I woke from a deep sleep around noon. Someone was knocking at the door. The cadence was hurried, but soft. Just to be safe, when I rose out of bed I picked up the chair by my desk and held it up over my shoulder. Then I asked who was there.
“It’s your uncle,” said a voice. “Maximilian.”
I told him he could come in. He opened the door and slipped inside. I noticed his suit was different. He didn’t have his briefcase with him, but he was holding a folder in one hand. When he saw me standing in the middle of the empty room, I put the chair back down.
“Redecorating?” he asked. Then his expression changed and he started to cough, worse than before. He had to work pretty hard to clear his throat afterwards.
“Excuse me,” he said, thumping his chest with a large fist. “I hope it’s okay that I woke you? I was going to slip this file under the door, but I decided that it made more sense to talk face to face, in case you had any questions. I didn’t want you to get too worked up, although there is reason for concern.”
He tapped the folder against his palm a few times.
“I have been meeting with the hospital admin all morning in hopes of getting you moved out of here,” he said, “but because of your condition and your sensitivity to sunlight, they won’t give me permission. Not until I become your legal guardian, and that could take some time. I don’t think it’s safe for you to stay here another night, but at the moment, I don’t have the authority to force anyone’s hand.”
As he spoke, he opened the folder and removed a photograph. It was a picture of a scruffy-looking man in an overcoat. He had a cane and a long, pink scar under his eye.
“I came across some interesting information last night,” he continued, “and I wanted to share it with you.” He tapped a thick finger on the photo of the scruffy man. “This is Everett Johansson, former Toronto police detective. He retired to Peterborough eight years ago.”
I picked up the photograph and examined it closely.
“Ever see him before?” my uncle asked.
I shook my head.
“Your father had a term he used to describe men like this. He called them ‘the Fallen,’ people who have forsaken humanity and entered into the service of vampires. This man is dangerous. He has eyes all over the city. My contacts tell me that he’s looking for you.”
I looked at the photo more closely. “Is this why the old man on the motorcycle warned me to stay away from the police?”
“I wouldn’t dismiss the idea.”
Everett Johansson. The Fallen. He didn’t look all that dangerous. Not compared to my uncle. But if he served a vampire, he didn’t have to be dangerous himself.
“Does he work for Vrolok?” I asked.
My uncle looked at me, then down at the photograph. “I don’t know,” he began. “I am assuming he does. Vrolok is in Canada. And as far as I know, he’s never travelled to the New World before.”
“New World?”
“North America. He’s never before risked crossing the Atlantic. He’s found out about you from someone. And I suspect that someone is Johansson.”
“How would he know I was here? I’ve never seen him before.”
My uncle shook his head slowly. “You wouldn’t have to see him. He has many people working under him, in all walks of life. Maybe a delivery person saw you. Or a security guard. Or any one of the police officers who’ve been here. And there is no way to know, when you see someone, if they are one of the Fallen. They look like ordinary people. They are ordinary people. With dangerous friends.”
I thought of everyone I came into contact with each day. There weren’t that many. But the night the old man crashed through the lobby, there were a lot of different people on the scene, and I was centre stage. It might easily have happened then.
“I think you should stay in your room, just to be safe.” Then he smiled and fished into the inside pocket of his jacket. He pulled out a small piece of paper. It had “Maximilian” written across the middle in red letters. Across the top in black was “Iron Spike Enterprises.” The I in “Iron” was a metal spike. He took out a pen and scribbled a number underneath his name.
“That’s my cell number,” he said. “Don’t hesitate to call if you sense trouble. Or if you get any more strange visitors, like that old man who stole the motorcycle.”
“Did you find out who he was?”
“Not yet, but I will. In the meantime, we can’t afford to take any chances. Experience has taught me that we should assume the worst. That Johansson knows you’re here, and that he’s working for Vrolok. I’m betting that’s why the old man came to warn you. We’ll have to get you out of here right away.”
I looked at the window. It was just after noon. I didn’t want to go anywhere unless it involved a tunnel or an armoured car.
“What should I do?” I asked.
“Well, sit tight for now. The sun is up. We can’t risk moving you in the daytime. I’ll do some more legwork this afternoon. Find out what I can, then come back later tonight. Don’t worry. We’ll get you out of here.”
“You can do that?”
He smiled. The muscles on either side of his jaw twitched. He looked strong enough to rip the place apart, brick by brick. “I feel sorry for anyone who’d try to stop me,” he said. Then he slipped the photo of Everett Johansson back into the folder. “Pack a bag,” he added. “Just essentials. Be ready at sunset. I will get here as soon as I can.”
I nodded.
He placed a hand on my shoulder, smiled again, then slipped out the door. I heard him cough again in the hallway. Then his footsteps faded and I was alone.