm against that white streak as though it hurt. “Can’t.”
I thought about slamming his forehead into the dashboard a few times but decided it wasn’t worth the effort. By tomorrow Escott might have the whole story. “Okay. Why are we waiting?”
“For her to settle down.”
“That could take a few years.”
“You see her nose?”
“Not really.” All I could see was the Colt swinging my way.
“Veins.”
“Veins?”
“A nose like that means she has a bottle. She’ll lock up, reload, have a drink or three, and fall asleep. We go back on the quiet, get inside, then I talk to her.”
“Get inside? She’s going to hear you sneaking up, I don’t care how asleep she is.”
He nodded. “I got that. The sneaking up is your job.”
“The hell it is.”
“All you have to do is hold her until I can put her under. I’ll calm her down, make her forget everything.”
Since Escott took me on as a silent partner in his business, I’d slipped into more than one place on the sly, but always in a good cause. Trying the same gag on Mrs. Cabot…no. Not without an explanation. “You tell me why, first.”
Kroun gave a frustrated snarl, but cut it off. “I said I can’t. I’m only here to find out if her daughter is all right and where she is. That’s all. Don’t ask who her daughter is. I can’t tell you that, either.”
He made it sound as though he was working under duress for someone else, but I wasn’t buying. He’d ask the lady a lot more than just two questions. From those I’d learn more about what was going on with him. I’d pass what I knew to Escott, maybe Gordy, and they might be able to fill in the picture.
“We wait an hour,” I said. “That’s my limit.”
He scowled, then gave a nod, handing over the keys.
THAT was one damned slow hour. I couldn’t play the radio in case it ran the battery down, and neither of us was in a mood for conversation. For something to do I turned the car around so it faced toward the road. That filled up a whole minute.
The rest of the time it was dead quiet inside except for the wind outside and the tick of our respective watches. I’d gotten used to hearing breathing and a heartbeat with other people. Kroun had neither. Now and then I’d check to make sure he was still there, just my bad luck that he was.
It got cold, too. Even for me.
I wondered about Mrs. Cabot and her daughter Nelly and what either of them had to do with Kroun. My half-formed speculations were on the dark side.
Five minutes short, he had enough. “Let’s get this over with.”
Finally. I returned to the main road, keeping the speed sedate, slowing as we approached the diner. The CLOSED sign was up, every light was on, and a car was parked in front, partially obscured by the gas pumps.
“She called someone to come sit with her,” I said. “No deal. Try again tomorrow.”
“Just as easy to hold two down as one,” he said.
“No, it isn’t. She could have her whole family in there waiting with shotguns. Tomorrow.” Before he could object I hit the gas.
We sailed by. Kroun grumbled to himself, looking back. “He’s following.”
I checked the mirror. The other car had pulled onto the road, headlights off. Anyone else would have missed him, but Kroun and I had the advantage at night. I picked up speed; the other guy matched me.
“Cops?” I asked. “Unmarked car?”
“I don’t see any radio antenna. Some friend, maybe.”
“We’ll lose him in the city. Not much I can do out here. What’d you do to piss them off?”
But he didn’t answer and continued to watch the other guy. “He’s catching up.”
I fed more gas, but didn’t gain speed. Derner’s garage pals might have tuned the motor, but they couldn’t make it produce more power to compensate for the weight of the armor. My once fleet and sweet Buick was now a turtle.
Our shadow’s windows reflected the surrounding snow, so neither of us could see inside. All I saw of the driver was a hunched form with his hat pulled low. The other car—it looked like a Caddy—came up fast.
He bumped hard into us, and I automatically hit the brake. He wouldn’t slow, and on the slick road he was able to push and keep pushing. I floored my gas pedal, but it wasn’t enough to get ahead until we started down a long slope. We gained a whole inch on him.
Crump, as he bumped again, much harder.
I fought to keep control. He hit the horn, which was supposed to unnerve me, and made a pretty good job of it.
Kroun rolled down his fractured window. He had his gun in hand.
“No shooting!” I yelped.
He looked pained. “Just going to discourage him. Drive.”
Dammit.
The Caddy slewed toward the left as Kroun’s first shot made a hole in the passenger-side windshield. Was his eye that good or had he gotten lucky? Before he could aim again, the other car hit the gas in earnest and plowed into my left back bumper. I nearly tore the wheel off keeping us straight and yelled at Kroun to get himself inside. He was half-out the window.
“What’d you say?” he asked, sliding back down.
“Stop shooting, you just made him mad.”
“Chicken.”
Hell, yes.
CRUMP.
It was a bigger and uglier sound than before, and the shock of impact went through the whole car. The Caddy had darted forward and slammed us broadside. I had the weight to resist, but no purchase with those damned solid-rubber tires.
We shot off the road.
10
FLYING is better when you don’t have a body to deal with the inevitable hard landing.
But instead of sensibly vanishing, I held on to the wheel and stuck it out.
We were in the air for maybe three seconds, it seemed longer, then wham, we hit the snowy ground at about fifty, bounding quick and rough down an incline toward some trees. They would stop us, oh, hell, how they would stop us. I pumped the brakes (not working too well), kept the wheel straight, which was pointless since the car’s momentum was in charge. We hit something, and the Buick slewed majestically, rear wheels coming to the front, the landscape rushing by sideways and far too fast.
A terrible low hammering noise, an abrupt and sickening twist—the big metal body tipped and tumbled like a kid’s toy.
I was thrown around for one brutal, bruising, and frightening turn before winking out like a bad light. The steel bulk of the car pummeled my invisible form, but I’d be spared a maiming or worse. Dimly, I heard Kroun curse amid the tin-can noises as we rolled.
Then it stopped, just that quick.
Re-forming, I found myself lying faceup on the ceiling. The car was upside down, a fact that was slow to creep into my rattled brain. I understood it would be a good idea to get clear—especially when I smelled gas.
Kroun was curled awkwardly on his side, still clutching his gun. He looked dead, but was more likely just stunned.
I kicked at a window to break it—forgetting it was too thick for that kind of easy escape.
The effort made me grunt. I could almost taste the gas in the air.
Squirming and in a hellish hurry, I aimed myself feetfirst toward Kroun’s open window, went nearly transparent, and slipped out backward, belly down. Solid again, I got purchase with my knees braced against the outside frame, grabbed his shoulders, and pulled. He weighed more than I expected. The bad angle wrenched my back, but I pulled again. Once my shoulders were clear, I was able to get a better grip. I dragged him free and didn’t stop until we were twenty yards away behind a thick pine trunk.
Then I collapsed. Some nerve in my spine went off like an electric shock and had me close to screaming, but another quick vanish and return took care of it. I didn’t bother getting up. Sprawling exhausted in churned snow in the woods was all I wanted to do for the next few weeks.
Kroun shifted and groaned. Yeah, things were bad all over. He sat up, wobbly, staring around.
“Over here,” I said, raising one hand.
His stare concentrated full on me. It took a second before I realized something was off. His eyes had gone funny, dilated to the point of being all black with no pupil. That thing so carefully hidden behind them was back.
“Gabe?”
It didn’t recognize me. We were complete strangers.
“Whitey?”
It still had the gun and swung the muzzle around.
Oh, shit.
I got out of there, invisibly, and not an instant too soon. I felt the bullet punch through the space I’d occupied.
No second shot, but I heard him moving, standing up. I shifted quick, trying to get behind him, but he’d backed against the pine trunk. He was silent, making no unnecessary moves.
He fired again, accurately. Unlike other people, he was able to see my amorphous form floating around.
I could wait until he ran out of bullets, but this crazy change in him sparked a matching fury in me. Hit me for no reason, and I’ll hit back twice as hard; that’s how it works.
He got off a shot as I rushed him, but no more when I went solid, grabbed his arms, and slammed him into the trunk. He ducked his head forward, twisted, and suddenly I was the one about to collide with the tree.
I faded, shifted, went solid, and hit him in the gut. He doubled over, but brought the gun up again. I stepped into his reach, knocking his arm wide, backhanding his jaw on the return with my fist.
He should have dropped, damn it. I’d gotten too used to dealing with regular guys. Kroun was a match for my own strength and speed and also knew how to fight dirty. He swiped his gun hand quick as lightning toward the side of my head. I had to fade again, coming up behind, but he was ready for that, so I wasn’t solid for long. A glimpse of his face threw me; cool, purposeful rage distorted his features into that of a wholly different man. What in God’s name had come over him?
He wasn’t anyone I wanted to meet in the dark woods at night. I floated back some yards, hoping he’d waste bullets, but he wouldn’t take the bait. Going solid, I cast around for something useful. The ground snow hid any rocks the right size for throwing. Tree limbs? Nope, those were hidden or still attached. I had my own gun in a coat pocket, but hadn’t reached the point where shooting him was a prudent option. I was mad, but not that mad. He, on the other hand, looked—
Shot.
That one missed my nose by a fraction. I disappeared and rushed upward. Much as I hated heights, that was my best place to get a weapon. The plan was to break off a dead limb for a club, except this time of year they all looked dead. I shifted to another tree, going higher. Soon as I judged the branches thick enough to take my weight, I had a quick look, made a grab at one that might work, and yanked hard. It snapped off with a crack as loud as a gunshot—which I heard a second later. I made myself missing, dropping the branch. It was too big to vanish with me.
Moving to another tree, I skimmed down on the side away from Kroun, going solid just enough to get my bearings.
We were about twenty feet apart. He stood over the fallen branch, looking right at me as I held to a semitransparent state. I couldn’t talk; there wasn’t enough of me formed up yet to push air. He kept his gun aimed point-blank at my chest. From his coat pocket he drew out another gun, the one he’d taken from Michael the other night.
Kroun—or whatever it was that was running him—pointed the second muzzle my way. He seemed ready to hold out all night like that.
We traded glares, catching our mental breath since neither of us had a need for the other kind.
He held himself tense, but his features began to gradually relax. That crazy blank-eyed rage ebbed, replaced by wary puzzlement.
He tilted his head, eyes going narrow. “What the hell are you doing? What’s going on?” he asked, sounding annoyed. He looked like himself again.
But I wasn’t taking chances. He had a beaut of a stare as I floated across the space between, going solid at the last second.
I busted him as hard as I could.
Damn, that hurt my fist. But this time he dropped and stayed down. I pocketed his guns, then leaned against the tree. The woods got quiet again.
WE were miles from anyplace except the diner. I’d had my fill of Mrs. Cabot’s country hospitality and figured to take a stab at hitchhiking back to town.
Provided the road was clear of the guy who’d rammed us.
Of course my efforts were bound to be hampered by Kroun’s unconscious body slung over my shoulder. He was goddamned heavy to haul uphill, too. I took it at a long easy angle almost parallel to the road, but the vanishings had tired me out. Halfway along I gave up, put him on the ground, and grabbed a handful of snow, mashing it against his face.
He came awake, snarling and struggling. Since I’d tied his arms together with his coat belt, I was in a better position to keep him from doing much damage.
“What the hell is this?” His outraged roar echoed through the trees.
“You’re nuts, that’s what it is,” I said in a calm voice, which was surprising. Part of me wanted to bust him again.
Other guys might have done a lot more yelling, but he clammed up, giving me a second look and maybe a second thought to my statement. He could see neither of us was in a neatly groomed state. “What happened?”
Since he asked in a civil tone, I obliged with an answer in kind, filling him in.
The last thing he remembered was the car going off the road. He unexpectedly thanked me for pulling him clear, but shook his head over the rest, not believing it. “Why would I want to kill you?”
“Bad driving?”
That netted me a “go to hell” glower.
“Why do you think you wanted to kill me?” I asked.
He shrugged as best he could with his arms restricted. “Undo this, would you?”
“You going to go crazy again?”
“I’ve had two bad turns in cars in less than a week, how the hell am I supposed to know? C’mon, my head’s killing me.”
He did look bad, but his eyes were as normal as they could get—for him. I began to work the knot from the belt…and heard something.
Kroun caught it, too, and tried to stand. I shoved him back, signed that I’d check things, then moved toward the sound’s source. Someone was working through the broken brush of the slope, following the trail my Buick had plowed. He was a distance away; only my hearing and the wind being in the right direction scotched his chance of going undetected.
The trees prevented me from seeing him. Between the trunks I caught a blur of a shadow heading toward my wrecked car. An innocent Samaritan might have seen the skirmish on the road and be checking for survivors, but my money was on its being the maniac from the diner come to finish us off. I was in a mood for dealing with the latter and crept closer. A little mayhem, followed by robbery, would suit me fine. Thump the guy to a pulp and take his car, yeah, that sounded good. Maybe I could persuade him to tell me why Mrs. Cabot had a grudge against Kroun.
The shadow far ahead was not careful about keeping quiet. The wind still restlessly stirred things around. He might have been counting on that to cover his own noise.
I could be absolutely silent, though. It just required going invisible.
Which I did, after fixing a direction in my mind and holding to it. I’d get to the car ahead of him, pop out of nowhere…yeah, a good old-fashioned bushwhack.
I streamed down the slope, flowing between trees, compensating for the push of the wind, going at a good clip. A partial re-forming showed that I was only five yards off course. I checked toward the road, hoping to spot him.
Lot of trees, black trunks stark against unbroken drifts of snow except for the wide gash the car had carved. My poor Buick was banged up, but not nearly as crumpled as it should have been. The armoring had held the frame intact, preventing it from pulping Kroun during the fall. He’d have probably survived, but he wouldn’t have been happy.
Footsteps…up there. The man was too far away to see. Just another black shape concealed by the woods. Damn, but I preferred the straight lines of the city.
He paused a moment, probably checking things out. He might have smelled gas and was keeping a prudent distance. The wind was wrong for that, but the stuff was all over.
Something as big as a goose egg arced through the air. I could only track the movement and general size for a split second, then instinct took hold, and I vanished completely.
Damned smart of me. I’d have probably survived, but I wouldn’t have been happy.
HE’d lobbed a grenade at the car.
I figured that out afterward.
The explosion—despite my muffled hearing—was impressive. Shrapnel and God knows what else tore into the space I’d occupied, violently and quick as thought. I felt each one, but had no real physical reaction. Stuff like that and bullets pass right through, disrupting a relatively small area.
