The Vampire Files, Volume Five, page 57
part #11 of The Vampire Files Series
The lamp came on again, very bright. I cut the flash and checked my watch. Not long now. No more than a few seconds. I felt the sluggishness sweep over me. It was a sweet lethargy. Things would look after themselves while I got a good day’s rest. I fell gently toward that stupor, carefully not thinking about Bobbi leaving me.
The lamp went off-on-off-on.
Oh, hell.
Something was wrong. My internal alarm finally got the message and shrieked a belated warning. I struggled to stay awake, but was too far over the edge.
At the very last instant before slipping away, I heard the destructive crash as the hidden door was forced open, lock and all, then a shadow blocked the lamp’s light from my now-sealed eyelids.
Too late. Much too late.
I’d made a terrible, terrible mistake—
12
KROUN
THE lines on the map and the written directions bore no resemblance to the actual lay of the road, Gabe decided.
He’d planned to be patient, aware he was exploring unknown territory, knowing it might take a while to find the right turnoff, but after a futile hour of cruising up and down, backtracking, and finding one dead end after another, he was justifiably irritated.
Somewhere he’d missed something. That, or Fleming had written things down wrong.
Or Sonny had given the wrong—
Gabe allowed himself a snarl of disgust, then hauled the wheel around in yet another U-turn. He went back three long miles in the country darkness to the last intersection, where a crooked sign pointed the way to the nearest town. The name held no meaning for him; it was ten miles distant and not on the route.
He stopped the Hudson, letting it idle, and got out to look at the sign.
As he thought, it was loose in the ground. Some fool had knocked it over and put it back, pointing in the wrong direction. A swell joke to play on a nonlocal, yessiree, that’s a real knee-slapper.
Gabe slammed the wooden post into the ground so the sign was parallel with the road, then checked the written directions against the map.
Okay, that made sense.
Back in the car, he turned left from the intersection and covered five empty miles, counting them off and slowing. The trees were thick and grew close to the road, their black branches arching over and meeting high above, making a skeletal tunnel. Snow, unbroken except for animal tracks, lay heavy over humped shapes that marked brush and stumps. Plenty of deer were about; he’d seen a few dead ones on the way up. No roadside bodies mangled by hurtling machines were here, though. If Farmer Jones hit one with the old truck, then it would be fresh venison for supper that night. Country folk knew better than to high-hat a free meal.
The tires crunched a new path through the snow. No one had been up this way at least since the last fall, however long ago that had been.
Some flash of memory had him hitting the brake without benefit of thought, and the Hudson slewed and skidded to a reluctant halt.
He stared at three oak trees on the left, each more than a foot thick and planted so close that the trunks were fused together for about fifteen feet before separating into different directions. Some of their upper branches had twined as well in the struggle to obtain more sunlight. The thing was one huge, ungainly knot. The ground was distorted on one side where the roots were exposed, poking up from the snow in a black tangle, their fight continuing on under the earth. Rot had set in on one of the trees, and in the course of time it would spread and kill the others. Though not in the directions, this was a landmark he recognized; he could not recall details, only that it was important.
Just past the oaks was a break in the woods lining the road, no more than eight feet wide and overgrown, very easy to miss. The snow looked deep, and not even animal tracks crossed it. This was the turn he wanted, the one that would lead to the cabin.
He worked gears, fed the car gas, and urged it in. The Hudson rocked and slid over ruts hidden by the snow until it bumped something that scraped alarmingly along the undercarriage. It pressed gamely on, but Gabe judged that was far enough; no point in breaking an axle. He was well out of sight from the road. Anyone driving past might notice the tire tracks, but he doubted there was much traffic at this time of year. This area was disturbingly isolated.
He cut the motor and got out, feet sinking deep into a drift. There was less snow under the trees, so he floundered toward their cover, then threaded cautiously forward. Ahead, he heard the murmur of flowing water, lots of it.
The cabin was a few hundred yards in and dark. He expected as much, but studied the area carefully, looking for fresh prints in the snow as he made a wide circle. No recent visitors. Good.
The structure was about twenty feet to a side, with a stovepipe piercing a roof that extended out over a porch that ran the width of the front. Its one door faced a gradual downward slope that led to a wide black river. The far bank was a thin gray line covered with unbroken pine and beeches.
Gabriel couldn’t remember its name but knew that he had fished there, his legs hanging over the edge of a boat dock, bare feet in the water, a blue, blue sky above, and sweet summer sun pleasantly baking the top of his head. In the mornings and late afternoons, the sun would spark on the water, the reflected light dazzling him.
Very unexpectedly he choked and felt chill, wet trails from his eyes. He swiped at them, embarrassed, ashamed…and suddenly afraid. Men don’t cry. Especially if…but he couldn’t carry the thought further than that; his memory failed yet again.
He’d fished in that river, but not here. No dock was in sight, nor the remains of one. The solitary picture from a long-ago summer vanished from his mind’s eye.
When Gabe refocused, he took in the cabin and grounds in more detail, hoping the sight would kindle some other recollection to explain his bad dreams.
Nothing was familiar. The old wooden building had been constructed God knows how long ago. It needed paint but seemed sturdy, the walls and roof solid. A pump stood in the middle of what served as a front yard, and about a hundred feet to the right, downstream and built out over the river, was an outhouse, the door hanging open. No prints marred the snow between it and the cabin.
The wind kicked up. The place had been silent except for the river and his footfalls. Now he heard the soft whirring song that only pine trees sang, sounding exactly as it did in the dreams—only this time there was no peace to it. He thought of graveyards and ghosts. He didn’t think he believed in ghosts, but if he did, then that was the kind of noise they’d make. Gooseflesh shot up his arms, spread over his spine, and down his legs. He wanted to put his back to something, anything, and had to quell the urge to pull out his gun.
When no invisible beast from the beyond leapt out, Gabe shook off the fit, if not his apprehension. He was sensibly afraid of what he might find here.
And more afraid that he might not find it.
He had to know what had happened in December, the why behind his very quiet trip to this lonely place, what had happened to the girl, what had happened to his driver…
And who put the bullet in my head.
He trudged toward the cabin, mounting an ice-coated wood step to the shallow porch. A small, uncurtained window on one side of the door gave a limited view of the interior. Nothing fancy, plank floor, some basic furnishings, no electricity or plumbing, but once upon a time it might have been someone’s idea of a good place to live.
Gabe pushed the door open. It had no lock, just an old metal latch to hold the panel shut. After a moment, he went in.
His night vision was such that the ambient glow from outside was enough to see by. Even so, he made use of a candle stub shoved in a holder on a shelf across from the door, using his new silver lighter to bring it to life. The action reminded him of lighting Sonny’s cigar, leaning in to the old bastard’s ravaged face, smelling his breath, and hearing the creak of his finger joints. Gabriel had felt uncomfortable being so physically close, but he’d taken care not to show it.
He pushed away the memory and turned his attention on the rest of the cabin. It was depressingly plain. A sagging bed leaned in a corner next to a rusting potbellied stove, a narrow table, and two simple benches made from planks took up space under the front window. More planking formed a waist-high shelf that held battered cooking gear—and a dusty white fedora.
He looked it over carefully before picking it up. It was his size, and the label matched that of identical ones in his closet back in New York. No doubt of it now, Whitey Kroun had been here. This was the source of his nickname and a damn-fool thing to wear at any time of the year. The bold white made him a walking target in a crowd. Maybe that was part of his bravado: Whitey Kroun, afraid of nothing and nobody, just try starting something.
Clearly someone had, or the hat wouldn’t still be here. He put it back.
I must have been an idiot. He touched the dark brim of his new hat, reassuring himself that he’d grown more sensible in the last couple months.
Shelves above the counter had a store of canned goods so old the labels had faded gray. Below was a stash of wood for the stove and several booze bottles, empty or nearly so.
All very innocuous—except for the splashes of dried blood on the floor by the bed. A rumpled and moldy blanket on top was also stained with the stuff.
He first took it for black paint that some vandal had splattered there; breathing in, he caught the thick, rusty scent.
After a long, long time of staring, he realized the stains were also from his bad dreams. In the dreams the stuff was fresh, red, and he’d been laughing for some insane reason.
He felt his throat tighten again.
Was that his blood? His head wound would have bled…
He felt physically sick as possibilities slithered through his mind. He’d seen blood before, damn it. He drank the stuff, for God’s sake.
He still wanted to vomit.
Or had it come from the girl? What had happened to her?
The left side of his head throbbed wearily. He swept off his fedora and gently touched the ridge in his skull. The nascent pain bloomed into something truly awful, as though his brain had swollen too large for the surrounding bone.
Gabriel stumbled outside, slipping on the steps, grabbing at a support post to stop his fall. He forced his legs not to buckle.
He clawed for a handful of snow and pressed it against his scalp, biting off a cry. The agony was so bad that for a long, terrible moment he couldn’t see. He held hard to the post and waited for the torture either to fade on its own or kill him.
Such vulnerability was foreign to him. He shouldn’t be like this. It wasn’t going to happen. He wouldn’t allow it. He blinked until the black veil dissipated.
The compress of snow helped, really helped, but it was slow. Minutes crawled by, then bit by bit the pain reluctantly ebbed.
Breathing in icy river-tainted air helped, too. He made his lungs pump until his guts settled. It took longer for his brain to clear. Speculation about what had happened in the cabin could wait until he was calmer. He shut that part away for the moment, like closing a door. Out of sight, out of mind; he was good at forgetting, after all.
Gabe straightened, brushing snow from his hand. His fingers looked blue, but didn’t feel cold. He cautiously put on his hat. No internal explosions sparked. He should have bought earmuffs at that store; fedoras weren’t right for woodland expeditions.
Once he was sure his legs could manage the labor, he made another slow circuit of the area, this time facing outward.
He struck off, moving away from the river. No conscious memory prompted him, only some wisp of dream that made him think the area was familiar. The snow confused and concealed things, though. The place would look very different after the thaw in a couple months; he should come back then…
Like hell. He couldn’t live with the not-knowing for that long. He had to get this over with—
The wind started up again, making the surrounding pines sing louder. He paused and knew he was close to something important. Looking back, he judged himself to be about fifty feet from the cabin. The candle glow through a side window seemed about right. Oh, yeah. Very close.
The glow flared and died, and he had to work to keep from twitching.
The nearly spent stub had finally guttered, that was all. No one had blown it out. He’d have heard company long before seeing them.
Unless Fleming followed me.
Not likely, but not impossible. The loon might have somehow managed to tag along; his ability to vanish was damned handy. He could have hidden in the trunk and—
Gabe held still and waited, but no ghostly gray shapeless thing floated between the trees. That was how Fleming looked while in that form, though Gabe had the understanding that regular humans couldn’t see it. Just as well, too; it was hellishly creepy.
He wondered what it felt like: being bodiless, able to go through walls, instantly heal. Damned useful, all of it.
The snow layer thinned. The pine branches above had prevented serious drifts from forming. He picked out animal tracks: deer and rabbit, and several kinds of paw prints. He couldn’t tell wildcat from wolf, but took for granted that four-footed observers might be lurking in the silent woods. Those he didn’t mind so much.
An unevenness of the ground, a mound hidden by the snow, nearly tripped him. He backed off and studied things. The snow lay smooth, softening the irregular surface beneath. He crouched and brushed until reaching old leaves and earth. Nothing to get excited about, probably just a covered-over garbage pit dug for whatever wasn’t burned or tossed in the river.
But the mound was grave-shaped.
And leaning against a pine trunk, only a few paces away, was a shovel.
Its wood handle was aging fast in the weather, the metal rusted. Someone had left it there, but had he simply forgotten it, or was it to mark a special place?
Gabe’s hands closed on it, and that felt familiar. He dragged it free and used the blade to clear the snow away.
The pine tree…he looked up, hoping for a clue, but nothing came to him. Still, this had to be the place. The wind in the branches sounded the same.
He began to dig.
The frozen ground was not as solid as it should have been, but he had to work at it. His improved strength was a great help, though a few times he had to go easy as the handle threatened to break if he applied too much pressure. He slammed the blade in, cut deep, loosened, then cleared, his movements machinelike, giving him to understand that he was used to such labor. He felt like he was accomplishing something.
About three feet down, the shovel hit something that was not dirt, and he stopped.
By now he was sure of what would be there. The scent of the turned earth had done the trick, had merged what lay before him with what he’d dreamed.
He hated it, but continued, slowly.
The stink of decay rose and mixed with the pine, snow, and river air.
Soon he uncovered the man’s face. There was enough left to recognize features, but Gabe’s patchy memory failed him again. He had to dig farther to reach the rest of the body to check the pockets, finding a wallet. It held a few hundred in twenties, the tough paper still intact as legal tender. A New York state driving license was readable, identifying one Henry Ramsey, born July 15, 1912. Date of death? Sometime in December, 1937. Just a kid. His friends probably called him Hank.
Cause of death? Less certain, though Gabe thought the damage and stains on the front of the clothes might have been caused by bullets. There was a leather shoulder rig similar to his own on the body, but no gun in it. That lay in what remained of the corpse’s right hand, fingers curled around the grip, index finger against the trigger. It was a .32 revolver, rusted and caked with dirt.
Gabe carefully worked it clear of the dead man’s grasp. Four bullets were still in the cylinder. He wondered if one of the two missing slugs was lodged in his brain. Where had the other gone? Since Ramsey was holding a gun, chances were good he’d not been caught unawares. He might have gotten one shot off before dropping. Then what? The killer had dug a long hole and rolled him in?
The grave was too shallow. Come the spring thaw, animals would find, dig up, and scavenge the remains for food. Sooner or later a passing hunter, curious about the cabin, might discover it. It was a miracle that hadn’t already happened. Was the hole deeper…yes…someone had dug a much deeper grave.
Mine.
Instinct, not memory, provided that conclusion.
With a bullet in his skull and all signs of life gone, someone had buried Gabriel Kroun a few yards from the foot of the pine. The first shovelful of wet earth had covered his face and, quickly after, the rest of him.
And at some point along the way, Ramsey had been dropped in as well.
Did we die together? Or was I first, then Ramsey?
In the dream-memory, Gabe had clawed his way toward the sky, pushing aside some heavy obstacle that lay on him. The rounded thing he’d touched, recognized, and recoiled from had been Ramsey’s head. What happened afterward Gabe could not recall. His resurrection was a hazy, disjointed, painful event. The agony in his skull from the bullet wound had kept him thoroughly distracted. After dragging free from the grave, he must have reburied Ramsey before moving on. That didn’t seem too likely, though.
Gabe straightened, the wallet and its contents in hand. He put the license back and, after a moment, the cash as well. It made little sense not to keep and use the money, but with some surprise he discovered within a profound loathing for robbing the dead. He returned the wallet to its pocket and went to work with the shovel, burying the man again.
The sky had changed by the time Gabe finished. He’d not be able to make it to that town before the dawn overtook him but had allowed for the possibility.
He was exhausted and half-frozen when he returned to the car and folded himself into the backseat. The four heavy blankets wrapped around him would block the weak winter sun and keep in his remaining body warmth. He chose not to worry about anyone finding him during the day. No one had been out to the cabin in months, after all.
