The Vampire Files, Volume Five, page 59
part #11 of The Vampire Files Series
Both of us want that.
WAITING around the Nightcrawler held no appeal. Derner would be trying too hard not to ask questions. Gabe wanted a couple hours of not being watched like a zoo animal. He looked up the number for Fleming’s club but got no answer. He would wait there; Broder and Michael wouldn’t expect him to go to a closed club, and maybe Fleming would show. It would also be quiet. You could hear if someone tried to sneak in.
He snagged a newspaper from the pile on the front porch, kicked the rest inside, and relocked the door, then drove to Lady Crymsyn. Funny name for a club. Maybe Fleming had gotten the idea from his girl and her funny name. He could have spelled “crimson” right, though.
Gabe recognized enough landmarks on the trip to avoid getting lost. The club’s inside lights were on, including the one in the upstairs office. A little glow escaped around the drawn curtains. Fleming must not be answering the phone or had just arrived himself. The parking lot was empty. He’d have walked or cabbed over, what with his car being all blown up and burned.
The street was clear of stray cops; Merrifield and Garza apparently had other duties tonight, leaving no one to watch as Gabe let himself in the front. He left things unlocked. It was always a good idea to have an escape route ready.
The light behind the lobby bar was on, and something was odd about the bar itself. As he drew closer he saw that dozens of matchbooks with the club’s name on them had been propped open and set on end. Little red inverted Vs marched every which way, covering the whole length of the bar. What the hell…? If Fleming had been here, he had some pretty odd ideas about how to fill the time.
The bar light flickered, not quite going out.
Gabriel stared, then called Fleming’s name loud enough to reach upstairs.
No one replied. Why had he left all the lights on? Spendthrift.
The building was empty and dead silent. And big. Big, silent, and…
The light steadied.
Then the lobby phone rang. Louder than should be normal.
He didn’t jump, but jerked around, stopping in midreach for his gun. He debated whether to answer or not.
The ringing was continuous, and then trailed off as though the bell had exhausted itself from the effort.
He waited, but no second ring came. Wrong number or a phone company hitch.
The bar light flickered again. Fleming had said there was a short.
His problem, not mine.
Gabe went upstairs to the deserted office. It wasn’t as fancy and large as the Nightcrawler’s but had the usual stuff except for a gaping space opposite the desk. From the dust pattern on the floor some large piece of furniture had been removed from the spot. A couch, maybe.
On the desk were several oilcloth packets. They were heavy and smelled of earth.
Well. Damn. What was Fleming doing? Moving house?
He checked the lock on the door. It was a particularly sturdy model: wood panels over thick metal. The windows—bulletproofed, with heavy curtains—confirmed that this was one of Fleming’s daylight bolt-holes. Not bad. He did all right for himself.
Gabe shed his coat and hat and sat behind the desk. The chair was comfortable; you could tilt back and put your feet up. Not bad at all. He dropped the packets out of the way into one of the drawers, opened his paper, and settled in to read. It had been a busy day. New pieces had effectively edged out further mention of the car explosion in the Bronze Belt, the Alan Caine murders, and even that movie actor and his flashy foreign wife.
Those were all that interested him; the rest just didn’t mean anything. He looked for and found the funnies. Hey, a crossword puzzle—he liked those.
The radio came on. All by itself.
He looked at it for a good long while, considering a variety of causes. The elusive electrical short seemed the most likely. Someone leaves the radio on, when the power returns, it warms up, then surprise: dance music.
He didn’t mind, but wouldn’t be able to hear anyone coming in. He shut the radio off.
While he was trying to work out if the clue to seven down was “gable” or “table,” the front door downstairs opened and closed. Gabe listened, following the progress of the ensuing footsteps…a man’s shoes by the sound. He got partway across the lobby and paused.
Bet he’s wondering about the matchbooks, too.
The newcomer started up the stairs. “Jack?” he called.
Gabe didn’t know the voice. He shifted his gun from its holster to the desk, slipping it under the paper.
The visitor pushed in and froze at the halfway point, his body partially shielded by the door. He was surprised for a moment at seeing Gabe, but clearly recognized him. The man was tall, lean, and angular. His face was all angles, too, with bony cheeks, a big blade of a nose, and needle-sharp eyes. He looked familiar…the dying man from the hospital. Gabe’s last recollection had him flat on his back, unconscious, black-and-blue, and with a death stink rising from his skin. He’d been in bad shape then, the worst.
“Hey, pal, you’re looking better,” Gabe said.
“Thanks to you, Mr. Kroun.”
English accent. Fleming hadn’t mentioned his partner was from that far out of town. The way he spoke, this bird apparently knew everything. Until he had come to Chicago no one had known about Gabe being a vampire. Fleming might as well be broadcasting on the radio.
The man continued. “I’m very grateful for what you did. It can’t have been easy. Thank you for saving my life.”
“So long as it worked.”
“Was there any doubt?”
He didn’t know how to answer that one. “It’s Escott, right?”
“Yes. Charles Escott. Jack said you were staying at the house.”
“Only part-time.” Why didn’t he come the rest of the way in? Why the stony expression? Usually people relaxed after introductions. He probably knows my reputation. “I’ll be leaving soon.”
“Indeed?”
“I can leave tonight if you want.”
“No need to trouble yourself.” He took a quick look around the room, his gaze pausing on the empty space on the floor. “Why are you here?”
The man’s tone was off. He had things on his mind. “Catching up on my reading. Yourself?”
Escott made no reply, but glanced at the paper on the desk and must have made a fast guess about what lay beneath the pages. He moved, smoothly, with much confidence. He’d been hiding one hell of a big damn revolver behind the door. He aimed it at Gabe’s chest. “Raise your hands. Now.”
“Hey, just hold on a minute…”
“Now.”
Gabe hesitated, throwing an involuntarily glare. He didn’t know what he looked like, but the outward change always took the starch out of the toughest mugs in New York.
Escott, however, seemed immune. “I know how fast you are, but I can get one clear shot. It may not kill, but it will hurt. As you cannot vanish, you will require time to heal, during which interval I can inflict a great deal more damage.”
Gabe assessed his options and reluctantly concluded the man was right. And certainly insane. He was breathing a little too slow for the situation, and he looked ready to follow through on his threat. Did his gun also have a hair trigger? “Come on—this is a new suit.”
“Don’t give me cause to ruin it.”
Gabe slowly raised his hands. “What’s this about?”
“Jack Fleming.” Escott watched him, not blinking, holding the gun dead center and rock-steady.
He finally shook his head. “Still don’t understand.”
Apparently that wasn’t the right answer. Escott cocked the gun.
Gabe felt a small jolt in his chest in response, as though his dormant heart tried to jump out of the way. “Hey! Slow down, pal, I’ll help if I can. What do you want?”
“Jack Fleming,” Escott repeated through clenched teeth. His eyes were the same color as steel and not nearly as soft. “Where the hell is he?”
Gabe thought his first reply—along the lines of How the hell should I know?—would get him shot. His second—What? You lost him?—was idiotic and would also result in gunfire. He did his best to read the stranger before him and decided that now would be a good time to cease being Whitey Kroun.
“Tell me what’s happened,” said Gabe.
“It’s about what has not happened.”
“Okay…tell me that, then.”
Escott continued to study, probably trying to read him right back. Something changed behind those hard eyes. He took the revolver off cock, but otherwise kept it ready and centered. “Every night, without fail, as soon as he’s awake, Jack calls his girlfriend or she calls him. That may seem trivial to you, but it is not. For him it is cast-iron habit. Also, without fail, he contacts a certain Mr. Derner at the Nightcrawler Club—”
“Yeah, he stays in touch ’cause of the business. So he’s late on a couple calls, that’s enough for you to want to shoot me?”
“A few minutes late, even an hour is acceptable, but not eight hours. That’s much too long. Something’s happened to him.”
“And you’ve tried to find hi—”
“Of course! I’ve called everyone and been everywhere. The previous evening he went to visit Miss Smythe, and no one’s seen or heard from him since. That is highly atypical behavior. He is not to be found. His car wasn’t here, but I saw the lights on and hoped—”
“You talk to Derner?” Now was not the best time to let the man know the fate of Fleming’s car.
“He wasn’t forthcoming with information. He did admit that Jack had not checked in tonight.”
“How about I call and straighten this out? Will that make you put the gun down?”
No reply.
“Look, I don’t know where he is, either. Last I saw he was behind the Nightcrawler talking to one of the guys; after that, I couldn’t say.”
“Aside from myself and Miss Smythe, the only person he’s spent any time with has been you. Mr. Derner did impart that you and Jack went on an errand for several hours last night.”
“We did, but came back to the club, and I don’t see how it could have to do with him taking off tonight. A man’s got a right to keep to himself if he wants t—”
“No. There’s something wrong. Seriously wrong.”
That was uncompromising. “You know him better than I do. You say he’s missing, okay, I’ll help you find him. Lemme use the phone. I’ll see what I can get from Derner.”
Escott nodded, just the once.
It took Gabe a moment to remember the number for the Nightcrawler’s office phone. Having a cannon aimed at his chest made him that nervous. You learned something new every night.
The connection went through. “Yeah, what is it?”
“This is—” Damn, what was he calling himself to this guy? “Whitey.”
Derner got more respectful. “Yessir.”
“What’s going on with Fleming? Where is he?”
“He hasn’t checked in is all I know. Did you call Mike?”
“Yes, but forget that—I need to speak to Fleming. Now.”
“Bu—”
“Hang up, make calls, find someone who knows where he is. Five minutes, then you ring me back here.” Gabe read the number off the dial and dropped the receiver back on the hook.
“You enjoyed that,” Escott observed. He seemed slightly less on the edge—by at least a quarter inch.
“It’s good to be top dog, yeah.” He’d bought five minutes, but didn’t know what to do with them. Trying to sit still with a crazy man ready to shoot if he heard the wrong word was not a good way to fill the time. He gave Escott a serious appraisal and thought about hypnotizing him. That would bring on a headache; Gabe couldn’t risk a reprise of the blinding skull-breaker he’d had at the cabin. “Look, I’ve been on the road since I left him in the alley last night, you can believe that or not. He could have had a fight with his girl, gone to a movie, be holed up in a pool hall. That guy Coldfield is pissed with him, maybe—”
“I’ve asked. He’s not seen Jack. He’s angry, but he’d tell me…” Escott paused, assessing. “You’ve been up to that cabin.” Statement, not a question.
His mouth went dry. “What?”
“You heard. What did you find there?”
“Nothing I want to talk about.” Gabe wasn’t sure that was his voice.
“Something important, then.” Escott showed a tiny glint of satisfaction.
How did he even know about…oh. Yeah. “Your partner talks too damn much.”
“He was only expressing his concern about certain aspects of your visit to the sanitarium. He could not understand why you allowed him along on so private an interview. Perhaps he heard things he should not have known, thus giving you a reason to keep him quiet.”
“In which case I’d have knocked him off after we left.”
“And you would certainly know how to do that.”
Gabe held his most intimidating gaze on Escott, who failed to react at all, much less show fear. The man knew how to focus. “Only I didn’t.”
“Your original purpose for coming to Chicago was to kill him.”
“Funny, but that didn’t happen either. I’ve got no motive.”
“Then perhaps someone with you does. This Michael or Mr. Broder.”
“I’m gonna do you a favor and ask—I just said ask—you to back away. If they’re involved, I’ll handle ’em. The worst thing you can do is let them know you exist.”
“The best thing you can do is tell me the why of it.”
Gabriel considered, then shook his head. “I’ll pass. What’s going on with them has nothing to do with Fleming.”
“Michael sent him to watch you. That, sir, is not to be ignored.”
He had a point. Maybe Fleming hadn’t delivered enough details to satisfy. Michael could have gotten fed up and finally turned Broder loose to do something. Broder might well have turned himself loose without telling Mike. That would be bad for everyone.
The phone rang. Before Derner could speak, Gabe interrupted. “Hold on a minute. Whatever you have on Fleming, I want you to say it to this guy first.” He held the receiver out.
Escott reached to take it, still keeping the gun level. “Yes?” Apparently Derner did not have good news. Escott fired off questions, but the replies were clearly not to his liking. He said thank you and hung up. “Very well, no one at the Nightcrawler has seen or heard from him. That leaves you.”
“Only I wasn’t around to do anything.” He’d finally got that the man with the gun was deeply afraid and only barely able to keep himself from flying apart.
“Yes. You were at the cabin. What did—”
“It’s a fishing cabin. I went up there to fish.”
“In the dead of winter?”
“I never said I was good at it.”
Escott wasn’t amused. “That…that is the most bloody stupid thing I’ve ever heard.”
Gabe shrugged. “The night ain’t over, pal.”
Another change—lightning fast—shifted everything behind those steel gray eyes. They somehow got harder and abruptly blazed with a lunatic fury. He raised the gun until Gabe found himself looking right down the barrel.
No…
Gabe tore his gaze from the gun and stared at Escott. No chance of hypnosis pushing through those emotions. He was too far gone.
Escott’s heart pounded loud in the silent room, and now his hand shook. But at this distance he wouldn’t miss.
“Why?” Gabriel blurted out the word.
Escott blinked once. Better than shooting.
“Why?”
He trembled all over, visibly slipping.
“Tell me, dammit!”
A thin crack in the man’s intent. He blinked rapidly now, like a sleeper waking. “W-what?”
“You’re not mad at me—who then? Why?”
The crack widened, and the moment stretched, and gradually Escott’s pounding heart slowed. The gun lowered by an inch. Then another. It was a long progression, but Escott finally sagged and put the cannon away in a shoulder holster.
Gabe felt like falling over, but resisted.
“Mr. Kroun, I apologize for this.” He spoke in a strangely neutral tone that sure as hell didn’t sound right for the situation. “I shall not waste any more of your time.” Escott turned and left, just like that.
It took a few seconds for Gabe to find his feet and lurch from behind the desk. Escott was halfway down the stairs.
“Hey! Stop!”
Amazingly, he did.
“Get up here.”
Escott wavered, then turned and trudged back. He walked past Gabe, not meeting his eye, and on into the office. He went to the window, standing before the closed curtains, hands at his sides, shoulders down.
Gabe came around and peered at his face. There was a lost soul if he ever saw one. He went to the liquor cabinet, picked something strong at random, and poured. He had to fit the glass into Escott’s hand and lift it to get him started. He drank without reaction, and the glass slipped from his fingers. Gabe caught it, not spilling a drop, and guided him toward a leather chair in a corner, making him sit.
The radio blared on, the volume all the way to the top.
This time Gabe jumped. He crossed the room in two strides and shut the damned thing off again. When he looked back, Escott was slumped forward in the chair with one hand over his face.
“Oh, Myrna, what’s happened?” he whispered, very, very softly.
Myrna again. Who the hell is Myrna? “What do you think has happened?” Gabe asked aloud.
Escott glanced up, surprised, perhaps, that he’d been heard. He shook his head.
“You’ve got an idea, or you wouldn’t be like this. So give.”
He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Gabe put the glass in his hand again. Escott eventually finished the rest of the drink. He still looked lost.
“You’re scared,” Gabe said. “But Fleming’s a tough bastard and can take care of himself. Why are you so worried?”
“Things.” Escott cleared his throat. He sounded like a strangling victim. “Things have been…difficult, because of what he went through with Bristow.”
Gabe frowned. “Yeah. Go on.”
The man stared at the empty space on the floor where the furniture piece had stood and didn’t speak for a long time. Then, “Here the other night…Jack tried to kill himself.”
