The Vampire Files, Volume Five, page 55
part #11 of The Vampire Files Series
Michael scowled and couldn’t suppress a shiver, and it clearly irritated him. “Where did you go tonight?”
“You already know.”
“Besides seeing him.”
“I got a haircut.”
“A haircut?”
Gabe brushed the side of his head and put on his hat. “I got ’em all cut for that matter. The barber talked boxing, and I didn’t listen.” Gabe pulled on his damp overcoat and slipped the semiauto in the shoulder holster. As he reached for the revolver, Michael beat him to it.
“That’s mine,” he said. The gun rested lightly in his grip, not pointing at anyone, but ready for use. He had long strong fingers, and they reminded Gabe of Sonny’s hands.
“It’s reloaded,” he said cheerfully.
“Who did you shoot?” Michael’s tone matched the cheer.
“Doesn’t matter. I missed.”
“You?”
“It was a new gun.”
“Who’d you shoot?”
“Black Cadillac, last year’s model. It’ll have a damaged front bumper, a lot of scrapes along the passenger side, and a bullet hole in the windshield. Ask Broder. Let him explain.”
Derner, who had gone very quiet as soon as Michael walked in, made a soft sound from the back of his throat. It had to be involuntary, the man was trying his best to be invisible.
“What do you know?” Michael asked him.
“Uh, I got a call about that. One of the club Caddies was stolen earlier. The boys were hopping mad about it. No one saw anything. They figured some kids hot-wired it and drove off. Anyone else wouldn’t dare. We don’t know where it is.”
“Have them look within walking distance of Mike’s hotel,” Kroun suggested. “Was it stolen at about the time Broder left here? No, don’t tell me, Mike will deal with it. I have to go.” He pushed past, aiming for the door and hoping things were off-balance enough for him to make a clean getaway.
“Where?” Michael demanded.
“Wrigley Field. I heard it’s an ice rink now.”
Mike didn’t follow. Gabe had raised enough doubts to make him think twice about Broder.
Seems pretty obvious.
Gabe hadn’t been a hundred percent on it, but the timing worked out right.
Mrs. Cabot had called for help, and while he and Fleming waited in the woods, Broder came rolling up in his stolen car. He had no reluctance about running them off the road and dropping a grenade on the wreck. He was not concerned about consequences. That was Broder all over.
Was he on his own or working for Michael? How did the woman even know to call Broder? Or had she wanted Michael, and Broder answered instead? She’d have had to call New York first. No one there would have given up the name of Michael’s hotel, but they’d have passed on the message. How did she rate that kind of service?
Or had it been Ramsey? Maybe he’s still involved.
Michael wouldn’t lie to him, but neither would he tell him everything. Gabe was tempted to go back, put the eye on Mike, open up his head, and find out what lay inside.
Not here.
Not at the Nightcrawler. He’d need someplace more private. He needed better questions to ask, too. Gabriel didn’t know enough yet to ask the right ones.
The car was a new Hudson, painted a snappy green. It was warmed up, the tank full, and four thick wool blankets lay neatly folded on the backseat. What had Derner made of that request? Probably something to do with body disposal. He wouldn’t be too far off.
The waiting driver was a young, friendly, chatty sort, with a mouthful of chewing gum. Gabe thanked him and got rid of him quick.
Once behind the wheel, Gabe went easy for a block to get the feel of the gears, then headed toward Fleming’s house. He still had his crumpled and damp Chicago map in one pocket and only had to pull over once to get his bearings.
The lights were on, but no one answered the bell. He let himself in and listened. The house was empty, the only noise coming from the electric icebox. Good, else he’d have to put up with a bunch of questions from Fleming.
Gabe thought about tracking down the doctor who had treated Nelly Cabot. The man would have questioned Nelly and very probably called someone else for help with the problem. Not anyone in Chicago, or Gordy would have heard something. The disappeared doctor had apparently been high enough in the pecking order to have a number direct to New York. If so, then some word of what had happened must have reached Michael.
Who doesn’t want me anywhere near that cabin.
That is, if Mike and Broder had been there…or had it been only Ramsey’s doing?
The lack of memory was a different sort of pain than the physical kind that often hammered at Gabe’s skull, but just as intense.
Gabe cracked open one of the suitcases and pulled on fresh clothes. The dry socks were the best improvement; he wore three pair since they were the fancy silk kind and thin. Wool would have been better for this trip. He wanted woodsmen boots, too, but had only the one pair of shoes. Wet, of course. None of the clothes he’d bought during that ten-minute shopping jaunt were suitable, but he’d survive. He left his discards draped on the stair rail for Fleming to marvel over and snapped the suitcase shut. He thought of taking it, but decided against. Better to travel light and make everyone think he’d be back for his stuff.
He planned to return, after all.
Thoughtfully, he relocked the door when he left.
The Hudson ran a little rough, but he got used to it. He checked his map again, compared its routes to the directions Fleming had so accurately copied down. It seemed simple enough: get out of Chicago, head north, follow this line, then that one.
Depending on the roads, he could make pretty good time before dawn.
11
FLEMING
I got one of the friendlier mugs at the Nightcrawler to give me a lift home and to take the long way so I could hear the club gossip. He filled me in, carefully not inquiring about my own state of scruffiness. Things in the trenches were copacetic, considering. Some of the guys were edgy about the Alan Caine murder, but only because the cops had hauled a few in for questioning. Chicago’s finest were looking for Mitchell, but they’d have to hold a séance to get him now. He’d had a summons to a higher court, and good riddance to the bastard.
When I asked about my called-off hunt for Gilbert Dugan, the mug didn’t have anything that could be called cheerful. Half the guys who’d wanted the reward money felt cheated, and the other half thought I’d just blown smoke to make myself look important. I shrugged it off as booze talk. Some of the boys were smart, like Derner and Strome, the rest couldn’t beat a monkey at checkers.
Our ramble around the Loop turned up an unexpected bonus: a butcher shop that was open. Lights were on, and they seemed to be taking a delivery via the side alley door. Open late or up early, it would save me a trip to the Stockyards. My last meal had been interrupted, and tonight’s exertions left me tired and in want of fuel, fresh or not. What they had couldn’t be worse than the stuff I stored at home. I had the guy pull over.
My order got me a predictably fishy look from the hired help. He couldn’t have had many customers stopping in at this hour in need of a pint of beef blood, but the crisp dollar bill I put on the counter must have reminded him the customer was always right. He put the stuff in a thick cardboard container, passed it across, and I told him to keep the change. He told me to come back soon, adding a smile that looked genuine.
I emerged, signed for my driver to wait, strode purposely off to the next alley, turning into its shadowed cover. Human eyes had no chance in this darkness, so I eased the top from the container and sniffed the contents. Not fresh, but better than anticipated. One sip, then another. Not bad. Though cold, it raised a nice heat in my belly that spread to my limbs. I’d taken a lot of abuse; it was good to feel warm again.
Only after I’d eagerly and with much relish drained off the last ounce did I realize I was not in the throes of frenzied compulsion. I’d taken in enough and was satisfied. The thought of going back to the shop for more raised no impulse within to do so. I gave it a few minutes just to be sure, then got bored with the waiting. Tossing the cardboard into a dented trash can, I left, revived and hopeful about…well, everything.
I took care not to look at my driver, knowing my blood-flushed eyes were something he wouldn’t want to see. He asked no questions about our stop, seemed utterly incurious about it, and I liked that. Strome would have also not asked questions, but he’d have wondered.
My driver dropped me at the front door of my home and settled in to wait again. Apparently he didn’t know I lived in the old pile. I tipped him a magnanimous five and told him to spend it in one place. He told me I was a card and rumbled away.
I unlocked the door and listened, but the house was quiet. A quick check proved that I was alone. The only intruder must have been Kroun, to judge by the discarded clothing thrown over the stair rail. His suitcases were here, so he’d return.
Maybe. He’d be off making another try at seeing Mrs. Cabot, I was sure of it, and if he wasn’t quick enough, she’d put a second bullet in his skull. He could do his own damned sneaking around, though, I’d had enough. Michael could find someone else to babysit.
Upstairs I washed and changed into dry clothes, which improved my mood. I hid the two grand inside a hollowed-out book in my room and felt even better. That much money could buy a lot of car with plenty of change left over.
For insurance. Yeah. This time I would get insurance.
I phoned for a taxi, scrounged a dry overcoat from the hall closet, and had sorted through the day’s mail just as my ride pulled up. A lot of them had radios just like the cops, and it made things faster. I gave the driver directions rather than say outright the address. Some guys were reluctant to go to the Bronze Belt, daylight or dark.
I spared this one and paid him off in front of a drugstore in a border area, going inside to phone Bobbi. She sounded awake and yes, she still wanted me to come over. Just as I’d done earlier, I walked within sight of Coldfield’s hotel, then vanished, skimming the rest of the way unseen, eventually slipping inside. It took a few minutes to find Bobbi’s door, but I figured it out.
When I was solid again, it was in a room very similar to Gordy’s. Just one light by the bed was on. Newspapers and a couple of magazines lay on the floor by a reading chair. The radio played softly. I heard water running in her bathroom. She finished brushing her teeth and came out, stopping short with surprise.
“Wow, that was quick,” she said.
“You complaining?”
“Nope.”
The next little while was very pleasant for us.
It had been an ice age since I’d last held her, and this time it wasn’t about hanging on to life and sanity or shared grief for a dying friend. If she sensed that, it didn’t show. Tonight was about us being together.
I wasn’t sure how things would go. If I felt the onset of a seizure, I’d have to leave, whatever the consequences. Better that I hurt her feelings than do something much, much worse.
When those fits began ambushing me, I’d not dared to go near Bobbi. While feeding at the Stockyards, I’d taken in more than was needed or wanted by my body. I’d fed until it was agony, then fed some more. Now I understood it was connected to how starved I’d been for blood when Hog Bristow had been carving on me. Some part of my mind was trying to take back that lost blood, unable to accept that the crisis was past.
The gorging had terrified me. If it took over at the wrong time, I could kill Bobbi.
My taking from her when we made love was a very delicate process; I had to be in control. Too deep a bite, too great a flow, too long a drink, and she could die.
Since the fight with Escott, though…I felt different. Much had changed that night and since.
“I talked with Charles,” I said. “We’re still friends.”
“He told me when he came back. He’s in his room if you want to see him again.”
“No, thanks.” She had to be kidding. I wasn’t about to leave. However things went, I just wanted to be with her.
So far as I could tell through the smooth fabric of her silk robe, she didn’t have anything on under it. I breathed in the scent of her hair while kissing her temple and tried holding her even closer. My body reacted to this in an entirely normal manner, which was damned reassuring.
“Ho-ho,” she said, pressing against me down there. “Isn’t this nice?”
“Oh, yeah.” I felt my corner teeth budding—from arousal, not hunger. There’s a big difference between the two.
But she pulled back a little. “Are you all right, Jack? I mean it. You’ve been—”
“I know what I’ve been, baby. And I’m sorry. I didn’t…I wasn’t ready.”
“You sure you are now?”
“Pretty sure. Be gentle with me?”
She snickered, pressing close again. “The walls here…I’ll have to be quiet.”
“Both of us.” After a moment, I took off my overcoat and suit coat, just to start things.
She liked to undress me and began with my tie, working her way down. In short order my tie was off and shirt open, and she stopped, stopped cold.
“Oh, Jack…oh, my God, sweetheart…I didn’t know.”
Oh, hell.
I’d forgotten the scars. A wave of mortification started up from God knows where, but I smothered it, quick and with absolute finality. They weren’t my fault. I had nothing to be ashamed of; she’d have to see them sooner or later. “It’s all right. They don’t hurt.”
Bobbi was a woman who didn’t cry much, hated to cry, but she gave in to it now, silently, tears brimming, then streaming from her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
I couldn’t think of anything to say. Might as well get it over with and let her have the worst of it. I removed my shirt and turned slowly so she could see them all, see every last square inch of Bristow’s brutal handiwork—chest, arms, and back covered with thin white threads where he’d stripped away the skin with his knife. Ugly.
But I’d survived. I’d earned them.
She rushed back to the bathroom, shut the door, and sobbed.
I waited her out. When she was ready, she’d emerge again. It was how we did things. While I was prepared to offer her a shoulder to soak, that wasn’t what she wanted this time.
The wait was hard, but I felt strangely patient. I thought about putting the shirt on again, but decided against.
Bobbi blew her nose, splashed water, and returned. She’d smoothed her expression out, but I didn’t think she was finished with the high emotions just yet.
“They don’t hurt,” I gently repeated.
“Why don’t they heal? When you vanish, shouldn’t they—”
I shrugged. “I don’t know.” Maybe the damage had been too great or I’d come too close to death or bled too much or it was all in my head. Pick one, pick them all. “They might fade with time. Just have to wait and see.”
“Is it all right if I…” She faltered, staring.
I took her hand in both of mine. “You don’t have to. We can wait.”
“What?” She broke off her stare. “Wait? What are you talking about?”
“Uh…”
“You think I don’t want to be with you because of this?”
“I’ll understand if you—”
The blazing glare she shot shut me right up. “Jack Fleming, stop being an ass.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
We didn’t say anything for a while. She looked at my scars; I didn’t know where to look. The mood was shattered. We’d been together long enough to not try forcing things back into place. It was there, or it wasn’t.
She tentatively put her hand on my chest. “Is that okay?”
“Yes.” I was not going to push her. She had a lot to absorb, and it could take days, weeks. However long, I would wait.
“You’re so cold.”
I didn’t feel it. “How ’bout you?”
She made no reply, still getting acquainted with the changes, touching me. “I’m fine. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s all right.” I wasn’t sure what she was sorry about, that I’d suffered so much or that she’d not fully understood the extent of it. It was pointless to dwell, though.
She took my hand, tugging just a little. “Come on.”
“Wha…?”
“Let’s just take this slow. Get to know each other again.” She backed toward the bed.
“You sure?”
No reply, unless unbuttoning my trousers counted.
She tenderly stripped me, shed her robe, and we slipped between the clean white sheets. Kissing, lots of kissing. I’d missed that.
“We can shut the light off if you want,” I suggested when she paused for breath.
“You’ll still be able to see me. I want to be able to see you.”
“So I really should stop being an ass?”
“Uh-huh.”
She rolled on top, straddling me. I sprawled, arms up, fingers grasping the head rail of the bed. She moved over me, scarred skin and all, and at some point murmured that I was feeling warmer. Then she was too busy to talk, her beautiful mouth doing other things.
I didn’t usually breathe, but could certainly gasp and call on God when inspired to do so.
Bobbi threw me a quick smile at my reaction and went back to driving me crazy. I remembered to keep quiet, but there was no helping the squeaking bedsprings as we rolled around, and I turned the tables. With my confidence restored, I pushed her legs apart and gave as good as I got. She stuffed a corner of a pillow in her mouth and bit hard on it as I kissed and teased and tasted.
“Jack.” She had the softest whisper. That tone meant she was close to a release. I pulled away and moved up.
“You bastard,” she said, grinning, reaching. I didn’t move and let her play some more, but there was only so much I could take.
Rolling again until she was on top, she guided me in. She eased forward, her neck taut, brushing against my lips. I didn’t take the invitation, though my teeth were out.
“Soon,” I said.
She rode me, and I looked on her face in delight, wonderment, and awe as she climaxed. It was as intense as hell but all too brief, and she did not quite succeed at keeping quiet. As the last of it passed, she slumped forward, and I caught her shoulders, easing her on her side, then her back. I was still erect and hard and in need of my own release. I’d seen where she’d gone, my turn to take her there again…for a longer visit.
