The Vampire Files, Volume Five, page 68
part #11 of The Vampire Files Series
I grabbed the handle and pulled it sharply straight up. The threading provided friction for my grip. Back, forth, back—the thing snapped and came away. I yanked my bleeding left arm up, unaware of my howling until I smothered it. That would bring Dugan running.
As soon as flesh lifted clear of the metal, I tried to vanish.
Nothing.
Goddammit. Now what?
I threw the blanket off and tore at the ropes binding my legs. The muscles burned at the sudden movement.
My hands no longer clawlike, the fingers were now swollen and clumsy. The rope was too thick to break casually unless I got some slack to work with, but Dugan didn’t know anything about knots. He’d coiled the rope around and around, wrapping me like a mummy, immobilizing to a man lying flat, much less effective when he was vertical. All it took was to push everything down to my feet.
It was more painful than it should have been.
There were spots of blood along the length of my trousers, making the material stick to my skin. Then I looked closer. It was just too easy to put myself in Dugan’s place and figure out what he’d done. I didn’t have time to fix it; the basement door swung wide.
He was partway down, a bottle in hand. My yells must have made him think I needed another feeding.
The shock on his face when he saw me lurching toward him was sweet to see—then that smug smile came back. He’d planned for this. If I’d somehow gotten free on the first night, he had prepared for it.
He threw the bottle, missing me. The glass broke; the contents splashed everywhere. He whipped around and up, and I was right behind him. He was in time to slam the door in my face. I spent a couple seconds yanking it open. That gave him what he needed, the opportunity to get to his revolver.
I ducked back, and he wasted one of his six bullets when it struck somewhere to the side of where I’d been. Like Kroun, I couldn’t vanish. Getting shot now could truly be fatal.
“I can stay here all night, Mr. Fleming,” Dugan announced. “Until the dawn comes.” He tried to sound bland and bored, but couldn’t pull it off. He was breathing too hard.
My view from the basement was limited: an unadorned wall within arm’s reach, part of a hallway. I had no idea how far it went in either direction. He sounded close, only steps off. I could charge him blind and collect a bullet, hopefully not in the head. Satisfying as getting my hands around his throat would be, I could not risk the damage.
I slipped back down the stairs, looking for anything to even the odds. My legs complained with vicious sharp pains, but those were nothing compared to being pinned to that table.
Which was indeed a huge Victorian thing, too large to get up the stairs and throw. I grabbed smaller stuff: empty milk bottles from the floor.
“Fleming, I don’t expect you to be reasonable, but if you would just think a moment, we can easily revolve this. We can come to an arrangement that will be mutually beneficial. I have a great deal of cash…”
He’d stolen it from that misguided girlfriend. No thanks. He was moving, edging closer to the door. I reclaimed the stairs, and keeping all but my arm inside, blindly flung one of the milk bottles down the hall. It crashed and shattered, I immediately followed it up with the second, then risked a look. He was in the act of dodging, but fired at me and struck the ceiling. Two bullets wasted.
He knew how to shoot, but aiming is a skill. Some naturals can point and hit the bull’s-eye; most need hours of practice. His planning hadn’t taken into account that I’d hit back. I hurled an empty at him like a cannonball.
He dodged that one, but not the second. By then I was halfway out in the hall and able to put some pepper on it. The heavy glass container got him square in the chest. He staggered back, and I took the opening.
I was wobbly and hurting, but made a solid tackle that rattled his teeth. We rolled in broken glass and pummeled each other, and I heard a maniac laughing and cursing. I shut him up once I realized it was me. Dugan still had his gun, but I had a grip on that hand, keeping him from firing.
He threw some good punches, and their force was a surprise. Drinking my blood had improved him. He’d gotten stronger and faster, but he was unprepared for frenzied desperation.
However much thought I’d put into how to kill him, I wasn’t thinking now. Brutal instinct to survive was running this show. He was a threat, I had to make him harmless.
I slammed pile drivers, one after another, to his gut, and that broke him. He couldn’t draw breath and sagged in place. I wrested the gun clear, pushed away, and scrambled upright. He gasped, clutching at me, but I made sure he saw where the muzzle was pointing, which was right in his face.
Eyes wide, he stopped; it must have penetrated that I wasn’t going to shoot him immediately.
I was tempted.
We stared at each other, me unnaturally still, Dugan puffing like a runner, his face sweaty and more yellow than red from exertion. I let him catch his breath, listening to his heart as his lungs sawed air. It was going too fast even given the circumstances. Whatever benefits he’d taken from my blood, it was devouring him from the inside out.
“Pliers,” I said, my voice uncannily gentle, but then I wasn’t what could be called winded from the fight. I was pissed as hell and working to keep in control.
The remnants of his ingrained smile gradually distorted into a confused expression.
“You’ll have tools. I want pliers.”
He must have thought I planned to yank his fingers off—not that it hadn’t occurred to me—and hesitated. He was visibly thinking.
I roared “pliers” at him, and he got moving.
We were in a small room, perhaps meant to be used as a parlor or for dining. It had a long and ancient sofa, a table and chair, a radio, and on the floor, an open suitcase of jumbled clothing. He’d picked this room closest to the basement door to set up camp.
I was not surprised by the large collection of origami animals spreading across one corner of the floor like a lost herd. He’d been very busy with his fountain pen and green ink, so many profound thoughts to record.
This room opened directly to a kitchen, with a box of tools on a counter by the sink. They were new, as though he’d bought them all at once from a hardware store. He’d likely gotten the threaded rods at the same time.
With me keeping him covered and giving specific instructions, he gingerly got the pliers. His hand shook so violently he dropped them. He glanced at me and bent to pick them up again, getting a better grip.
That rotten-fruit smell had taken on a more familiar tang that I knew to be fear. He had no idea what was coming next. I was tempted to keep him hanging, but this wasn’t the time or place.
I sat on the sofa, grunting as I stretched my legs out. The blood spots on my pants were more than simple stains.
He was a grating, insane, self-important bastard, but give him credit, he’d planned this one through. If I somehow freed myself from the table, this was his insurance to keep me anchored in flesh, allowing him time to either escape or wound me enough to restrain again.
The spots on the trousers were nail heads, not bloodstains. While I’d been in my day sleep, he’d pounded the metal into my legs right through the cloth.
I pointed to one of them, then at the pliers in his hand. “Pull it out.”
“Wh-what?”
“You put ’em in, you pull ’em out. Make it fast, and I’ll let you keep your ears.”
He knelt, made an effort to still his shaking, and did as he was told. He gripped a nail head with the pliers and pulled hard.
I hissed, and made an effort not to shoot him. The damned nail was a good two inches long. And I’d been able to move with all those in me? Jeez.
“Next one,” I said, my voice thick and harsh.
He repeated the operation, faster. I hissed again, and once more did not shoot. That was moderately encouraging to him. “Mr. Fleming, I’m sure we can—”
I suddenly grabbed his hair with my free hand, twisting his head around almost to the breaking point, and shoved the gun hard against his nose, the muzzle half an inch from his left eye. “You say another word—one more goddamned word…”
No need to finish. He got the idea and continued in sweating silence.
The next few minutes weren’t fun for either of us. I had to endure his ham-fisted surgery, and he had to not talk. Suffering was likely equal for both parties.
When the last nail came free, it was better than Christmas.
I wasn’t there anymore. My poor body vanished into that sweet, gray, healing nothingness.
Dugan gave a surprised yelp, falling back. I could imagine him looking around in confusion, wondering what would come next.
He bolted.
I heard a door jerked open, there was one in the kitchen, and swooped myself that way, following his panicked breathing as he pelted toward some goal.
A car, as it turned out. I went solid right behind him as he scrabbled at its door handle. He screeched in panic as I caught his collar and spun him to the ground.
My mind was very clear now that the pain was gone. In a glance, I took in the back of a small, plain house, trampled snow, the little yard surrounded by tall, overgrown holly bushes. They blocked the view of whatever lay beyond and worked better than a brick wall for concealing everything within.
This included two holes in the middle of the yard, one long enough to hold a body, the other smaller, located several yards from the first. Both were deep. I was surprised Mr. Genius had applied himself to so much physical labor.
Dugan’s legs weren’t supporting him, but he tried to run anyway. His version of instinct was trying to get him clear, but I wouldn’t allow it. I dragged him toward the larger hole and let go just at the edge. He sobbed and rolled around to face me, hands pawing the air, begging. I still held the revolver.
He was not a pretty sight, his groveling made it worse. I’d been here before, on the edge of murder, and there is no satisfaction to killing a man, however deserving. Dugan’s death would just create another dark burden for my tattered soul to haul around for however long I walked the earth. I had too many of those. No need for more.
I’d throw a good scare into him, tie him up, remove all trace of myself from this place, and drop him at the nearest police station. He had to pay for all those deaths. A judge and jury were needed, not me.
“Please…” he said.
Then again…
“That—” I told him “—is another goddamned word.”
20
KROUN
A slow, dull pounding awakened Gabriel. The vibration of each impact thumped against his cold, cold body, irritating him to no end.
Can’t a man get some sleep?
Apparently not. The heavy, regular thumps continued, getting louder. He tried to roll away from it, pulling a pillow over to cover his ears, but was unable to move. That was when he became aware of the weight pressing him. Evenly distributed so he had no sense of being crushed, it held him solidly in place, like a bug suspended in amber. Strangely, he did not find that to be alarming.
Thud. Thud. Thud. Like God knocking on a malleable door, coming closer, closer.
Gabe was unsure whether that was a good thing or not. After some thought he leaned toward the more negative assessment, certain that God had debts to call in. Better not keep Him waiting. Gabe pushed against the weight, managing to wriggle a little. He tried to take a breath to speak and got a mouthful of dirt.
Oh, cripes, not again.
The pounding stopped when he made a sudden frenzied shove that caused earth to shift above him. The weight fell away from one of his arms, and he clawed free air.
A hand grasped his wrist and pulled.
He emerged spitting and blind, frantic to escape his second grave. He shook off the help, scrabbling up and over the sides, not stopping until he was yards from it. He rubbed his eyes clear, catching impatient glimpses between blinks.
Snow. Trees. River. Sleet. Wind. Lead gray sky. A flashlight on the ground, its beam toward the disturbed grave. A man standing by the hole. Lean and angular body. Dour face.
Despite the bone-freezing sleet, he was in shirtsleeves, sweating. A shovel lay discarded on the broken ground. The man held a large revolver now.
Gabe rubbed his face, his fingers gritty, and stared at the company.
“What—what is it with all the guns?” he asked.
Escott aimed down the sights like a duelist. “That depends, Mr. Kroun. Who are you tonight?”
What a damned stupid question. “Who do you think?” He spat more dirt.
Escott picked up the flashlight and pointed the beam at Gabe’s face.
“Hey!”
“Open your eyes,” he snapped.
He made it sound important. As Gabe found himself unarmed, he complied as best he could. The light seemed to pierce right through his skull—which began to thunder inside. He grabbed a clump of snow from a drift and pressed it against his head.
“You done yet?” he growled, squinting.
“Normal as can be expected.” Escott switched off the light.
“Huh?”
“Your eyes. Last night what little iris you had vanished entirely. I don’t think the others noticed, not that it matters to them now.”
Gabe stayed put, applied another snowy compress, and began shivering in the wind. “You wanna fill me in? ’Cause I’m thinking you’re nuts.”
Escott slipped the gun into its shoulder rig and retrieved his suit coat, which he’d hung on a low branch. “You’re correct in that assessment. It can be the only explanation for why I’m here.” Next he drew on his overcoat. He left both unbuttoned, his revolver within easy reach. “What do you remember of last night?”
“You pulled a gun on me again. That’s pretty vivid.”
“And?”
Gabe shied away from more, but couldn’t ignore the holes and blood on his mud-covered suit. “Mike shot me,” he muttered.
“What about your actions leading up to that point?”
He wanted to put off thinking about that until his head pain eased. At this rate it might never happen. Sleet flecked his face, and the wind flayed his exposed skin. “Where the hell are we?”
“A place familiar to you.”
Cripes. This was his lucky night. “How’d you know they’d take me here?”
“I asked Mr. Strome to wait within sight of the club and follow your brother and Mr. Broder when they departed. He tracked them to this dismal spot, then phoned me when he could.”
“You set me up. You knew they’d kill me.”
“Yes—though I did not foresee the method. I suppose your brother was trying to make it painless for you. Injecting an overdose of cocaine should have rendered you unconscious. Instead, there were some unexpected and singularly unpleasant consequences before you succumbed.”
His memory on that was disjointed. Someone else had been running the show except toward the end. He’d asked Michael a question and gotten no answer.
“You set me up,” he repeated.
“Because it was the right thing to do.” Escott had an edge in his tone that stated he was immune to reproach. “There is a terrible darkness in you. We saw Whitey Kroun last night, and he is a monster. Have you any control over him?”
He winced at the word monster and that someone else used it so accurately. “If people left me alone, I’d be just peachy.”
“You can’t, then.”
“I—”
“Yes?”
“I did. A little.”
“Indeed?”
He rubbed his numb hands. “I was scaring the girl. Tried to tell her I was sorry.”
“For scaring her? Just for that?”
What more do you want? “It wasn’t me. I’m not like that. The dope pulled that out. It’s over.”
“You’re certain?”
“What kind of proof can I give you for that?” Exasperated, Gabe looked around. The hole he’d crawled from wasn’t his original grave. This one was much closer to the river.
“Where’s Ramsey?”
Escott nodded toward the right. Farther into the trees was the mound of black earth. There had been changes since Gabe’s visit. Someone had tamped down the top and arranged large river stones over it into the shape of a cross.
“How’d you know which one to dig up?”
“Yours was unembellished.” Escott grabbed the shovel, bracing it upright against a tree. “I suppose your brother thought God wouldn’t have you.”
“He was right.”
“Come along, Mr. Kroun. I’ve not yet decided what to do about you.”
That made him pay attention. “What do you mean?”
“Pick yourself up.” Escott said it the way someone else might say, “Time to settle the bill.”
I hate this place.
With less effort than anticipated, Gabe got to his feet. His day’s rest in the ground had restored him. His scratches were gone, and the chunk torn from his shoulder was filled in, no longer hurting. There was a scar, but it was well healed. Another day, and it might be gone entirely; the same went for the hole in his chest. His head continued to throb, probably a hangover from the dope.
Following a well-trampled path in the snow, Escott trudged toward the clearing and the dark cabin. Gabe did not want to go there.
The hinges creaked, and Escott left the door open. Inside, he lit a few candles. Shadows jerked and quivered, as though surprised by the intrusion.
I should have burned the dump when I had the chance.
Gabe forced himself up the step and in. The wind followed him, carrying the whirring sound of the pines singing to themselves. He slammed the door on it.
The cabin looked smaller and meaner. The bloody, mold-eaten blanket and mattress had been thrown back on the bed. Gabe scowled and sat on a bench as far from it as possible. A fire in the potbelly stove would be good, but take time to start, and he didn’t want to linger any longer than necessary. Escott obviously had some things to say. Let him get it out, then they could leave.
