Hard Spell (20 page)

  "Tarantulas aren't native to this part of the world," I said, just to be saying something. "They come from the tropics."

  "Yeah, I know," Milner said. "Funny how a whole bunch of them found their way to Casey, huh? Almost like magic." The bitterness could curdle milk.

  "I know you like Rachel Proctor for it, but there's something–"

  "
Like
her for it? She a fucking witch, and witches use magic, and it was magic that fucked up two cops, decent guys with families. It don't take fucking Einstein to connect the dots."

  "I know, but–"

  "But nothing, Markowski. I heard you was tight with that cunt, but you know what? I don't care how many times she sucked your cock, or how good she was at it. There's a BOLO out on her, and if everybody on the force doesn't know she's a cop killer, they will before end of third watch today. I guarantee it. Now get the fuck out of my sight."

  We got.

We were almost back to the car when my cell phone rang.

  "Markowski."

  "So this guy goes to a whorehouse, but he doesn't know that all the girls working there are vampires, right? He says to the madam–"

  "Lacey, I am really,
really
not in the mood for jokes right now."

  "Suit yourself, Stan. But I'm looking at something I think you might wanna see."

  "Which is...?"

  "Another dead vamp."

  "Shit."

  "Yeah, and it looks like the same M.O. – well, it is, but it isn't, if you know what I mean."

  "No, I don't," I said, "but it doesn't matter. Look, Lacey, I appreciate your calling, but there's shit I need to deal with here tonight. Can you just send me the reports and photos online later tonight, or tomorrow?"

  "I probably could, but it's not my case. I'm in Pittston, the most musical town in the Valley."

  "Say what?"

  "You ever drive down Main Street? Bar, space, bar, bar, space. You'd probably get the opening song from that musical
Bats
if you played it on the piano."

  "Lacey–"

  "Okay, okay, but that's where the vic turned up. A Statie I know gave me a call, because he knows about the dead vamp we turned up the other night."

  "A Statie?"

  "Well, Pittston doesn't exactly have a Homicide squad, you know? So they called in the Staties, and the PBI's taking over the investigation."

  "Shit."

  "If you put in a request through channels, you might get copies of all the case materials in, I dunno, a week or so. Maybe two."

  "Shit."

  "You keep saying that, Stan."

  "Well, what did you say when you found out you were going to have to drive to Pittston tonight?"

  "Me? I said
motherfucker
."

  "Give me your 20, and I'll see you there in a little while."

  She gave me an address along with some directions, then said, "Are you bringing that partner of yours along – the big guy?"

  "I was planning to, yeah."

  "Good. He's cute."

As I guided the car onto 81-South, I said to Karl, "Four dead vamps. Normally, I'd file that under G for "a good start", but if Vollman's right, that means Sligo, or whoever's behind this, is almost ready to do the Big Nasty."

  "Except we don't know what
that
is, either."

  "Or when he's gonna do it, or where, or even who this Sligo is. But other than that, I'd say we're pretty much on top of this thing."

  We'd gone about a mile down the highway when Karl said, "Stan. Listen."

  "What?"

  "If this is none of my fucking business, then just say so, but..."

  "But what? Just spit it out, Karl – I won't shoot you. Not while I'm driving, anyway."

  "Well... it's pretty obvious that you've got a real hard-on for vamps. Not for other supes, so much. I never heard you bitch about weres, or trolls, or even ghouls – and
those
fuckers creep me out. But you just
hate
vampires. And that's your business, I'm not tryin' to tell you what you oughta think. I was just wondering... how come?"

  I thought about making a joke about it and changing the subject. And I thought about telling Karl to mind his own fucking business. Then I thought about telling him the truth.

  Since he's my partner, who's saved my ass at least twice, I decided to go with door number three.

I took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Okay," I said. "It's like this."

  
I've been on the force fornine years, and a detective for
two, and I want that Detective First Grade shield so bad I
can taste it. I can't explain why it means so much to me.
Maybe it had something to do with my old man, who said
I'd never amount to much, or the Irish nuns, who always
treated me like just another dumb Polack – it doesn't matter
why. I want that promotion, and the way to get it is to make
collars and clear cases. So I'm putting in a lot of overtime,
and I mean a lot.

  
This brings me a fair amount of grief at home, with
Rita complaining about how I'm not there much and
when I am all I want to do is sleep, or vegetate in front of
the TV, stuff like that. But she never complains when I
bring home the paycheck, which is pretty fat because of
all that overtime.

  
Once I make First, I'm gonna dial it back a bit, start
spending more time at home with my wife and kid. That's
what I tell myself, anyway.

  
So I come home late one Saturday night (weekends are
busy times for cops) and my daughter Christine is out with
friends, and my wife is in bed, and that's all normal except
when I go up there I find Rita isn't breathing.

  
I call 911, then do CPR until they get there, and the ambulance guys are pretty quick, but none of it makes any
difference. They pronounce her about ten minutes after we
get to the hospital.

  
Once I can think again, there are two questions burning
in my mind: "How?" and "Why?" I start by demanding a
copy of the autopsy report and I finally get one – but it's
not brought to me by a doctor, but by another guy from the
job. His name's Terrana and he says he works in Supernatural Crimes. In my department we used to make jokes
about Supernatural Crimes.

  
I've seen plenty of autopsy reports, and I try to close my
feelings off and treat this one like its about somebody who
doesn't matter to me. That works until I get to the part
where it says "exsanguination."

  
I look at Terrana. "She bled out? That's bullshit – there
wasn't a fucking drop of blood on her or on the bed. Not
a drop."

  
"I know," Terrana says to me. He's got one of those slow,
measured voices that reminds me of funeral directors. "But
there's more than one way somebody can bleed to death."

  
I stare at him and I think about what unit he's with and
the little light comes on in my head, finally. "Vampire? You
saying a vampire killed Rita?"

  
He just looks at me, which is all the answer I need.

  
"Wait a second," I tell him. "There were no marks on
her neck. I'd have seen 'em, count on that."

  
"That biting on the neck stuff is kind of a cliché spread
by the movies, Stan. Sure, it happens sometimes, especially
when it's involuntary, such as in cases of surprise vampire
attack. But there's lots of veins and arteries all over the body
that a vampire can make use of."

  
"Terrana, will you talk English and stop with the riddles? Please? You're saying a vampire killed her but that
she wasn't attacked? What the hell does that mean?"

  
"It means it may have been consensual," he says.

  
I feel my hands form into fists, seemingly of their own
accord. "You're telling me she let some fucking bloodsucker...?"

  
"The M.E. did find fang marks, Stan. And you're right,
her neck was clean. He found the the inside of her
thigh, high up, near the... uh, there's a big artery that runs
through there, the femoral artery."

  
"So the blood-sucking bastard raped her with his fangs,
the fucking–"

  
"I'm sorry, Stan, but the M.E. doesn't think there was
force involved. If you read the rest of the report, you'll see
that there was no evidence of other trauma, and that there
was more than one set of fang marks. Some of them
were... old."

  
I run my hand over my face, maybe trying to wipe away
the expression that I knew was stamped there. Then I have
a thought. "So he snuck in, night after night, like in Dracula. He kept attacking her in her sleep until she–"

  
"Stan, that book was written before we knew very much
about vampires. Stoker got a lot of it right, but there were
quite a few things he got wrong."

  
"Like what?"

  
"Vampires can't sneak into a house like cat burglars,
Stan. Nobody knows why, but they have to be invited in."

A few days later, I apply for the transfer. It works its way
through the system, and a week later I get approval. So I
go through the special training, then start work as a detective in Supernatural Crimes. And in my time away from
the job, I hunt the bloodsucker who had seduced and killed
my wife.

  
It takes me eight months. Eight long months of research,
cultivating informants, reading old arrest reports, trading
favors with other cops, intimidating and cajoling and bribing members of the local vamp community.

  
Eight months. And then I find him.

  
But it isn't that simple anymore, because by then, I've
got a bigger problem to deal with. My need for revenge is
now mixed with fear – fear for my daughter, Christine.

  
Anton Kinski's got a job. Most vamps do, I'd learned.
Since the undead had made themselves known, along
with the rest of the supes, they were able to stop living in
graveyards and the basements of abandoned houses. But
rent and decent clothes cost money, so Anton has found
work (night shift, of course) as a pleater at a small garment factory.

  
He's a good worker, is Anton. Puts in his time, rarely
misses a night (vamps don't call in sick) and pretty much
keeps to himself. When he's not off seducing and murdering
women, he's got a pretty boring life, or whatever it is that
vamps have.

  
Until the day he wakes up at sunset to find me leaning
over him, the sharp point of my wooden stake resting lightly
against his chest. My other hand is holding a mallet, and I
make sure he sees that, too, along with the silver crucifix
hanging on a chain around my neck.

  
"You don't know how much I want to pound this stake
clear through your body, Anton," I tell him, my voice thick
and tight. "And if you so much as twitch, that's exactly
what I'm gonna do."

  
Nothing moves but his eyes, which search my face and
see there the truth of what I'd just told him.

  
His lips barely move when he finally speaks, and his
voice is barely loud enough to hear. "Who – who are you?"

  
"I'm the husband of Rita Markowski, the woman you
killed last fall. Remember, Anton? There can't have been
so many of them since then that you don't remember Rita."

  
He closes his eyes for a few secs. Then he opens them
and says, "I don't suppose it will matter if I tell you it was
an accident – carelessness, really, on my part."

  
"No difference, Anton. None at all."

  
His head moves about an eighth of an inch in a nod. "So,
why are we talking? You want to gloat a while before you
stake me?"

  
"No, Anton. It tears my guts out to say it, but I need you."

  
He looks a question at me.

  
"You didn't turn Rita – didn't make her... one of you."

  
"Like I said – accident. Got... carried away."

  
"But you know how to do it."

  
"Sure, of course," Anton says. "I've done it before."

  
"Is it true, what I've heard? You have to exchange blood
with the victim before she dies? Is that how it's done?"

  
"Yeah, pretty much." He swallows. "That it? You want...
me to turn you?"

  
He winces as the stake's point presses harder into his
chest. "Don't push your fucking luck, Anton. I'd no more
become one of you leeches than I'd volunteer to work in a
concentration camp."