Underground Vampire (2 page)

  Other than the
shattered front window, the two dead bodies with what appeared to be most of
their blood spattered about the pristine walls of the living room, and the
couples’ Bertram 36 bobbing derelict in the swell off Bellingham, the San Juan
County Sheriffs found no physical evidence.  The two bodies with their
throats torn out and the blood and tissue spattering the floors and walls were
gruesome but reassuring, as the savagery suggested the depredations of a wild
animal rather than a deranged cannibal loose in the Pacific Northwest. 

 The paw prints tracked about
the house, initially thought to be wolf, were later determined to be from the
couple’s Shi Tzu, which was eventually found cowering under the enormous bed
located in the master bedroom.  None of the available cash and jewelry was
missing and valuable artwork was untouched.  The boat was probably torn
from its mooring by the violent storm, which undoubtedly broke the window, allowing
the predator access to the house. 

 Local law enforcement was
staunchly anti-global warming, anti-environment, anti-democratic,
anti-immigration, anti-minority rights, pro-gun and anti-union, except for
their paychecks and pensions, and rabidly opposed to Wildlife Habitats’ efforts
to preserve and restore the ecosystem of the Salish Sea drainage area.

  Commander Gunderson, police
chief for life, donned his favorite uniform, the one with the gold piping and
stars.  He’d requested field marshal rank from the uniform catalogue shop
and been disappointed to learn that the traditional designation for a European
Field Marshall was a baton. He thought the baton foppish, something limp
wristed conductors waved, and settled for the American General of the Army
rank, five stars  arranged in a cluster on each of his shoulder boards.

 He went on the local news
station to assure the public that they were safe and, when the blonde holding
the microphone lobbed the inevitable softball, he hit a soft single with “Yes,
Tiffany, you bring up a very good point.  If it wasn’t for the liberals’
interference with God’s plans, these poor people would be alive today,” thereby
cementing the station’s continued support at election time.

  Smiling a mouthful of
impossibly perfect banality Tiffany burbled, “The Liberals just killed two
more; you heard it first on fair and balanced news.” The station manager longed
for liberation from the small station backwater and promotion to a major
market, where he could make a difference in the culture war.  When they
weren’t cheating on their spouses, Tiffany and he schemed ways to stand out in
the increasingly cluttered conservative sphere. They’d seized upon a graphic
representation of liberal perfidy and Tiffany painted the thermometer of death
red, solemnly intoning, “Two more, at this rate we’ll reach our goal by
Christmas.” Gunderson sat smiling, admiring her shapely legs as she walked
across the set.

 Returning to his war room,
Gunderson changed into his tactical combat uniform, all the while contemplating
the military grade assault weapons and, his secret pride, an armored vehicle
complete with a rotating turret sporting a .50 caliber machine gun he’d
purchased with the county’s share of the Homeland Security allocation. 
After blowing the budget on his combat arsenal, there were no funds for a
morgue, emergency vehicles, lab equipment or a Medical Examiner to deal with
the remains of persons whose demise suggested foul play. He longed to lead his
men into battle, defeating the forces arrayed against America but, annoyingly,
there were no suspects and none of his deputies could locate either a wolf or
an alien anarchist group to blame for the deaths.

He’d revamped the department by
firing the local boys who had made up the department and hiring police officers
from Los Angeles who had been forced out for what he deemed to be unfounded
charges of brutality. He admired his deputies’ penchant for street justice, but
had to admit that their woodcraft, boating and hunting skills were minimal, at
best. Most had trained in the gang areas of Los Angeles and, if truth be told,
were bored with abusing the local teenagers, rousing the drunks and jailing
tourists for petty misdemeanors. Gunderson hoped the case would turn into
something so he could conclusively demonstrate the authority of his power and
maybe, while he was at it, put it to the sissies who continually harped about
civil rights.  

The San Juan Prosecuting Attorney
doubled as the Coroner and, since law school, hadn’t covered autopsies. 
He gladly handed the messy bodies to the Snohomish County Medical Examiner to
determine the cause of death and the likelihood that the deaths were caused by
unnatural or unlawful means, and to bill the good citizens of San Juan County
for services rendered. Once the crime scene was boarded up and sealed, the
remains bagged and shipped on, Prosecuting Attorney/Coroner Thomas Benson sat
on the deck and admired the view. 

 Paradoxically, about the only
advantage he did have was the complete lack of facilities and personnel. 
Since there were no doctors, forensic experts, lab technicians or even a lab,
he was free to retain the services of outside experts if the situation required
and he saw fit, within reason, of course.  After looking at the bloody
mess, the total lack of evidence and listening to the sheriff’s theory of rogue
wolves swimming from the mainland to eat law abiding citizens, he placed a
telephone call to Seattle and left a message requesting that a certain research
pathologist with subspecialties in genetics and hematology pay a visit to the
remains and provide any information, opinions or guesses as to what caused the
death of the unfortunate couple.   And, he thought, as he left a
message on her cell phone, it doesn’t hurt that she’s got a few bucks and will
work long and cheap if she gets interested in a case.

Arabella Arienne pushed through the
AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY - NO ADMITTANCE doors of the Snohomish County Medical
Examiner’s office without knocking.  Two draped bodies lay on carts in the
middle of the room.  She could tell that one was female, the other male,
by the curves and bumps in the sheets. A middle aged Japanese man dressed in
surgical scrubs ignored her.  Arabella took a moment to look around the
room then locked the door behind her.  The Japanese man continued ignoring
her.

 She casually strolled over to
a government issue desk pushed flush against the wall, hung her black leather
jacket on the back of the wooden office chair and calmly surveyed the desk like
she was inspecting a plague site.  “What is that?” she said, indicating a
lump of fresh tissue setting on a specimen tray. Satisfied that no other fluids
or body parts were on the desktop she set her bag on the desk, careful that it
was nowhere near the specimen.

 “Make yourself at home,” said
Dr. Izanagi, still ostentatiously ignoring her.  Maybe five foot five
inches tall if he spent the evening on the rack, he weighed at least two
hundred pounds and resembled a brick with feet.   Born in a WWII
internment camp, he’d excelled in school, proving his commitment to his new
land every day.  Graduating from the U of W Medical School, he’d found a
home in forensic pathology and served his community well by honestly examining
each case, free of popular sentiment and police pressure. 

 The family name was actually
something different, but when they were rounded up in the night by the
authorities and trucked to the compound at Manzanar, the intake clerk made a mistake
and the family name became the name of an ancient creation deity.  His
parents, interested only in getting along in their new land, accepted the
mistake with stoic grace and carried on much as if the Crown family from
England had been renamed Cronus at Ellis Island.  The only ones who
noticed were other Japanese, and since no one cared about them other than as
prisoners, the name stuck.

 “What is this?” she
asked.  A faint echo of something soft and foreign colored her
voice.  Whenever he commented and asked where she was from she laughed him
off, saying it was polyglot East coast highlighted with South Carolina’s
lowlands. 

  “That’s for you, put it
in your purse,” replied Izanagi. 

 “Fat chance,” she said, “this
is a Perrin.” 

 “Arabella, that thing looks
like a bowling ball bag,” he said, minutely examining the purse she’d centered
on his desk like a work of art.  He spoke with great sorrow, as if the
most important thing in his life was a desire to comfort her in her moment of
anguished humiliation, “that is certainly not art and hardly even fashion; you
have been deceived; I assume it was at the very least inexpensive if not
cheap.”

 “It is a Riva commonly
referred to as the ball bag,” she replied, ignoring his drooping basset hound
eyes, “so you see you weren’t far off, although I doubt any Parisian carries
her bowling ball in it assuming, of course, she actually owns a bowling ball.”

 “You refer to it as the
common ball bag?” 

 “No,” she snorted, “I most
certainly do not.”

 “At the very least it was
cheap, yes?” 

 “They have been in business
since 1893, they maintain their own tannery to control the quality, this is
crocodile, it is twenty years old, of course it wasn’t cheap.”

 “I only ask because I have
never seen it before, an item so unique would have made an impression.” 
He looked at her and at the bag, changing his point of view, “perhaps, when you
are not using it, I could…”

 “No, you cannot borrow it; it
is not a bowling ball bag.”

 Izanagi had first met
Arabella at the dojo he religiously attended.  Located on the outskirts of
the International district, the dojo was the oldest in the Northwest and hewed
closely to the precepts of the first kendo masters.  She had wandered in
one day while a class was in session and asked if she might join. 
Assuming the drudgery of the practice, the strict discipline of the mat, and
the unquestioned authority of the sensei would drive her off like the
Westerners before her, leaving the dojo to the purebreds of Japanese birth,
they acquiesced.   She diligently attended, constantly practiced the
moves and absorbed without complaint the blows rained upon her by teachers and
fellow students. 

 Demonstrating a remarkable
aptitude in the arcane art of Japanese sword fighting, she rose through the
classes.  They seemed always to be paired in practice and developed the
camaraderie of the mat.  It wasn’t until later, one evening when they
stayed late to practice for a tournament he had entered that he learned the
truth.  Alone in the dojo she showed her true proficiency, easily
defeating him with a series of moves that he could barely see, let alone
counter.

 At the conclusion of their
practice or, more realistically, her demonstration, she had revealed her true
nature.  Freely admitting that she’d identified him as a candidate because
of his medical degree and access to blood, she gained his confidence.  And
he admired her skill in the dojo as well as her very Japanese appreciation of
ritual, an appreciation bordering on obsession. Her explanation that service to
a symbolic truth was her connection with humanity somehow satisfied his moral
qualms.

 Once over the shock and with
another demonstration of her powers, she recruited him to serve as a Human
adjunct of the Underground community.  “And if I decline?” he’d asked, his
face stoic.  “That would be a problem,” she’d murmured, “one that would
cause me great distress.”  He stood in front of her not flinching, looking
directly into her face. She knew then that she had chosen wisely, for he was
able to bear her gaze without flinching, an ability few Humans possessed. “I
believe if I decline that my distress would be greater than yours,” he replied,
a grin turning his stern face into a lovable pumpkin, “but one should not make
such a decision based upon a fear of consequences.” 

 Ultimately, his curiosity got
the better of him, that and his fondness for Arabella, a fondness that was
reciprocated.  They developed a complicated relationship where he was
committed to serve her and it was understood that he owed no allegiance or
fealty to the Northwest Clan.  Such a situation was rare and caused much
consternation in the Clan, finally requiring the adjudication of the Queen, who
allowed Izanagi his independence with the admonishment that Arabella not
recruit a separate Clan.

 Since then, he’d been a
valuable liaison, keeping her abreast of the odd death that suggested a Vampire
gone rogue, a situation that the Queen severely discouraged.  Izanagi kept
her supplied with fresh blood and assisted her in her research into the origins
and causes of Vampirism. The supply of blood available to her from Izanagi and
her other recruits and helpers meant that she enjoyed a certain freedom from
the blood monopoly imposed by the Clan.

 Intrigued and attracted as
much by her scientific search for the cause of the change as the weirdness of
the situation, they’d formed an easy alliance where he kept her informed as to
any anomalies that might direct the authorities to the secret existence of the
Clan and she shielded him from the more overbearing of her brethren, providing
him whatever assistance he required.

 “This bag is handmade,
Italian leather, it cost over a thousand dollars and when did you become an
adjudicator of art let alone fashion?”   Five foot ten inches in her
spiky heels, she wore an expensive pair of jeans and a tight fitted shirt that
exposed an inch or two of her taut belly.  Her black hair was severe and
shoulder length, parted down the middle and swept back from her pale white skin
and full red lips.  Perched on her forehead were the sunglasses she always
had handy; he thought they were aviators like his father wore in the old
pictures he kept in an album. 

 She carried a metal lunch box
with a noirish crime fighter emblazoned on the top.   When he’d
asked, “how do you get jeans to fit like that?” she’d replied, “I try on a
thousand pairs till I find my perfection,” and he knew she told the truth,
“Then I purchase all of them.”

 “Times must be tough, you
packing a lunch like us working stiffs,” he said, as she crossed over to the
table.  “Who’s that,” he asked, pointing at the lunch box.  Opening
the top she replied, “It’s the masked avenger; here, baked them myself,” and,
setting it down at the feet of the closest corpse, she opened it revealing neat
rows of oatmeal chocolate chip cookies with crushed nuts sprinkled across the
tops.  

 Helping himself to a cookie,
Izanagi munched for a moment.  “These are good, makes me wish for more
mysteriously dead bodies.”  

 Arabella stood at the side watching,
years of experience told her the show was coming.

 “First, I get this,” he spun
theatrically and bowed with his arm out, introducing the side by side
examination tables, “And then, like magic, you appear.”  

  Ignoring his theatrics
she said, “What is so baffling about these two that the County is willing to
pay me to schlep here and make sure you do your job correctly?”

 Without a word, Izanagi slid
between the tables and, like a magician at the big moment, dramatically pulled
both sheets simultaneously to reveal two bare torsos.  “Husband and
wife.  Notice anything, any little similarities that jump right
out?”  

 Arabella walked around the
tables visually inspecting the bodies. “Massive trauma to the neck at the
carotid artery, throats appear punctured, with multiple lacerations around the
neck and chest and shoulder but you don’t need me to find the obvious. 
What is that?” She asked, pointing at objects protruding from the bodies.

 Laughing, Izanagi pulled on
surgical gloves.  “Those are shards from the front window, a great big
metal glass thing, industrial quality.  It exploded inward; glass imbedded
in them, the floor, the furniture, hell, glass was stuck into the wall on the
other side of the room. If I didn’t know better, I’d think a bomb went off
outside that window.”

 “What do the police
think?  Who’s in charge of the case?”

 “Sheriff has it, Gunderson,
thinks wolves did it.”

 “Gunderson?  Wolves?”
stupefied at the concept.

 “Yep, wolves swam out to the
island, the storm broke the window and the wolves walked in and surprised them,
opportunistic sport killers, he says.”

  “Gunderson?” 
Pulling latex gloves from a box she prepped, ready to assist as she had so many
times before.

 “You don’t need those, just
want to show you one thing then you are out of here.”

 “Gunderson, if I’d known I
would have stayed home,” she moaned.  “Publicity?”

 “Of course, TV, radio,
interviews, wearing his generalissimo uniform. Yep, he’s out hunting the wolves
right now.”

 “If you turned out the lights
Gunderson couldn’t find his own dick.”

 Izanagi giggled when she said
dick. “That may be true, so look at what I have to show you.”

 Izanagi turned to Alan’s
corpse and elongated the neck by grabbing a fistful of hair, much the way his
killer had done, and rotating the head back so that the neck bowed.  “Tell
me what you see, Arabella,” he instructed.

 She bent in and examined the
neck; a quick glance told her the story: the carotid had been punctured by two
long canines.  Most interesting was the surrounding damage; whoever had
done this had chewed on the necks. Without saying anything Arabella turned to
the other body.  “Her?” she questioned. 

 “The same, although not quite
as savage; probably somewhat sated by the time he got to her,” he replied,
“Would you like to see?”

 “Please, she will want to
know.”

 Izanagi repeated the
procedure using Joyce’s ponytail for leverage. Again, Arabella’s inspection was
brief.  She stood looking at the two bodies.  Izanagi, apparently
unconcerned, said, “Would you like some lunch?” 

 “Thank you,” she replied,
“I’m famished.”

 From a small refrigerator
Izanagi retrieved a bento box and, looking at Arabella, held up one finger then
two.

 “Two please,” she replied.

 They sat at the desk, he
delicately feeding himself tuna sashimi with rice and vegetables while she
demurely sucked blood out of the bag through the straw he’d thoughtfully
provided.  “That thing really cost over a thousand dollars?” he asked,
pointing his chopsticks at her bag.

 “Yes, isn’t it marvelous.”

 “What specimens will you
need?” he asked.

 “Some heart tissue would be
nice, a blood sample from both of them and all the blood you can spare, if you
have any,” she replied starting in on the second bag.

 “Have you been feeding? 
You look a little pale, which for you is not a good thing.”

 “No, I’ve been in the lab
pretty much round the clock.  The only reason I took this job was to see
you.  I’m not taking any private work at the moment.”

 “Anything promising? 
Should I come down and give you a hand?”

 “You know how it goes. 
Whenever I think I’m getting somewhere, I’m unable to replicate the
results.  I think I’m onto something at a cellular level but it doesn’t
translate to a complex organism.”

 “When I got your message I
scrounged all the fresh blood I could, it’s in the fridge next to the
meatloaf.”

 “Thank you,” she said, a rare
smile on her face, “Your professional opinion please, what do you think caused
this?”

 “Not an animal, messy but not
messy enough” he replied.

 “Mechanical device?” she
asked, methodically eliminating possibilities.

 Going to Alan’s table he
gently twisted the neck to highlight the ravaged neck and artery.  “You
know those big forks people get out when they want to carve the turkey,
something like that, think a giant sewing machine with a big two tined fork
jabbing away with plenty of ripping and tearing.”