The Vampire Files, Volume Five, page 69
part #11 of The Vampire Files Series
“You talked to Mike,” prompted Gabe. He tried to not look at the bloodstains by the bed. Escott had to have noticed them.
“At length.”
“He pay you off?”
“He did not. After a call to Gordy to establish my bona fides, I persuaded Mike to accept my help and silence in exchange for the truth of what happened in this cabin.”
“What’d he tell you?”
“It was Miss Cabot’s story that convinced me you needed to be dealt with. She and her mother were present. Broder had been hiding them from you in Cicero. What you did to that girl…”
Gabe made a cutting motion with his hand. “Never mind that.”
“No, I will not.” Escott’s voice lowered, taking on a harsher tone. “You crossed a line.”
“Shuttup.”
Surprisingly, he did. Escott used a candle to light a cigarette, smoked it to the filter, and stubbed it out.
During that pause, Gabe tried to fit things together with this new information. He couldn’t. “Ramsey was supposed to kill me, thought he had, and the girl was in the way, a witness. All I wanted was to find out if she was okay.”
“She’s as well as can be expected. Perhaps her mother is right, and she may find some shred of peace now that you’re dead to her.”
“But I couldn’t have—”
“Mr. Kroun, you don’t remember your death or what led to it, not one moment of it. Please have the courage to face the truth: Ramsey had no orders from anyone to kill you; he just couldn’t stomach what you’d done to that poor girl.”
“I did nothing! There’s no way I’d have hurt her. You got that yet?”
Escott was silent for a long moment. “You absolutely believe that.”
“It’s true.”
“It is not true, yet you believe it. Were that not so, you would never have hypnotized her last night and demanded she tell her story again. That would have damned you on the spot, but you tried anyway, thinking she’d exonerate you.”
“Listen to me…”
“No.” Escott cut his gaze away and pulled out his gun. “None of that. Try to put me under again, and I will shoot you. Look at the floor. Now.”
That was stupid. He did as he was told. He was fast enough to rush the man, but it would put a stop to learning anything else. Escott would fire, and that might bring the monster out. Gabe was angry, but he didn’t want to risk killing Escott.
He put a hand on the side of his pounding head and wished for more snow. “All right…what did she say?”
“You’re ready to hear the truth?”
“Just tell me.”
“Very well. Two months ago you did hire Miss Cabot’s services as a companion for what you termed a ‘fishing trip.’ She understood that much and went willingly as the money was good. Ramsey drove and turned a blind eye; that was his job. You stopped at the asylum to show her off to your father, then continued on to Wisconsin.”
Gabe’s shivering abruptly ceased as heat crept up his neck and face. He was ashamed of what he’d done even if he couldn’t remember it.
“This cabin was not the warm winter lodge she’d been led to expect. Soon as you arrived you gave yourself an injection of your chosen poison, then gagged her to keep her quiet. I shall not repeat what followed, only that it was brutal and went on for some while. Ramsey waited in the car as ordered, but when she managed to get rid of the gag, he heard her screams and came running. He burst in, did not like what he saw, and shot you dead.”
Sickness rolled through him; Gabe shook his aching head. “You’re wrong. I could never do that to a woman.”
“Why would she lie?”
“I don’t know.” God, it hurt. “Keep going.”
“Along with a hysterical girl, Ramsey had the problem of how to explain your death to your brother. Fearing the reception of that news would result in his own swift demise, he decided to get away and make himself scarce. He said as much to Miss Cabot, telling her she should do the same.”
“Did she kill Ramsey?”
“Yes. Miss Cabot was in a bad state, fearful for her life. She knew how things worked in your world and had little trust that Ramsey would just let her go. By then she really was a witness to murder or at least a justifiable homicide. Perhaps he said something to make her doubt him. She said it was self-defense. She took the car back to the brothel.”
“Why not to her mother?”
“Didn’t know where to find her. The girl had fallen in love with some man when she was fifteen, run away, and some years later wound up working in that house. The madam there called a doctor for Miss Cabot, and since you were involved, he, in turn, called your brother.”
Gabe risked looking up. “Then Mike knew all along?”
“No. It happened that Mr. Broder answered the phone. He took the next train to Chicago to sort out the mess. It was he who eventually found Mrs. Cabot and got her daughter home again. He paid her a sum to keep quiet. If she had any trouble, she was to phone him, which she did when you arrived unannounced at her diner. Her trunk call to New York got her message passed on to him here, and he came running.”
That explained the car crash and grenade-throwing. “Why help her? What’s his stake in this?”
“Because he is at heart a decent man.”
“Decent? The man’s a piece of walking granite.”
“Who still had pity for the girl and wanted to spare your brother from having to deal with you.” Escott let that sink in. “He found the broken grave and Ramsey, but you were missing. He buried Ramsey and left. Thereafter, he was careful to keep an eye on you. Broder accepted the story you yourself put about—that you’d been grazed by a bullet.”
“Okay, some of that adds up, but not the rest. Not what happened here. Nelly was hysterical, she mixed things up. Or she was afraid of what Mike might do to her. She figured out a story that would keep her alive. She’s not the first dame to accuse a man of—look, just get me to her. If I can put her under for five minutes, you’ll hear the truth.”
Escott stared, thinking maybe. One-handed he pulled out another cigarette and lit it with a candle. He kept the gun’s aim steady. “It’s truly lost to you, isn’t it? Not just what happened that night, but everything. Otherwise, you’d never say that.”
A hot spike hit that spot on his skull. Gabe flinched.
“You insist on your innocence because you don’t remember who you were.”
Gabe managed a snort despite his pain. “What gave you that idea?”
“I also had a long talk with Gordy. Jack mentioned you’d been getting information from him, then making him forget. I found that a little prodding on my part brought back some recollection of your conversations. It was clear to us both that you had no memory of who you used to be before that bullet hit your brain.”
“That’s crazy.”
“Why deny it?”
Because it was weakness. Show that, and they ate you alive.
“You wanted details concerning your death, but with it came the ugly facts about the life you led. That’s why you let Jack know certain things. You craved the truth but knew there might be consequences. If at some point you remembered and turned back into what you’d been, then you’d need someone who could keep you in check. Who better than another vampire?”
Gabe stood and walked out of the cabin, his knees shaking. He scooped more snow and pressed it to the white patch, but the agony wouldn’t stop. His head felt too full. Sleet ticked down steadily, freezing, leaving a crust on everything. It stung his face, clinging to his eyebrows and lashes until his vision blurred.
He sank onto the icy step, holding tight to the porch support post. He wanted the cold to take him, freeze him solid so he wouldn’t have to think or feel. Maybe Escott could simply bury him again, let the earth cover and blot him out forever.
He heard Escott’s step behind him. The man passed by and stood in the blowing sleet, finishing his cigarette, letting it fall to the snow. “This way,” he said, heading toward the trees.
Gabe felt too dizzy to walk, but made himself move.
Escott stopped on the other side of the black mound, looking down at its cross. “You weren’t even meant to be here.”
“Why is that?” Trying to distract himself out of the pain he searched for anything familiar, anything that would spark his memory.
“Miss Cabot said Ramsey scavenged the place for something with which to weigh your body, planning to sink it in the river.”
“Not bury me?”
“He changed his mind when he found this grave ready and waiting.”
Gabe looked up. “What?”
“You heard.”
“But who put it here?”
“You’re being unnecessarily obtuse, Mr. Kroun. You dug it yourself.”
He just couldn’t see. “Why?”
“For her body when you were finished with her.”
That was too much. “No. Absolutely not.”
The wind swept his words into empty darkness. Bare branches clacked around them, sleet hissed, and the pine boughs made sad music.
But from his last visit he recalled the familiar feel of a shovel in his hands. The blade cutting into the earth, regular as a machine, he was used to such work, took enjoyment from it.
Now he knew why.
Just as Sonny had murdered his wives, Whitey Kroun would murder his little hired humdinger…
He sagged, unable to deny, unwilling to accept. Ice crept down the back of his neck. He didn’t want to know any more. This was too much.
Shivering, he turned toward the cabin.
Escott stood blocking the path. “Not yet. There is still a debt to pay.”
Gabe spread his hands. “But I don’t remember!”
“If you did, I’d kill you myself.”
“How can I be responsible if I don’t remember?”
“Your victims do.”
That hit Gabe as hard as one of Sonny’s slaps. “Wh-what?”
Escott pointed.
He rubbed sleet from his eyes. Peering, half-expecting to see Ramsey’s ghost drifting between the tree trunks, Gabe only saw more snow. There were footprints wandering here and there in the clean drifts. Escott had been exploring, but his tracks were filling in.
“There and over there and that one…” Escott said, still pointing.
Gabe couldn’t see anything but trees and snow and—
God…no…
The many layers of white fall covered several low mounds scattered over a wide area, softening their lines, but their shapes were unmistakable.
No…no, no, no…
Gabe staggered back, blundered against a trunk and held on to keep from falling. He turned away, doubling over. There was nothing in his cramping belly, but it twisted inside out regardless. He retched and gagged, staggered a few more steps, then doubled over again, unable to stop. He coughed bloody spittle, choking.
“Kroun!”
No more. He had to get away from that voice, that name, away from this hellhole.
Sleet blinded him. He kept going.
His legs seemed on fire as he slogged through deeper and thicker snow. The burning surged upward, tearing into his chest. It closed with a rush over his head, cutting off the wind. He leaned into the flames as they started to tug him down. Blistering hot, yet exquisitely cold. He was going to hell where he belonged.
Then something strongly grabbed one of his arms and, half-pulling it from the socket, hauled him back from the flowing abyss. He had no strength to fight. His feet tangled, he tripped, and abruptly body-slammed against rocky ground.
He lay stunned, blinking sluggishly, eyes swimming. Tears or melted sleet, he couldn’t tell.
Escott stood over him, panting from some recent exertion. He was soaking wet and cursing, the invective aimed at Gabriel.
“On your feet, you idiot,” he finally snarled.
Gabe dragged himself upright. He was soaked, too. He’d run himself straight into the river. “Why’d you stop me?”
Escott pointed again, up the easy rise, past the cabin, toward—“Those women—they had families, friends, people who need to know what happened to them. That is your debt. You will pay it before you leave this life.”
It was insane…how could Escott expect him to—
“We’ll sort something out.”
Was he a mind reader? “You’re gonna help me?”
“I’m helping them.”
“Why?”
“Someone has to. Whitey Kroun was a very sickening fellow, perverted, dangerous, without conscience, and thoroughly deserving of his fate when it overtook him.”
Dizziness washed though him again. No more, please…
“He died far too quickly and easily for his crimes.”
He scrabbled for more snow, pressing it to the spot of agony on his head. It burned, gradually cooled, and left his fingers white and numb.
“Then you rose from the ruins. Tabula rasa—a clean slate.”
“Not so clean.” With flaws. So many dangerous flaws.
“But I believe you want to do the right thing. You just don’t know how.”
“’S crazy.”
“You saved my life, Mr. Kroun. If you will allow, perhaps I can help save yours.”
Gabe had forgotten the hospital, what he’d done for a stranger. Things made better sense now. He began shivering again, more violently than before. His clothes were freezing to his skin. Escott looked no better, but still waited for a reply.
Gabe didn’t know what was expected for a moment, then understood. “You’re crazy, you know that?”
Escott gave a nod and held out his hand.
But I can leave. He could do that. Just walk away. He could bolt and disappear himself quick enough. Leave the state, leave the country.
But maybe…maybe this would make the pain go away.
He had to chance it. No plan. Deal with whatever came, whenever it came, and hope for the best.
He put his hand out and sealed his deal with another madman.
“It’s cold, Mr. Kroun, we should leave.”
“Don’t call me that. I’m not him anymore, never again. Gabriel. Gabe’s fine.”
21
FLEMING
DUGAN’S hideout was the last of four similar small houses on a narrow road that continued south through empty fields; in the distance were enough lights to indicate a town. The two farthest houses showed lights, the nearest was dark. He’d picked a great spot for privacy.
To the north was Chicago, its glow against the clouds unmistakable and reassuring.
Mindful of how Dugan had acquired his last lair, I looked for graves and was thankful when nothing obvious presented itself. There was a rickety shed in back, empty, dirt floor undisturbed, a faded FOR RENT sign leaning against one side. The house itself was empty of furnishings except what he’d apparently brought himself. He must have gone legit to better keep his head down.
Putting the revolver on a kitchen counter, I gave myself a preliminary wash in the big sink, getting most of the blood and grime off my face and arms. The water was even hot.
He’d been intent on bathing, too, before my interruption. The bathtub had water in it, but it was draining away around a leaky plug. I quelled an urge to fill the thing and dive in.
His shaving things were balanced along the edge of the sink. I felt my beard, considered for less than a second, and left. I didn’t want to touch any of his stuff if I could help it.
First things first, I found the rest of the blood supply he’d brought for me in the fridge: a dozen quart milk bottles filled to the brim. I snagged one and drank it straight down. My healing and the fight had taken it out of me, and even after my drink I still felt a general weariness.
That, I told myself, would fade with time. He’d given me his worst, and I’d beaten him. Maybe tomorrow night I’d get the shakes or cringe at a bad memory, but I’d worry about it then, not now.
Next I had to clean things other than myself, and it wasn’t easy going back down into that damned basement. It stank of blood and terror. I made an effort not to breathe the rusty sweet stench.
The table must have been brought down in pieces; it was that big. He couldn’t have managed it on his own otherwise.
The two rods stuck up as I’d left them, one with the handle broken off. I looked underneath to see how he’d worked it and saw that there had been a reason for the threading.
The lower part of the rods extended about a foot and a half below the table, and he’d filed the ends to points, the easier to pierce my arms. There were two thick metal squares with half-inch holes drilled in their centers firmly screwed to the underside of the table. Each rod went through that hole, held firmly in place with thick nuts and washers. Without the plates to spread the load, I might have been able to pull the rods out from the wood. Hideous, simple, and it worked.
I wanted to burn the table, but that would not be practical. Instead, I removed the rods, leaving the table with the holes and reinforcing plates as a mystery for anyone who happened to come down here next. The rods, rope, and my packet of earth went into the car. I kept the butcher’s apron out.
The basement had a cement floor with a drain and over in a corner was a faucet. Cold water, but it did the job once I found a bucket and an ancient mop. I threw water over the table and swabbed it down, on top and underneath. My blood had soaked into some spots, but given time would turn into unidentifiable stains.
After the table I threw water on the stairs and floor, mopping them down. The porous cement would not scrub clean, but most of the red stuff went down the drain, and the place looked less like a slaughterhouse. The mop head remained bloody however much I rinsed it, so it would also go in the car.
Upstairs, I swept up the broken glass and put it in the bucket. I carried his radio, toolkit, and the bottles of animal blood to the car. He had a crate in the trunk, and the bottles fit neatly into it with no chance of spilling. This must have been how he’d carried them in the first place.
I searched his suitcase, finding bundles of money, spare clothes, newspapers, and most of a ream of writing paper, but nothing to indicate his identity.
On his writing table was a bottle of his favorite green ink ready to refill his favorite fountain pen.
