Silent Kills (30 page)
Authors: C.E. Lawrence
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
Francois Nugent slipped on the thick leather vest, pulling it over his starched cotton shirt with the old-fashioned high neck, twisting it around so that the big brass buckles faced front. His hands trembled as he fastened them, pulling the leather straps tight before inserting the metal teeth into their holes.
He had spent days finding just the right elements for this costume, haunting vintage and secondhand stores as well as upscale boutiques. It wasn’t easy—the Upper East Side clothing stores were anything but steampunk. He had better luck downtown, especially in the East Village, where the goth fashion scene was strong. He was tired of explaining to his parents and other fogies that goth and steampunk weren’t the same thing at all. They tended to dismiss anything he was into anyway, so he wasn’t sure why he even cared.
But now Candy was dead, and it was his job to avenge her death. He was lucky his lawyer had been able to convince the D.A.’s office that a misdemeanor was an appropriate charge for such an upstanding young man. Upstanding—ha! That was a laugh. A quick guilty plea, a suspended sentence, a few months of community service, and he would be done. Now he was free to hunt and kill his sister’s attacker.
He pulled on his knee-high calfskin boots (they were easy to find—he bought them at Manhattan Saddlery on East Twenty-fourth Street, and was pleased that they had set his parents back five hundred dollars—not that they would miss it). He placed the soft leather aviator’s cap on his head, complete with goggles, an absolute requirement for any steampunk costume. Over the vest went his “ammunition”—a wide leather shoulder strap, the kind worn by bandoleros in old movies—except that instead of bullets it held three carved wooden stakes. He figured three should do it—a really good vampire hunter could probably wrap the job up with one. He was a novice, though, so he would need all the help he could get. He might miss the first time, or even the second, but not the third time. Or so he hoped. He pulled on a pair of fingerless black leather gloves—by far the easiest item of his attire to find, available at any bike shop. He finished off the ensemble with a dark red scarf, which he twisted around his neck like a cravat.
Trembling with excitement, he turned to look in his full-length bedroom mirror, and was a little shocked to see a scared-looking kid gazing back at him, rather than a fierce, fearless vampire hunter. He sucked in a deep breath and forced himself to exhale slowly. He had to move forward in spite of his fear.
There was a knock on the bedroom door. He froze, still as a rabbit in the forest.
“Yes?”
“What are you doin’ in there, Frannie?”
It was Flossie.
“Getting dressed.”
“I never seen a boy take this long to get dressed. What are you up to, then?”
“Nothing. Go away.”
“Don’t you sass back at me, Francois Nugent—I won’t stand for it, so I won’t.”
“Please? I—I’m not feeling well.”
“Is it your stomach?”
“Uh, yeah.”
“Well, if that’s the case, then let me bring you something.”
“I don’t need anything.”
“ ’Course you do. If you’re not well, you’ll be needing some of my homemade cock-a-leekie soup. I’ll go fetch some—I’ll be right back.”
He listened for the sound of her footsteps on the stairs, and when he was certain she was gone, he slipped out of the room, down the back staircase, and out through the butler’s pantry before she even made it into the kitchen.
He had a job to do. It was time to go kill a vampire.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE
Troy was a handsome city in Rensselaer County, perched on the eastern bank of the Hudson River just nine miles northeast of Albany. Lee had been there once before, years ago, and remembered being struck by the odd contrast between the beauty of the architecture and the depressed aura of the town. They left in the early afternoon to avoid rush-hour traffic, piling into Detective Butts’s roomy caravan of a Chevy. Quinlan had gone up early to stay the night with his cousin and would meet them there. Butts asked Lee to drive, and spent the entire trip in the backseat with his head buried in a guidebook. Lee noticed the stocky detective had a fondness for brochures and travel information.
“Hey,” he called up from the backseat, “did you know that a century ago Troy was one of the country’s wealthiest cities?”
“Fascinating,” Krieger remarked dryly. “Please tell us more.”
“Okay,” he said cheerfully. Reading aloud, he continued. “ ‘Bursting into prominence during the Industrial Revolution, it was a prime transportation hub, lying at the confluence of the Erie Canal and the Hudson River.�� ”
Lee could sense Krieger, sitting next to him, rolling her eyes.
“ ‘With the advent of the railroad, Troy fell on hard times from which it has never really recovered. However, within that curse was a hidden blessing. Troy’s long economic depression had saved it from the circling sharks known as real estate developers. Forgotten and neglected, most of the glorious buildings of its heyday are still standing, in all their nineteenth-century splendor—’ ”
“For God’s sake, stop!” Krieger begged.
“Don’t you find this stuff interesting?” He sounded genuinely hurt.
“No.”
“Then what do you want to talk about?”
It was like having a five-year-old in the backseat, Lee thought. What an odd family grouping they made—Butts as the whiny child, Krieger the stern mother, and himself as the unwilling peacemaker father.
“Can’t we just have quiet time?” said Krieger.
“Fine—whatever you want,” Butts snapped, but Lee felt the air thicken with his dissatisfaction. Butts could pout with the best of them, though it never lasted very long. He concentrated on driving, as the big car shot up the Thruway, belching thin plumes of smoke in its wake.
“I think you need a tune-up on this thing,” Krieger remarked. She was greeted with stony silence.
The drive took the entire three hours predicted by MapQuest. They crossed the bridge from Albany at about 4
P.M.
The ball wasn’t to start until eight, but they had given themselves extra time to become familiar with the city.
P.M.
The ball wasn’t to start until eight, but they had given themselves extra time to become familiar with the city.
Lee took Washington Avenue to Route 4, driving north past Blooming Grove Cemetery. As they drove by, Lee saw a large monument with an angel perched on top, her wings extended behind her, a beatific expression on her face. The tombstone read
Forever Beloved, Never Forgotten.
Reading it, Lee was reminded of his fear that he would someday forget his sister, his memories of her gradually slipping into the mists of the past.
Forever Beloved, Never Forgotten.
Reading it, Lee was reminded of his fear that he would someday forget his sister, his memories of her gradually slipping into the mists of the past.
“This town has a lot of cemeteries,” Butts remarked. “The most famous one is Oakwood. It has a crematorium.. . . That’s kinda gruesome. And guess who’s buried there?”
“Please don’t keep us in suspense,” Krieger said.
“Uncle Sam!”
“He was a real person?” said Lee.
“Yep,” said Butts. “And he lived in Troy. It says here in the guidebook—”
“Sorry to interrupt, but where are we meeting Quinlan again?” Lee asked.
“Uh, the public library just north of Ferry Street. Man, this place is somethin’,” Butts said, peering out the window as they drove north on Fourth Street.
The city had the curiously untouched look of a place that has suffered through a long period of neglect. Impressive nineteenth-century brick townhouses with beautifully detailed doorways, stoops, and bay windows were interspersed with empty lots, wooden clapboard houses, and the occasional parking garage. Abandoned storefronts were nestled higgledy-piggledy next to what must have once been stately mansions. The whole town had a much lower skyline than neighboring Albany across the river. It looked like a small town that had grown into a city, which is exactly what it was. Troy had a touching downtrodden charm, as though it recognized how far it had fallen from its former glory. And yet in the purposeful strides of its citizens and cheery new businesses Lee sensed an air of hopefulness, as if it might someday regain its former stature.
The public library was a stately white Romanesque building on Second Street, not far from the heart of town. Quinlan was waiting for them in the parking lot. He grinned when he saw Butts.
“So, Percival, how’s it goin’?”
Butts glared at him. They weren’t in costume yet, but everyone had been having some fun at his expense. Even Lee found the temptation hard to resist.
“Detective Krieger was right—you do look like a Percival,” he said.
“You think?” said Quinlan, studying him. “Or Rodney. He could definitely be a Rodney. Rodney Strange-fellow.”
“That’s good too,” said Lee.
“Hey!” Butts said. “Could we cut the crap and get this show on the road?”
It was agreed that Quinlan would ride with the Troy patrol officer, whose name was Thadeus Jackson—a good nineteenth-century name if ever there was one. They would circle the block slowly rather than waiting in one spot. They hoped this would serve the dual purpose of not attracting attention while allowing them to keep an eye on possible escape routes in case the UNSUB should make a run for it.
After driving around Troy, they changed clothes at Quinlan’s cousin’s place. His two young daughters watched, wide-eyed and silent, as they came and went. The older one clutched a stuffed giraffe, while the younger one held tightly on to her sister’s arm with one hand, the thumb of the other shoved into her mouth.
The Herman Melville museum was a nineteenth-century clapboard house in the northern part of town. They arrived half an hour early, but the ball was already in progress, so they went in. The program at the door said the ball was being sponsored by the Lansingburgh Historical Society as a fund-raiser for the museum, and they had done quite a job with decorations. After passing through a small foyer where they paid an entrance fee of fifteen dollars, they came to the main room, probably originally the living room. The dimly lit room had been decorated to look like a cross between a nineteenth-century factor y interior and a Victorian parlor. Brass fixtures of all sorts lined the walls—piping, machine parts, what looked like an old water boiler. A brass railing was set up in front of a stage prepared for a band. Victorian tea tables loaded with various delicacies had been scattered around the room, which sizzled with electricity as a thin bolt of yellow lightning crackled across the ceiling, radiating out from the center.
The steampunk fans had the same pasty skin and soft bodies Lee had seen at science fiction conventions—and the same curious mix of intelligence and innocence. Lee was afraid he and Butts would stick out in the rarified atmosphere, in spite of their costumes. But the attendees seemed only vaguely aware of other people—their interest seemed to lie more in the elaborate costumes and setting.
He had never seen so many leather boots, belts, and brass buckles in one place. There were explorers and aviators, men of science and mad doctors, both male and female. There were more than a few vampire hunters, all with wooden stakes fastened onto their leather vests or slung on wide belts over their shoulder.
Everywhere there were goggles. Big, small, elaborate, and simple—most made of leather, with old-fashioned, heavy lenses. Some even looked homemade. A few people wore them over their eyes, which made them look like Atom Ant, but most wore them as fashion accessories, wrapped around their caps or top hats—or just on top of their heads, like sunglasses.
“How will you know if he’s here?” Butts asked as they shouldered through the crowd of mostly young white people.
“Look for someone who fits the profile,” Lee said.
“What about that guy?” Butts said, pointing to a sallow young man in a black morning coat and grey striped vest. He had evidently come as Edgar Allan Poe—the stuffed raven on his shoulder being the giveaway.
“I don’t think so,” Lee said. “Too obvious. This guy wouldn’t call attention to himself so overtly.”
He turned to avoid the gaze of a plump young woman stuffed into a wine-colored leather corset and floor-length black satin skirt. Her long black hair hung about her shoulders, and the skin of her ample bosom was the pale color he associated with death. Her eyes were rimmed with heavy kohl liner, and her lips were painted deep purple, outlined in black. She had given him the once-over, as had more than a few of the young ladies in attendance.
“What
is
it with you?” Butts muttered, watching the young woman’s gaze continue to follow Lee as they passed her. “Goddamn chick magnet.”
is
it with you?” Butts muttered, watching the young woman’s gaze continue to follow Lee as they passed her. “Goddamn chick magnet.”
Lee shrugged and pressed on into the swarm of bodies, dappled with dancing daggers of light from the large silver disco ball hanging from the ceiling. It had been outfitted with tiny metal spikes, which shot thin rapiers of light swirling onto the floor of the ballroom. Standing amid spinning daggers of colored light, Lee watched the couples twirling and twisting on the dance floor.
Why isn’t this enough?
he wondered. Why did some people need to make one another twist and writhe in agony? What deep, dark impulse drove such a man as the one they sought?
Why isn’t this enough?
he wondered. Why did some people need to make one another twist and writhe in agony? What deep, dark impulse drove such a man as the one they sought?
He had learned that horror begets horror. Sometimes it felt as if there was no end to the widening spiral of violence plaguing the human race. Was it hardwired into our brains, or would his job someday become outdated? He hoped for the latter, but feared the former.
He continued to search the room, hoping to spot the killer before he found his next victim.
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