Chapter 14
It was just after midnight when Mitch completed his work at the station. Then I persuaded him to return with me to the hotel to gather some of my clothes and personal effects. By the time we finally arrived at his apartment it was after one. That he was exhausted, mentally and physically, was apparent from the way he dragged up the steps, stumbled in the door and slumped on the couch. I set my case down in the hallway and sat in a chair facing him.
“What happens now?” I asked quietly, hating to disturb him.
“What?” He sat up straighter and looked at me. “Oh, I’m sorry, Deirdre. I’m absolutely beat.”
“I know,” I said sympathetically. “Is there any way I can help?”
“For now, no. I need to get some sleep. We’ve got men out looking for Larry now and all of his normal haunts are under surveillance. If he shows up, they’ll let me know.”
“And if he doesn’t show up?” I somehow felt there was more that could be done and the question sounded sharper than I had intended. I glimpsed a flash of anger in his eyes.
“Then, tomorrow, we try to flush him out. I can’t do anything else about it tonight. And neither can you.” As suddenly as it arrived, the anger died and he smiled wearily. “You should get some rest, too, if you can. There will be plenty for you to do tomorrow.” He walked over to me and lightly held my arms. “Right now you can help me most by just staying here, with me. Will you be able to sleep?”
I nodded. “I think so. You go ahead. I’ll be in a little later.”
He gave me a lazy kiss and hug and turned to go, unbuttoning his shirt. As he walked down the hall I watched him with a tenderness that still surprised me. I wanted nothing more tonight than his presence. I would forego for a while my plans of vengeance and do as he wished. With a sigh I picked up my suitcase and followed him.
He had discarded his clothes into a rumpled pile. After I folded each garment and draped them over a nearby chair, I quietly slid into bed next to him. He was asleep already, his breathing was slow and regular. I could not get the picture of Gwen’s corpse out of my mind. I replayed the night over and over, receiving no answers, no comfort. “Damn,” I swore and turned over roughly. Mitch jumped in his sleep and lifted his head to regard me with sleepy eyes. “Go back to sleep,” I soothed him, staring into his eyes. “Everything will be fine.”
Nothing is fine, my mind raged and the promises I had made to him and to myself about not getting involved dissolved into the picture of Gwen, staked to my bed. I reached over and took his face in mine. Smiling, I strove to touch his mind with mine. “Everything is fine, Mitch,” I repeated again. “Sleep now, I will be with you tonight, all night. I will not leave, I will stay with you all night. Sleep now.”
He relaxed and his eyes closed. “Sleep now,” he murmured. “You will be here.” I released his face and he rolled over and went back to sleep. Ever so quietly I slid from his bed, dressed in the black pants and sweater I had packed, smoothed on my black leather gloves and went out the door.
The night was glorious, clear and cold, with no moon. The streets I traveled were dark and shadowy and took me to an alley behind Larry’s apartment. Easing around the corner, I saw the car stationed outside; the shadowy figure inside lit a cigarette and I could smell the rich tobacco from where I stood. I did not need the lowered hum of the radio to identify Mitch’s surveillance team. But there was only one in the car and I realized that there must be two.
Where was the other one? Silently, I listened to the sounds of the night, the traffic noises, the muffled sounds from within the surrounding buildings. With an effort of will, I blocked these sounds and tuned them out. There, there he was. I heard the quiet breathing of a man standing just inside the entrance. He stamped his feet, and the scratchy sound of knit gloves rubbing together drifted back to me.
From the personnel file in Max’s office I knew that Larry Martin lived on the third floor. I assessed the back walls of the building, laughing silently to myself. Too bad, I thought, too bad that I can’t turn into a bat or a mist. Then I could be in and out with no one the wiser. But I thought I could manage the climb.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, a voice urged me to back off, to walk down the dark, beautiful streets and return to Mitch and the warm bed that awaited me. But I had become reckless with the rage at Gwen’s death, almost as if her death had set me free of the final restraints of humanity. That’s not true, my mind prodded, if you care that much you are still human.
“Nevertheless,” I whispered to the night sky, “I will go.” I slipped off my shoes and set them at the side of the wall; I removed my gloves and put them into my pocket. A thrill of excitement, akin to the hunt and capture of a victim, enveloped me. My senses vibrated, my teeth enlarged. A severe hunger and restlessness overtook me and I began to climb, slowly at first and then with more confidence, my fingers and toes clinging tightly to the coarse surface of the bricks.
Before I knew it I was halfway up the wall. My balance was superb and I scaled the rest of the distance effortlessly. It was a simple matter to complete the climb, find an open window and ease myself in. As my feet touched the floor, I suppressed the impulse to laugh—so easy, it was so easy.
Walking down the hall, I found his apartment. I suspect I could have identified it even had the number not matched that found in Max’s personnel file; Larry’s familiar odor permeated the hall directly outside the door. I put my gloves back on and rashly turned the knob, not caring if he were inside or not. The door was locked but I twisted the knob again, harder this time; the lock broke and the door opened. I looked up and down the hall before I entered—no one had seen me.
Closing the door softly behind me, I glanced around. It was empty, as I knew before I had even taken one step inside. There were only three rooms, I checked the kitchen first, grimacing as a roach ran over my bare foot. The bathroom, next; there was nothing here that would indicate his involvement. If there was any evidence, it would have to be in the main room, that served as both a sleeping and a living area. “But not for long,” I bared my teeth at my reflection in the window as I passed.
His bookshelves held a large assortment of paperback books. I took a second look at these and was not really surprised to find that every one of them were vampire novels; he had them all, from the classics to the tawdry. Most of them, I had read and discarded for their uselessness, but from their worn appearance I could tell that Larry had read each one thoroughly several times.
There were two stacks of books, horizontally arranged on the end of one of the shelves; the fact that they were out of line with the rest caught my eye. I moved one of the stacks and saw behind it not the wood of the case but the leather binding of a larger book. Pulling it out, I almost dropped it in shock. The cover was black, blood–red letters emblazoned the surface with the name, Dorothy Grey. My hands trembled and I longed to tear off the confining gloves, but I knew that I did not dare.
The first page held an old, worn picture, in sepia tone. A group of union soldiers, stern and unsmiling, stood around a tent. It could have been any encampment in that war, but I knew these men. Some had died in my arms, some I had even helped along their way. Looking closer, I saw myself, gaunt and glassy eyed, peering out from within the tent. Underneath the picture Larry had written, “The first appearance of Dorothy Grey, The Angel of Death.”
“Jesus, he knows.” I slid down to the floor, grasping the scrapbook to my chest. “How the hell could he know?” I frantically rifled through the pages; many of my lives and identities were charted here, names, towns, occupations. Oh, he had missed some, but those he had captured were correct and completely damaging. What had he planned to do with this, I wondered, what possible purpose could it serve for him? None, now, I affirmed, for I would take it with me and burn it.
The last few pages he used as a journal, and when I read them, his purpose suddenly became clear. He was searching for eternal life; he wanted to become a vampire. Nowhere did Larry explain how he learned the truth about me, but his aspirations were plainly expressed. His obsession with me went further than love or lust; beyond all of that, he longed to live forever, longed to walk the night, powerful and invincible. I was merely the key to his desire.
I snapped the book shut and stood up again, searching the room and finding a backpack. I unzipped it, emptied its contents onto the floor and put the book inside. As I did so, a scrap of paper fell out. On it was written simply “the blood is the life” and the address of the blood bank that had been robbed.
I let the paper lay where it had fallen. On impulse, I crossed the room and went back to the kitchen. The roaches scattered from the light as I opened the refrigerator. Inside were a dozen bags of blood, neatly labeled and stacked. I wondered if he thought that he could become a vampire simply by drinking the blood or if he were merely stockpiling in the event that I fulfilled his desires. He will never get to use them at all, I thought and removed all but two of them, and, hoping that the plastic would resist punctures, stowed them into the backpack along with the book. Then with a grim smile, I found a piece of paper and a pencil. “My dearest Larry,” I wrote, “thank you for dinner. Watch for me, I will be back.” I felt a deadly rush of satisfaction as I taped the note to the refrigerator door and left the apartment.
Getting back into Mitch’s place was no problem, but as I quietly shut the door and set the backpack down on the floor, I realized that I would have to leave. I glanced at the clock; it was already after five, too much of the night had been lost at Larry’s apartment. After checking to see that Mitch still slept, I began to make my plans. The evidence that I now possessed must never be seen, especially by him. And Larry must die. I had never killed before and the decision was anathema to me, but there would be no choice in the matter. For now, though, I had to seek safe harbor. I could not return to the hotel or to the office; Mitch would most certainly look for me there. And I could not allow myself to be found, not yet.
I walked back down the hallway and stood above Mitch’s bed. The lights from the street shone in through the window and illuminated his sleeping features. “Damn it, Mitch. It would have been easier to have never met you.” Even as I said it, I knew it was not true. No matter the outcome, my love for him was real and uplifting, a memory I could cherish in however many countless years I had remaining. There would be other lovers in my future, but none like him.
He rolled over and spoke. “Deirdre?” He was still half asleep.
“I’m here, Mitch.”
“Why aren’t you in bed?”
“I have to go to the bathroom. Relax, go to sleep.”
When he settled back in, I quietly picked up my suitcase and left the room; if I stayed any longer, I would be lost, in more ways than one.
I did stay long enough to write another note. Taking care to write in block letters so that the paper left at Larry’s would not be connected, I wrote: “Mitch—although your protective custody is wonderful, I find I must get away. Please don’t worry about me or try to find me. Trust me, I will stay safe and I will contact you as soon as I can. I love you.”
The sky was becoming cloudy when I went back to the streets. I hurried three blocks away from Mitch’s apartment and went into a convenience store to make a phone call.
“Answer it, damn it. Answer it,” I urged, as the phone rang for the tenth time. Finally, on the twentieth ring, a surprisingly alert voice answered. “Yes.”
“Max, thank God you’re there.”
“Deirdre, to what do I owe the honor? I would have thought that after our last meeting, it would be a cold day in hell before you called on me again.”
“If so, then I guess Satan is skiing right now. Max, look, I really need your help.”
“My help?” His voice took on a grieved tone, but I could hear the humor underlying it. “And what about the intrepid Detective Greer, his shoulders are not as broad as you thought, eh? Or maybe he discovered the truth about you and threw you out on your blood-sucking ass.” I had mistaken the humor, these last words were spoken in a hiss, as if through clenched teeth, and Max never stooped to vulgarity unless angered.
“Jesus, Max. I’m serious, I need your help. Can I count on you or shall I call someone else?”
“And just whom would you call, my dear? It seems to me your options are very limited. They must be, for you to come to me.”
He was right, I realized in shock as I ran through a very short list in my mind: Gwen, dead; Mitch, unapproachable; Larry, unthinkable. No, there was only Max now. There was always the option of checking into a hotel, but I needed to talk the situation over with someone. And given the circumstances, that person could only be Max. I sighed.
“Max,” there was a pleading in my voice that made me cringe, “I have backed myself into a corner and don’t know how to get out. We have been friends for so many years, and I need your help. As far as the other night, well, maybe we could make amends and start over.”
“An interesting concept, this starting over. But you don’t need to beg, you know.” There was a pause and he gave a low chuckle. “Of course you can count on me, Deirdre. Have I ever let you down before?”
I gave a small humorless laugh. “Several times that I can think of, but that doesn’t matter. All I need is a safe place to sleep tomorrow. Then I’ll be on my way.”
“Deirdre, my love, I would be pleased to have you stay with me. When can I expect you?”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes.” I hung up the phone.
The Ballroom of Romance was closed and dark when I arrived. It seemed so odd, I had never seen it this way. Even before it had opened, there had been a crowd of builders and contractors working through the night. Now it had a forlorn and sinister appearance, that was not in any way alleviated by opening of the front door. Max, looking extremely disheveled, shirtless and barefooted, stood in the unlit doorway, and beckoned me in.
“Did I wake you? I’m sorry, but I wouldn’t have bothered you if it wasn’t crucial.”
He shrugged and led me back to his office. “It is never any bother for you.” He began to open a bottle of my favorite wine. “Would you care for a drink?”
“Yes, why not? But first, I am very hungry.”
He gave me a twisted smile. “I’m afraid I have no one available at the moment. Shall I send out? Or would you like to open my veins?”
I sat down on his couch, threw my head back and laughed. “A fair offer, I suppose, but this time I brought my own.” I reached down, unzipped the backpack and held out one of the bags.
“You are getting enterprising in your old age, Deirdre. Of course, I heard about the robbery but really had no idea you were behind it.” He took the bag from me and gingerly balanced it on his hand. “Theft doesn’t seem your style.”
“I did not rob the blood bank. Tonight I dine on the generosity of our good friend Larry.”
“Larry? What the hell is he doing with stolen blood? And you saw him; he gave that to you?”
“Not actually, no. Although he once suggested we have dinner together. So I suppose you could say I decided to take him up on the invitation. Is it my fault that he wasn’t at home when I called?”
“You broke into his apartment?” Max made no attempt to hide his amusement. “Moral little Deirdre? The one who is always concerned with the right and wrong of things? Shame on you, my dear. And what would Detective . . .”
“You leave him out of it.” I snarled the words and took the blood bag from his hand. “I have a very interesting story to tell you, Max. But first things first.”
I walked to the bar and selected a large glass, then walked to his desk and removed a pair of scissors from the top drawer. Clipping the end of the bag, I poured the blood into the glass and held it up admiringly to the light. “To your health.”
He had put on a shirt and was buttoning it, but stopped to watch intently while I drank. The amount in the bag was only slightly more than I would normally take from a living victim. It was not an unacceptable substitute, but by the time I reached the end of the glass, it was cool and thickening. Next time, I thought, it should be warmed. Still I tipped it back again to get the very last drop from the bottom of the glass, before I went to the bar to rinse it out and refill it with the wine Max had opened.
When I sat back down, he tucked in his shirt and glanced at the clock. “We have an hour or so before dawn, you are fed and my blood is safe, perhaps now you would like to tell me what’s happening.”
In answer I reached again into the backpack and pulled out the scrapbook. “Larry has done more than provide a meal; he has also given me this.” I smiled bitterly. “At least now we know what he’s been researching.”
His eyebrows raised when he saw the name on the cover. “May I?” He reached his hand out and I gave the book to him.
Slowly, Max turned the pages, reading each entry completely. At some he paused and laughed, others he read intently. He spent a lot of time on one page, not reading, just staring. I leaned over to see what it was. “Diane Gleason,” he said, meeting my eyes. “You were so young, then.”
I gave a snort of indignation. “Young? That’s the second time you have referred to me as young. At that time, you must remember, I was already a hundred years old.”
“No,” he said sadly. “Your whole outlook was young. You were vibrant, carefree and utterly enticing. You did what you wanted, when you wanted and everyone else be damned. You had no ties, no ambition, just an endless lust for new horizons. What happened to that spirit?”
“If I remember correctly, it got abused by many people, including you. It was you who left, without so much as a spoken goodbye.”
“Are you still angry about that? You’re the one who’s so quick to remind me it was a long time ago. And we are still together, we are still friends, as you call it.”
I got up and poured us both another glass of wine. He continued his reading, acknowledging my offer of the wine with a quick gesture to the table next to his chair. I set it down and walked over to look out the window. Neither of us spoke until I saw the sky begin to lighten with the dawn.
“Max,” I began. “The sun is almost up.”
“I know, my dear.” He stood up and handed the scrapbook back to me. “We’ll talk more about this tomorrow evening. You can sleep in the back lounge; no one will bother you, I promise.” He smiled and with a gallantry strange for him, held out his arm. “Come, I’ll walk you home.”
He picked up my suitcase, opened the door and escorted me out, my hand lightly gripping his arm. I suddenly felt comfortable with him again, he was no threat to me. His knowledge of what I was had not impacted our relationship, perhaps it had even intensified it. True, he was not Mitch but that was for the best. There was no place for me in Mitch’s life, and all the love that I felt for him would not change me. With Max, there was still, if not the spark, then a chance that we could once again.... I shook my head and wondered at the direction my thoughts were taking. I love Mitch, I asserted, no matter how badly it might all turn out.
Max smiled at me as he opened the door to the lounge. It was a sensuous, knowing smile as if he had read my thoughts of him. And perhaps he did; he was perceptive enough to pick up my body language, my renewed ease in his presence.
“Well, here we are.”
I walked in, placed the book on the couch and turned around. He carried my case in and put it on the floor. “Thank you, Max. It was good of you to take me in.”
“Think nothing of it, Deirdre.” A shadow fell over his face for only a moment before it was replaced with his usual cynical expression. “I suppose my spending the, er, day with you is out of the question?”
“I am so very tired, Max. It has been a rough night.”
“Ah, well then.” His gaze fastened on my lips and he moved toward me. I expected him to grasp me and kiss me; instead I felt his lips graze my cheek lightly. “I hope you don’t mind using the couch. Sleep well.” He walked out and closed the door.
I went to the window and pulled the curtains closed. They were heavy, well-insulated and should provide the proper protection. Then, after locking the door, and opening the suitcase, I began to undress. The nightgown packed had been for Mitch’s benefit, black silk, with a plunging neckline and a billowing skirt. I felt silly wearing it here, with no one to see it, but it was all I had.
Max had thoughtfully set out a blanket and a pillow on one corner of the couch. In spite of his earlier protests on the phone, I felt that he was probably pleased that I had turned to him. He had done his best to make me feel welcome and comfortable in what was an awkward situation for the both of us. I laughed when I remembered the time he had introduced himself as my Renfield to a confused victim. He was more than that to me, of course. I had never thought of him as my servant, but, and I wondered again about my thoughts in the hall, we could never rekindle our intimate relationship. Even if I had not met Mitch, I had to move on, I needed to move on, and there would be no place for Max in my future.
I looked at the phone hanging on the wall. How easy it would be to call Mitch and let him know that I was safe that all was well and that I loved him. Crossing the floor, I picked up the phone and dialed his number, but hung up before it rang. You have no place for Mitch, either, I reminded myself and lay down on the couch.
Many years of practice, many years of life had taught me that no problems could be solved in sleeplessness. Once again, I cleared my mind of all thoughts, pleasant or otherwise, and fell asleep just as the sun rose.