Death of an Immortal (21 page)

He’d only been searching for a couple of minutes before he found it, tucked under the underwear in the top drawer of the dresser near the bed.

The book was bright purple, hardly the kind of thing a hard-nosed cop would be likely to have. He guessed what it was even before he opened it and started reading.

He flipped to the end of the book and started reading the last few pages.

#

“Richard has threatened me again. He beats me if I refuse to have sex with him. He’s playing weird little games. He makes me lie on the floor naked, with my arms crossed across my chest as though I’m dead, and he kicks me if I move. Then he has sex with me again…

“Richard has vowed to kill me if I leave. He found out about the abortion and was so angry he beat me. I’m afraid to stay. He’s going to kill me one of these days. I’d be better off in Portland or Seattle or someplace like that.”

Then, two days later: “I’m leaving. Richard told me to my face that he was going to drain me dry of blood, just like he thinks I’ve drained him. He’s going to leave me lying on the floor, naked to the world, like the ‘whore’ I am. I can’t stay in Bend any longer. He really means it.”

#

Brosterhouse snapped the book shut. He did a quick search of the rest of the bedroom, but found only what you might expect in the disordered room of a bachelor.

“Find anything?” he asked, making his way back to the office.

“Ten-year-old electric bills,” Patterson said. “Taxes from years ago. Crap. Junk. It’s a waste of time.”

“Not entirely,” Brosterhouse said, holding up the purple book. He took his copy of the search warrant and wrote down a description of the diary, and had Patterson witness it. Then he made the same notation on the copy he left on the desk.

Carlan could scream and holler all he wanted. The diary wasn’t prima facie evidence, but it was damning, probably enough to shame him off the police force. Certainly no one was going to look at him the same way again.

#

They held a telephone conference that very night: Captain Anderson; the district attorney, Jim Haller; and Brosterhouse, with Patterson sitting in the corner looking as though he wished he were anywhere else.

“Are you sure it’s all Ms. Howe’s handwriting?” Haller asked.

“I haven’t had it analyzed yet, but I have no reason to doubt it,” Brosterhouse said.

“Still, it isn’t really evidence, is it?” Captain Anderson interjected. “Not enough for an arrest.”

“Not on a murder charge, maybe,” the detective admitted. “But tampering with evidence? He broke into a victim’s house and stole a diary. He planted the victim’s necklace in another man’s suitcase. He had a restraining order taken out on him by the victim. It’s enough to suspend him, at the least.”

“I agree,” Haller said.

Anderson nodded. “I agree, too, but I’m not sure everyone is going to see it that way.”

“It’s enough to make him a suspect,” Haller continued. “But it’s not enough for a conviction, in my opinion. I think you need one more piece of evidence before you can make an arrest.”

Brosterhouse was frustrated, but he knew the district attorney was right. He’d been to enough trials to know that in the age of CSI television shows, they needed a strong preponderance of evidence.

“At least now we know where to look,” he said.

Chapter 34

The man stood blocking the doorway of the shelter and wouldn’t let them in. He was a round man, round of face and body, but with fine, slender hands and a strangely gaunt face. The door was at the back of the shelter, in a dark alley, with a single light bulb above it.

“You’re too late,” the man said.

“Come on, Harry,” Perry argued. “We were kicked out of our camp. We got nowhere else to go!”

“…t’s …old,” Grime said.

“Cold? Yes, it’s going to be cold tonight, but maybe you should’ve thought of that earlier. If you bundle up, you’ll be all right.”

“Look, we understand the rules,” Perry said. “But the new guy, Christian here, he ain’t dressed for it; he ain’t used to it.”

The man looked over Perry’s shoulder and saw Terrill for the first time. His eyes widened in sudden fear and then clouded over, as if he was confused by his own reaction. He shook his head. “Well… maybe this once. We’ll let Christian’s name be the password. Wait!” he held up his hand. “You’ve been drinking. I can smell it on you.”

“Well, hell. When aren’t we drinking?” Perry laughed.

“You can’t bring any alcohol in here. I won’t bend on that rule.” The man crossed his arms and stared them down.

Perry sighed. He pulled the bottle out of his pocket. There was only an inch of whiskey in the bottom, but he eyeballed it regretfully. Then he shrugged, walked over to the trash cans lining the other side of the alley, and dropped it into one with the sound of breaking glass. He winced, then walked back.

The man moved aside, and the others filed in. Terrill was last in line, and as he crossed the threshold, he felt as if he’d been thrown into a pit of burning coals. He cried out and fell backward, landing on his rear end in the alley. “What is this place?” he shouted.

“The shelter at St. Francis Church,” the man said. “I’m Father Harry Donovan.”

“What’s wrong, Christian?” Perry said, confused. “Come on, it’s cold. Let’s get inside!”

Grime came outside and, with surprising strength, pulled Terrill to his feet by the back of his new coat. “…ry …gain,” he muttered.

Expecting the pain this time, Terrill cautiously approached the doorway. He hadn’t been on sanctified ground in centuries, not since his Turning. He should have burst into flames, and yet, though he’d fallen backward, that had been more from surprise than anything else––the pain had been endurable.

So he crossed the threshold slowly, gritting his teeth, and found that though the pain didn’t go away, it started to recede into the background, like a toothache.

Father Harry was staring at Terrill, and he shook his head, then reached under his sweater and brought out a crucifix on a chain.

“Christian’s got that same cross!” Perry exclaimed. “But he don’t need no chain. Show him, Christian!”

Terrill shook his head. This conversation was heading in dangerous directions.

“Please,” the priest said. “I’d like to see it.”

Terrill unbuttoned his shirt. The crucifix gleamed in the soft light of the hallway. The skin around it was pink, nearly healed.

“How did you do that?” Father Harry asked.

“Can we just go to sleep?” Terrill asked. “We can talk about this in the morning.” He had already decided that he’d wait until everyone else was sleeping and then get out of there, find a hole somewhere to hide in. This priest seemed entirely too interested in him.

“Of course,” said Father Harry. “This way.”

He led them to a big room that was full of sleeping men, then shook his head as if changing his mind and went on down the hallway. They passed a small kitchen. It looked as though they’d interrupted Father Harry while he was fixing a pot of stew. There were sliced carrots and potatoes piled on plates atop the counter, and on a cutting board, there was a pile of raw meat. There was a smaller supply room beyond the kitchen, with some disassembled cots leaning against one wall.

“There’s blankets and pillows in the wardrobe there,” Father Harry said. “Make yourselves at home.”

After a lingering glance at Terrill, he left the room.

The alcohol and the long walk sent Grime and Perry instantly to sleep, still in their clothes. Grime was on his back with his mouth wide open, snoring with ladylike little snorts; Perry was curled up to half his size. But Terrill was wide-awake. The pain was one thing, but the awareness that he was in a church was what really scared him.

It should have been impossible. He should have been burned into a crisp by now. He opened his shirt and stared down at the crucifix, touching it. It didn’t send a shock through his fingers this time. It was almost cool to the touch.

Terrill put on his shoes and coat, then went to the doorway and looked down the hall. It was quiet. He consulted his internal clock, but it was fuzzy, for some reason. It was about halfway between midnight and dawn, as best he could make out.

He started to make his way to the door, but upon crossing the threshold of the kitchen, he saw that the meat had been left out.
That isn’t safe for the humans
, he thought. He entered the kitchen.

Maybe he’d fooled himself into thinking he was just going to cover the raw meat, but it was in his mouth before he knew it. He started gorging on it.

It tasted wrong. Actually, it had no taste at all––it was like sawdust. Terrill kept eating it because he knew he needed to heal, but with every mouthful, the background pain increased and the crucifix seemed to sink deeper into his chest.

He gave up, breathing hard, closing his eyes.
What am I doing? What is happening to me?

“What are you doing?” he heard someone ask, as if echoing his thoughts. Father Harry was standing there in a bathrobe; perhaps he’d gotten out of bed after remembering that he hadn’t put the meat away.

“I… I need it.” Terrill stammered.

“You should have said something!” Father Harry exclaimed. “I’ve got some already-made sandwiches in the fridge.”

“No… I need raw meat.”

“Look, I don’t know what your problem is, but raw meat isn’t good for you.”

“I’m vampire,” Terrill blurted out. “Unholy.” He was stunned by his own words, but they had come out before he could stop them.

The priest was unfazed. “Look, son,” he said gently. “I know you may think you’re a bad person, but I’m sure that’s not true. Why don’t you sit down and let me get you that sandwich?”

Terrill plopped down into the chair the priest directed him to as if the strength had gone out of his legs.

“You don’t understand…” he started to say.

“Listen,” Father Harry interrupted. “It doesn’t matter what you’ve done, only what you do from this moment on. Do you repent your sins?”

“You don’t know how much,” Terrill breathed.

“God will forgive you if you give yourself to Him.”

“It isn’t that simple.”

“It really is that simple. Christ died for your sins.”

“But what if…” Terrill tried to think of how to express it. He was still amazed the words “I’m vampire” had come out of his mouth. The consecrated ground must have weakened him, and the cross on his chest had prepared the way. “What if the crimes are so evil, and so many, that they can’t be forgiven?”

“Is one sin too many? Two? A hundred?” the priest asked rhetorically. “It is not the number of crimes you have committed. One unrepented sin weighs more than one hundred repented sins. But you must truly repent.”

Terrill knew there was no way to explain it. There could be no forgiveness for his actions, no matter how he wished they had never happened.

“God will forgive you,” Father Harry said, making the sign of the cross. Then he became brisk and businesslike. “However, I’m afraid the rules of this shelter will not. I caught you stealing food. You’ll have to leave––first thing in the morning.” Terrill must have looked stricken, because he quickly added; “You can come back in a few weeks if you promise never to do it again.”

Terrill shut his mouth. He’d been about to confess to a few centuries of crimes: murders, slaughters, and massacres. Ridiculous. The priest wouldn’t have believed him: but even if he had, by some miracle, he would have found it hard to come up with enough Hail Marys to absolve Terrill of his sins.

“I’m leaving right now,” Terrill said, getting up with a new resolve. The pain was endurable again, but morning was fast approaching. The last thing he wanted was to get caught between sunlight and a church.

He hadn’t gotten more than a few feet before he heard voices coming down the hallway.

“Where you going?” Perry asked. He and Grime were standing in the kitchen doorway.

“I’m sorry, Perry, Grime. I have to go. Thank you for everything you’ve done for me.”

“I’ll go with you,” Perry said. When Terrill started to object, he held up his hand. “Look. I have a place nearby––my sister’s house. She lets me stay in the basement when I need to. I don’t like infringing on her, but… well… this is a special circumstance. Come on, pal. Let me help you.”

Terrill tried to think what to do. He was putting all these people in danger. They didn’t know what he was. But it was so close to morning that there was a chance he wouldn’t find any other shelter in time.

“OK,” he said reluctantly.

Grime started to follow them, but Perry shook his head. “Sorry, Grime. You’d stink up the place. My sister keeps a very clean house.”

Grime muttered something, then stuck out his hand, as if realizing he might never see Terrill again. Terrill shook the hand, which was black with dirt. He realized that he didn’t mind. “Thank you,” he said.

“Remember what I said, Christian,” Father Harry said from the door of the church. “God will forgive you anything.”

Chapter 35

As Richard Carlan drove toward the St. Francis homeless shelter, he had a sudden idea.

He turned on Franklin Avenue and drove through downtown to the west side, pulling up in front of the Hardaway residence. They were still up, though it was nearly midnight.

He knocked on the door. There was that frightened pause on the other side of the door that every homeowner would take when there was a loud knock so late in the evening. Carlan sensed that he was being examined through the spyhole. Then the door was flung open in welcome and Howard Hardaway was beckoning him in.

“Everything all right, officer?” Howard asked.

“Call me Richard, for goodness’ sake.” He was annoyed that they still seemed to believe he was a virtual stranger. Not for long, if he had anything to do with it. “I just wanted to tell you, I’m on my way to arrest your daughter’s killer. I know this is unorthodox, but I wondered if Sylvie would like to be there when it happens.”