Underground Vampire (3 page)

 “Thanksgiving will be extra
special from now on; the bird comes out, the fork goes in, charming.”

 “Something like that to
puncture the neck and artery; see the holes go all the way through, but there’s
all this surrounding damage, like someone decided to chew on them a little
bit.”  Turning the neck, “See, but why would two people watch someone walk
up the beach, climb their stairs, cross the deck, break through the front
window and get stabbed in the neck with a meat fork without running away or
resisting?” 

 “Why indeed,” she replied.

 Returning to his desk, he
chased the remaining grains of rice around the bottom of the box, determined to
consume every calorie he’d purchased, while she turned the bag up, draining the
second bag of blood.

 “Did I mention that the front
door was unlocked and whoever it was could have walked in without busting that
window, which, according to the manufacturer, is unbreakable?”

 “Wolves don’t know how to
open doors.”

 “You and Gunderson should get
along real well on this one, real well.”

 “What will you say in your
report?” she asked.

 “This one gets the facts, all
of them, meticulous report, including the incredible lack of debris under the
fingernails of two people who were allegedly attacked by a wolf, the almost
total lack of blood in their bodies, and a careful analysis and discussion
concerning the neck and artery damage, which no one will ever see again because
of the incisions I will make in the course of my autopsy, incisions that will
obliterate the credible physical evidence supporting the inevitable
conclusion.”

 “Which is?” she prodded.

 “Oh, that is quite
clear.  These two unfortunates were attacked and killed by a Vampire, a
Vampire who was aggressive, vicious and very, very hungry.  Famished, I
would say.”

 After a moment she said, “I
agree.”

 “And, this Vampire actually
fed upon the victims, a shocking breach of Vampiric morality and law.”

 “Whoever did this is
deranged,” she replied.

 “Care to comment on
identity.”

 “Too soon to tell, but this
could be bad.”

 “No, Arabella, this is bad,
it is bad right now.”

 “It’s good this landed on
you.”

 “Yes, I suppose it is.”

 They finished their lunch,
each absorbed in their own thoughts, Izanagi thinking of the report he would
draft, a report that would withstand scrutiny yet not lead anyone to the truth;
Arabella that the past had returned, that she needed to visit the site and see
for herself, that she had an unpleasant report to her unpleasant employer.

 Finished, she retrieved her
bag.  Walking back she picked up her lunchbox asking, “Want these, I baked
them for you?”   He looked at the neat rows of cookies saying, “Sure,
those will help my diet.”  She emptied out the cookies onto his desktop
after putting a sheet of paper down as a napkin.  Crossing back to the
exam tables, she put the tissue samples into the box, then crossed to the
fridge and retrieved the blood, which went into the box. Last, she held the
lunch box under the ice dispenser, filling it up. 

 “Most people use an ice
chest,” grimaced Izanagi, shoving another cookie into his mouth. 

 Putting on her jacket,
Arabella turned to him, picked up her lunchbox, held it out and said, “This matches
my outfit.”

 “Best dressed assassin ten
years running.”

 Laughing, she waved and
headed for the door.

 “Arabella, I’ve never seen
one quite like this.”

 “I know,” she said, “This
might get worse.”

 “An insane Vampire on the
loose, there is something worse?”

 “An insane Vampire with a
bunch of insane friends.”

 “Go home and get your sword,”
he said.

 “I might just do that,” she
said.

 Several years ago, when
Izanagi had achieved the highest rank at the dojo, he’d given her a short sword
as a memento of the occasion. The present was extravagant, and more so when she
realized he’d had the sword smith incorporate silver into the steel, providing
the weapon with a lethal shock devastating to Vampire flesh.

 “Arabella, you call me once
you’ve looked at the tissue and blood.  I want to know whatever you
find.  Anything and everything, I want to know.”

 “Of course,” she replied,
“and I’d appreciate it very much if you’d let Gunderson know I’ll be dropping
by to take a look.”

“Of course,” Izanagi said to the door
swinging shut, “of course.”

 The last time she had been in
the library of the mansion on Queen Anne Hill was the horrid evening when the
Queen decided to drop Oliver into the Sea rather than cut off his dear,
beautiful head and burn it, as Arabella had counseled.  Now, the Queen sat
in the same wing chair in the same corner in the same gloom while Arabella
paced before the bay windows overlooking fashionable West Highland Drive. 
Heavily covered in dark burgundy velvet drapes, the old-fashioned roller shades
were three quarters down the windows so that only a shadow of the Saturday
morning drizzle lit the room. 

 “Why did you go to the
Island?” the Queen asked, continuing the casual conversation she’d started as
soon as Petru had ushered her in. They’d covered the autopsy and Dr. Izanagi’s
findings and concerns; she’d described the wounds on the necks and the signs of
feeding and the lack of blood in the corpses.  In deference to her
friendship with Izanagi, she’d skipped his concerns about the psychological
condition of the perpetrator.  No use stoking the Queen’s latent and
lurking sense of paranoia.  “A lack,” Arabella added, “the police
explained by the severity of the attack and the copious blood on the floor and
the furniture and walls and even the ceiling where the murders occurred. 
Something,” she murmured in what she hoped was a reassuring tone, “that should
divert any fanciful suspicions of creatures of the night.” 

 “Why,” the Queen snapped,
“why would anyone think of us; is there something else, something you haven’t
mentioned, a little secret that you have?”  “What do you think, Petru, is
she keeping secrets from us; does she know something she’s not telling us?”
bringing him into the conversation like maybe he had an opinion and, if he did,
that she cared what it was. 

 “No, I was thinking more
about the current culture’s fascination with creatures of the night and
particularly the Vampyra,” giving it the old world Russian pronunciation that
the Queen preferred, “and I don’t want the press to pick it up and start
in.”  The only thing the Queen hated more than Hollywood’s current
fascination with Vampires was the thought of the lurid press picking up on the
case, nicknaming it the Vampire Murders and gabbling about it every night on
the news. 

  Sinking back into the
chair so that her voice came out of the dark, she picked up their conversation
where it had left off.  “The facts,” she said in her most reasonable
voice, “suggest that the attacker was not there only to feed but for the joy of
death.  Was there semen present?” she asked, angling for the deranged sex
killer solution.

 “No, no semen, nothing to
indicate that either had been penetrated or molested in any way.  Izanagi
checked them both,” said Arabella, “it wasn’t an attack of sexual deviation,”
squelching that line of inquiry.

 “Just the necks and the
violence and the lack of physical evidence; no DNA, no fingerprints and, most
curious, no tracks on the floor with all that blood.  Makes you wonder how
he, it must have been a he, got around without traipsing through the blood and
leaving footprints all over.”  Out of the shadows of the wing chair the
Queen’s crimson eyes focused on her. 

 Arabella stood still, merely
reporting, just the facts, no editorial comment from her, thank you, and gazed
back.  Creepy Petru stood over against the wall watching as he had for
centuries, no longer a part of the conversation, only present in case a spot of
violence became necessary. 

 He stood, quiet and
cadaverous, watching every step she took as she resumed pacing past the windows
on the path of polished wood between the cream Aubusson rug and the silk
covered walls, turned left and walked by him as he stood at attention like a
retainer from the 15th century, which, in fact, he was.   “You smell
like a potato; still sleeping in the dirt?” she whispered as she went by,
traversing the path in front of him past the doorway. 

 “And that silly twit
Gunderson, what did he have to say at the Island, anything new to add, more
facts, more theories, any witnesses?” inquired the Queen politely, like she was
asking about the well being of distant relatives.  The wing chair was an
enormous thing, almost loveseat wide.  It was covered in what could
charitably be described as a paisley design of purples and violets with pink in
the pattern.  

 Stopping to answer, Arabella
got a clear view and was able to confirm her suspicion the old bat was wearing
a perfectly preserved pink 1950’s Chanel suit. A la Jackie Kennedy, she’d topped
it with the matching pillbox hat.

 “He was more interested in
why I was there, wanted to know what it was I thought I’d find since in his
eyes I’m a glorified lab tech. It’s only because Izanagi called and I work for
the Prosecuting attorney that he let me in.  Even then he followed me
around like I might steal the silver.” 

 “And what did you find in
your examination of the scene?” the Queen asked, as Arabella cut diagonally
across the room so as not to walk behind her and incite Petru to mayhem to
redress the insult to his mistress.

 “Was it a wolf, as Gunderson
thinks?” asked her Royal Highness, the complete and absolute ruler and arbiter
of all things concerning the happenings and business of the Northwest Clan of
Vampires.

“No, it wasn’t a wolf,” replied
Arabella, “I believe it was one of us,” calmly, as if they were discussing
something besides home grown treason.  Now it’s in the open and we will
get to wherever she is going, thought Arabella, relieved that the finish line
was in sight.

“How did you get to the island, did
you fly?”  Her changing course made Arabella nervous and Petru started
muffling about, sensing an uptick in the anxiety level. 

“I chartered a boat,” she said,
remembering the dislocation when she chugged over the spot and reached down the
fifteen hundred feet to the bottom of the sea where a certain electricity
should have been, but wasn’t. 

 “You chartered a boat and
steered a course that wandered a bit from a straight line to the Island, a
course you hadn’t been on for a hundred and twenty years, to a spot that only
you and I and Petru know.  I wonder why, why would you do that?  Did
you already suspect something or were you visiting an old friend?” mused the
Queen, curious like a loving aunt asking about your recent vacation rather than
a paranoid tyrant snuffling about for plots in the pantry.

 “I only wonder because it
seems a leap for you to immediately go to that spot, that particular
place.  Don’t you agree, Petru?  Seems odd to us that you would go
there.” 

 If Petru thought it was odd
he didn’t say, standing still and staying quiet like the Queen preferred. 

 “He’s not there”, replied
Arabella, angling about to keep the fidgeting Petru visible in the corner of
her vision.  

 “Did you dive in, did you
swim down and find the vault, did you see for yourself?  Well did you?”
hissed the Queen, suddenly standing in the center of the room and looking not
at all like your dotty old aunty but like one of the most powerful Vampires
that you’d never want to see, and certainly not be standing next to if she
decided to make a statement.

 Lurching back with an
involuntary step, she felt the old Queen’s power circling her neck like frozen
rope, “I couldn’t feel him; I reached down and searched, but I couldn’t find
him.  I don’t think he’s there,” Arabella squeaked through a throat
constricted by a raging power.

 “Not there, not there. 
More likely there but dead, but please continue,” the Queen ordered.
 “Tell us more about your holiday, it sounds so fun, a sea voyage,
visiting an architectural masterpiece, pleasant conversation with the Chief of
Police, a private island.  Makes one want to get out more.  How long
has it been since we’ve had a vacation, Petru?  Maybe we should plan
something.”

Commander Gunderson had been
waiting at the landing; he’d smartly tied off the mooring lines and extended a
hand as she stepped from the gunwale to the dock.  Two sheriffs stood on
the beach, both trim in pressed and creased uniforms with short hair that had
become stylish in spite of their efforts to disdain artifice.  Gunderson
didn’t bother to introduce them as they went past, so Arabella stopped, held
out her hand and introduced herself.  Comfortable with being ignored, the
startled sheriffs came to attention, garbled out their names and pumped her
hand a regulation three times. 

  Gunderson, oblivious
that she’d stopped, continued across the beach.  Turning from the sheriffs
she admired the house and the surround of trees.  Glancing back, she
caught the two sheriffs ogling her behind in her grey wool slacks.  
Wiggling her butt to keep them occupied, she followed Gunderson who was
prattling rubbish about the sanctity of the crime scene and liberal juries
letting criminals free.

 “If it was wolves there won’t
be a jury, will there?” she asked, keeping her voice flat.  

 Gunderson snapped about. “Who
told you that?” he demanded.

 “Dr. Izanagi,” she replied,
“the examiner I assisted at the morgue.” 

 “That’s confidential
information,” he snorted. “Any disclosure will be treated as intentional
interference with an ongoing police investigation and subject you to criminal
consequences.”

 “Don’t worry,” she confided,
“I would never dream of telling anyone your only suspect is a wolf.”

 Walking past him, she entered
the house.  A sheet of plywood covered the shattered window, casting
discordant shadows across the beautifully proportioned room. Inside, the blood
had turned brown with age but the metallic tang lingered in the air, sparking
her hunger.   The splotches unnerved her for a moment and she tamped
the desire to feed, the thought of contact with Gunderson disgusting. He
continued to natter as only the self-important do, laying out theories and
biases with the brio of proud ignorance.  

 “They were here,” she said,
finding an excuse to interrupt his discourse on nothing. 

 “Yes they were found there
and there,” indicating body outlines on the floor, which any cretin could
see. 

 “But they weren’t lying on
the floor to start, were they?” she questioned. “Or were they?”  

 “No, of course not.”

 She stared at him wondering
if he could get to it.

 “They were on couches,
ridiculous little things; I’m told they cost a fortune. 

 “Oh, I don’t see them.”

 “Evidence; they’ve been
impounded.  We have them.  If you want to see ‘em, you’ll have to go
to the warehouse.  Like I said, ridiculous, useless little things,” he
said, as ignorant concerning design, she was pleased to note, as he was at
detection.

 “They were here,” she said,
indicating with her hands, “the little couches, about here,” standing in front
of the plywood boarding up the broken window.

 “Do you happen to know the
color?” she asked.

 “Color,” he replied
apparently stupefied at the concept.

 “Red, I would imagine.”

 “Yeah, somewhere over there,”
he replied, bored with her sudden interest in interior decoration.  “They
were covered in blood; they must have been attacked on the couches and all
this,” waving his arm like a cartoon conductor, “was excess spillage.”

 “Excess spillage,” she
murmured, walking about inspecting splotches and drips.

 “So, they saw their demise
coming up the beach,” mused Arabella admiring the view, “reclining on their
ridiculous little couches while a storm broke the window and a wolf trotted up
the beach?” 

 Gunderson folded his arms
across his chest, pointedly ignoring her for the rest of the inspection.

Breaking her reverie, Arabella
faced the Queen.  “No, I didn’t go down, I didn’t need to,” she replied,
“I could tell from the damage to the corpses what had caused the injuries; I
went to the scene to see if there was residual energy from the attack,
something to tell me who it was.” 

 “Was there?” the Queen asked,
calm and collected like they were old friends sharing a story.  “Was there
any sign of the perpetrator, the killer?”    She’d relaxed the
power circling Arabella’s neck, enabling her to breathe and speak. 

 “Yes, I could sense it. 
Whoever it was tore their lives out; it was as much an orgy as a
feeding.” 

 “After all this time he must
have been very hungry,” the Queen shrugged as she returned to her chair. 
“The question is, did he escape by himself or did someone help him.  What
do you think, Arabella?  I’m sure the thought occurred to you while you
were lounging about on your sea voyage.  Tell me, what do you think, or do
you know that answer?” 

 “She’s looking for a plot,”
thought Arabella, “she doesn’t know what is going on.” 

 Moments like this were
dangerous for the Clan.  For those in the bloodline, any hint of
disloyalty could lead to suspicion, which led to death unless a very convincing
explanation was quickly produced.  The Northwest Clan had been founded by
the Queen, and all its members had been made by the Queen or by one of hers
with her explicit permission.  All in the bloodline owed obligations to
those who made them, and absolute duty to the Queen.  Some, like Petru,
had been made centuries ago in Europe and had made the trip to the New World
with her to carve out a territory free of Old World duties and
obligations. 

 Many of those European ties
extended to the Clans of the East Coast, prompting the Queen to push West on
her arrival in America.  Ultimately, she chose the Northwest because it
was out of the East-West axis of the continent and considered an uncultured
backwater.   With most of the Clans occupying the Northeast cities
and the rest fighting over the shambles of the South after the Civil War,
natural expansion for an ambitious Vampire was through Chicago and Kansas City
along the rail lines, then onto San Francisco.