Underground Vampire (7 page)

Ortega thought about it for a
minute then, determined not to be stupid, said, “You’re right and I of all
people should know better; I’ll apologize the next time I see him.”

Malloy heaved himself up off the
bench growling, “Don’t even think about bull crapping me, Ortega, and don’t
think you can BS Mr. Finkelstein either.  Just be polite and if you want
to get out of this in one piece, do what Mr. Finkelstein tells you to
do.”  With that he spun about with a nimbleness Ortega never would have
guessed and ambled down the sidewalk smiling at the kids, leaving him alone
with two bags of cold and greasy chips.

Ortega sat on the bench and
worried.  He wondered what it was that everyone knew, he thought about
Malloy and Finkelstein and wondered how they knew each other and what the
connection was, but most of all he worried about the sense of doom that hung
over him on the bench in Ballard, the only grey cloud in a beautiful blue
sky. 

Eating both bags of chips filled
the hole in his stomach while he called ads from the Stranger locating a cheap
old anonymous computer.  After picking it up from a student in the
Wallingford district, he drove home to access secure archive files using a
false name and password on an untraceable-to-him computer, which he was pretty
sure violated most of the Seattle Police Department Rules and Regulations. On
the way, he worried that Malloy was somehow setting him up for what he couldn’t
even guess and the next call he’d get would be from Internal Affairs.

At five o’clock escalators and
elevators all over downtown freighted office workers down the towers and out
the doors delivering the men and women to cars, buses, monorails, and limos for
their ride home after a fulfilling day of legal briefs, sales reports,
insurance binders and metrics measuring.  Some went to the streets where
they met with dates or friends, making plans to drink and eat in the bars and
restaurants and clubs that pack the downtown area.  Others focused on the
ride home, hoping it would be smooth and quick. 

Thick crowds surged across
sidewalks splotched with gum.  Clustering at corners, the dense crowds
pushed against those in the front until walk blinked permission to step off the
curb and dash across the street to catch the bus or grasp a lover’s hand. 
Shapely secretaries in pencil skirts and curvy sweaters scurried to beat the
light, stepping carefully in stiletto spikes over manholes and concrete cracks
to get to bar stools and movie seats.

The curbs were high to channel the
rain, with the drains cut into the street pavement and up the face of the curb:
square cut mouths gaping at the street, the wide metal grates leering at the
bare legs passing by.  The large Indian cruised down the sidewalk. 
He passed through the crowds without causing a stir, maintaining a steady
course without disrupting anyone.

Oliver stood behind the sewer grate
peering at the young woman as she exited the tower on Madison and briskly
headed towards Bell Town.  Navigating beneath Seattle was easy for him as
the People of the Night had long ago connected the sewers to the storm
channels, to the utility vaults with pipe tunnels and gas lines, to basements
and sub basements interlinked with Tong tunnels dug as escape routes
supplementing the original Chinese diggings connecting opium dens, hidden
bordellos, gambling halls, hotels and saloons, all beneath the city, some still
lit by the glass long ago embedded in the sidewalks above and so admired by the
tourists exploring the quainter aspects of  Seattle history.  

At the moment, he occupied a
collection spot facilitating street runoff.  Adjacent was an illegal
addition added a century ago to increase basement storage area and conveniently
sealed when the structure was demolished. The contractor, in accordance with
the architect’s drawings, erected a retaining wall sealing the vault from the
new building, but leaving it accessible through the original City drainage
system.

The excellent system necessitated
by the thirty-eight inches of annual rainfall provided an anonymous, unimpeded
highway for People of the Night.  Since it didn’t really rain, but only
misted and drizzled on all but the worst days, the system was rarely filled with
water, making it a safe and effective secret transportation grid.  It was
possible to navigate downtown Seattle in virtually any direction without once
touching a sidewalk or street, so interconnected was the Underground. 
Since his return he’d spent his spare time exploring, first with other hidden
denizens of the night but lately on his own.

 Tracking her movements, he
watched as she crossed at the light and turned left.  Scurrying along, dodging
raindrops and the occasional puddle she thought only of her friends and drinks
and maybe dinner. Caught at a light she paused, hovering at the edge, willing
the light green.  She turned sideways in her pencil skirt to step off the
high curb and angled out of the crosswalk, up and over the curb across the
street then down the sidewalk, safe in the dry lane next to the buildings.
Across the street Oliver peered out of the next grate, eyes blinking famished,
angry red from the gutter.  He really needed to feed. 

Down the sidewalk she went until
another light stopped her at the next intersection.  Already fashionably
tardy, she wanted to reach the restaurant before the rain started in earnest;
looking up the street at the oncoming traffic, she stepped one foot down to get
a head start on the last block.  Behind her ankle in the drain set back
into the curb face, Oliver kept focus on her slim ankle and calculated. 
If only she would step all the way down and stand in front of the grate, which
happened to be a little bit wider than the normal and would fit nicely around
her hips, he might just have dinner.  

A young trader pushed past the
secretary stepping off the curb into the gutter, impatient to be first.  A
horn blasting down the street automatically pulled every head in that direction
as famished Oliver seized the opportunity and, reaching out, snatched his
ankles between the polished penny loafers and below the cuffs of his expensive
suit trousers and jerked him off balance and through the grate so that, by the
time he realized that his nose broke when his face smashed into the pavement,
Oliver had already smelled his blood.  Abandoning his thought to take the
victim to the Underground city to share with his followers, Oliver attacked his
neck, sucking and slurping blood from his artery directly beneath the feet of
the woman in the pencil skirt, who stood there thinking, wasn’t a guy standing
here, what happened to him, as the light changed and across the street she
went, deciding on a glass of Chardonnay to start the evening.   

The only one who noticed the
disappearance was the Indian standing across the street.  He marked the
spot and casually walked down the street, pausing in front of a flower shop to
admire the selection and get a better reflection in the shop window.  He
saw Oliver sink his teeth into the trader’s neck and the man’s hands come up in
a futile effort to ward off his attacker.  He watched as Oliver,
temporarily sated, dragged the man’s body down the sewer.  

Oliver sat in the vault, messy with
what was left of the young man, considering his options. Previously a
fastidious diner, he found that now his tastes ran more to the savagery of the
lion rather than the delicate sip of the hummingbird.  The problem was
twofold: first, the left over corpse resembled nothing so much as a bloody
horror, its neck torn out, bits of flesh strewn about the ground, blood
everywhere and; second, Oliver’s face and chest and shirt were covered in what
he hadn’t managed to drink or eat. 

It was impossible to roam about the
City or even the Underground in this condition.  In either venue, his
appearance would attract immediate attention: from the Humans, horror and the
annoying police asking question, demanding answers; from the Vampires, shock
and revulsion that he had so obviously violated Clan Law and a call for
punishment.  The solution was obvious.  Society must evolve; no
longer would he be constrained by bourgeois restrictions of the Humans or the
Clan.

 Now, though, he needed a bath
and clean clothing; he really needed to remove their clothing before he ate
them so he could change on the spot.  “How convenient,” he giggled to
himself, “like if cows came with clothes; if you needed a suit, you killed that
one; a bathing suit, that one.”

He knew that hunting and killing so
openly was dangerous.  It was only a matter of time before he made a
mistake, but the demands of his hunger and the thrill of the chase overcame
whatever judgment he had left.  That, and he knew the Queen would
recognize the signs and know he was back.  The thought of her anger that
he was openly in her City challenging her, hunting and killing on the streets
of her domain, made his digestion better.   Soon, she would react,
mobilizing her minions and he could start his revenge, picking off first that
one then the next till he was on Queen Anne hill and could pay her a visit.
That, and he had to admit it was true, he really liked attacking Humans and
killing them; worthless creatures, they existed for his pleasure and he would
indulge whenever he desired.

The Big Indian moved into the
shadows of an adjacent alley and felt under his shirt for the stake taped to
his ribs.  The strike had been fast, unbelievably fast even by Vampire
standards and bold, hunting on the streets of Seattle during rush hour. Taking
this one would require all his skill and courage.  Closing his eyes to
center himself he breathed deeply into his lungs remembering the thick clean
smell of the forest.  Behind him a door opened from a kitchen and a worker
hoisting a garbage pail clanged the dumpster as he emptied the refuse. 
The hunt for this one would be challenging.

 Arabella sat in her apartment
waiting for a murder.   Far beneath her, piers like fingers reached
into Elliot Bay snaring fat ferries scuttling across the sea.  Bright sun
shone through where sleet grey clouds improbably broke, splashing huge swaths
of summer across the waves so that here it was green and there blue. In the far
distance the grey of the sky merged with the sea, promising another blow out of
the Northwest but for now, at least, the monotony was broken with a hint of the
summer to come.

Perched 500 feet in the air, she
had the perfect mixture of downtown life, the best view in the city and, most
important, anonymity.   The building was an office tower built a
hundred years ago with a single apartment at the apex. The best part about the
building was that the elevators still had uniformed operators, a vestigial past
she appreciated.  

Protected by a very long-term lease
executed years ago in the name of one of her shadow corporations, the apartment
provided the privacy her lifestyle required.  The rent was paid yearly in
advance and she had never had a single communication with the building
owner.  If anything needed repair she took care of it herself, and her
periodic remodels had been accomplished quickly and quietly, due to her
willingness to pay whatever it cost to get the job done at night, quietly and,
most importantly, her way.

 A succession of investment
companies had bought and sold the building throughout the real estate bubble
and at each transfer, the purchaser’s lawyers had communicated with her
lawyers, and estopple certificates were signed, and lease amendments executed
until no one in present ownership had any idea who actually occupied the
premises, nor did they really care as the rent was on time and there had never
been a tenant complaint. 

At the most recent closing, an
alarm rang faintly in the brain of the junior associate employed at the buyer’s
law firm as he reviewed the lease and noticed the singular absence of a
landlord inspection clause or even any evidence in the file that anyone had
been inside the leased premises.  Dutifully raising the point and having
it reviewed by both the junior partner and senior partner assigned to the sale
transaction, a letter was sent certified mail return receipt requested to the
tenant’s attorneys, a small but prestigious old line firm located in
Philadelphia, PA, requesting an inspection of the premises forthwith and demanding
execution of the enclosed amendment to the lease correcting what must have been
an oversight by previous counsel.  In addition, the letter noted a lack of
information with respect to the identity of the person or persons currently
occupying the leased premises and requested that they be informed forthwith of
the occupant’s identity.

Needless to say, the firm was
shocked to receive a prompt response by lowly first class mail threatening to
retain local counsel and bring immediate action against the landlord if anyone
attempted in any way to access their client’s leasehold premises and, further,
that the lease would not be amended and to stop communicating with them as they
had no desire to incur legal bills on behalf of their client for such nonsense. 

The firm received and reviewed the
letter, the senior partner and the junior partner scheduled a conference to
review and discuss the matter and drafted a Memorandum directing the associate
to research statutes and current case authority regarding all relevant points
of law.  He did so and presented the Memorandum the following Monday,
having worked over the weekend.

After a conference attended by the
associate, the junior partner and the senior partner, a letter was drafted to
the client setting forth the firm’s excellent legal services in discovering the
anomalous lease situation, incorporating all of the associate’s research
without attribution, and recommending that, if the client wished to proceed to
force an inspection, please deposit $25,000.00 as they expected significant
opposition from the tenant, referring the client to the enclosed letter from
the tenant’s law firm. 

And, by the way, the client should
be aware that in the event of litigation, the losing party was contractually
obligated by the terms of the lease to pay the winner’s lawyers’ fees and court
costs.  The firm pointed out that while they expected a favorable result
the outcome could not, of course, be guaranteed, as litigation was inherently
uncertain.  A bill was enclosed in the amount of $4,875.00 for excellent
legal services to date.  

The client read the letter and
enclosed memorandum of law, looked at the bill for a problem he didn’t know he
had until that moment, and decided to ignore the problem, his lawyers, and
their bill and keep collecting rent from the unknown tenant.  As far as he
was concerned, the mystery tenant was perfect, paid the rent on time and never
complained; only the lawyers could see this as a problem.

Arabella stood at the windows
overlooking the Port, anxious to start but without a trail until Oliver fed
again.  The Third Plenum of the Eleventh Central Committee of the
Worldwide Vampire Assembly stipulated in the Concordance that no Vampire should
feed without the consent of the Clan leader or in certain Designated
Zones.  Designated Zones varied with the status of conflicts throughout
the globe and were currently restricted to certain African sectors, Cambodia
having been depleted by war and atrocity and put on the restricted list so that
Human society could replenish.  

Vampire society wished above all to
remain anonymous.  While everyone appreciated the taste and texture of a
free range Human now and then, under no circumstances could the resident
population become aware or even suspect that there were those among them who
thought of them as dinner.  To be a Clan Leader was to be the supreme
authority in a region and so long as Clan activities remained anonymous the
Leader was inviolable.  However, if activities became public the
associated Clans would not hesitate to replace the Leader.  That was the
Law.

The increase in the attacks on
Humans in the Greater Seattle Area were alarming and suggested that more than
Oliver had gone rogue.  If not contained, the Central Vampire Committee of
the United States could become involved and, if it felt the situation required
it, remove the Queen from her position as Supreme Leader of the Northwest Clan.
So far, the Human authorities had not connected the deaths, murders and
disappearances, but Arabella knew that eventually someone would correlate the
statistics and certain patterns would emerge, a pattern reaching from the San
Juan Islands to the heart of Seattle.

If not contained, the situation
could bring in the other Clans, anxious that the situation be resolved and who
would not be above using it as pretext for their own expansion.  Once they
were in the Northwest, the Clans would depose the Queen and administer the
lucrative territory and its blood supply for their benefit. Even if Arabella
survived regime change, she knew her position would be tenuous, at best. She
liked her apartment, she liked the city, she liked her life.  She wasn’t
moving.

As an independent research
scientist, she’d burrowed into city and county morgues and, in this time of
budget restrictions, most overworked, underfunded departments welcomed her
expertise and assistance.  Her position allowed her to serve as an early
warning system for the Clan, monitoring compliance with the Concordance by
examining any kills that suggested illegal feeding.  Occasionally, down
and out Vamps unable to pay Clan blood fees or young Vampires lured to the
thrill of illicit hunting fed on civilians.  Arabella was so successful at
making an example of the hunters and encouraging down and outers to move, that
there had not been an illegal feed for over five decades.   

Unfortunately, this wasn’t a newly
made punk flexing Vampire attitude, this was an old nightmare come home to
square accounts and, while he was at it, kill her. Sitting on her couch,
looking out her window, admiring what she’d come to think of as her view, she
knew if she wasn’t leaving Seattle then he had to go. First, though, she had to
find him.

When the call came from the King
County Medical Examiner’s, she was ready and impatient to pick up the trail. 
Leaving her building she went up 2nd turned onto James then up the hill. 
She walked fast, briskly passing pedestrians on the steep climbs.  A nice
soft light bounced from the angled streets creating an easy going tinge
softening stress lines in the workers’ faces hustling back to work. At her
back, a brisk breeze off the water pushed her up the hill.

The Medical Examiner was located on
Jefferson at 9th on the other side of the freeway in architecture admirably
suited for death and bureaucracy. Passing through the security apparatus, she
ascended to the Department anxious to discover if the kill was a lead or
another of the City’s ordinary deaths. 

The examination room was
packed.  SPD lounged around the corpse, ignoring the half-naked torso
supine with its tattered throat exposed.  One had a big bandage on his
nose and whenever he said anything it came out funny, although no one laughed
except one cop, another detective she guessed, who lounged against the wall and
smiled whenever bandage face honked. 

There was no one eating cookies
here and there wouldn’t be any bags of blood from the cooler. Downtown was more
buttoned up, and she’d avoided infiltrating the agencies, as she didn’t want to
land on officialdom’s radar.  While her credentials gained her access, her
position was tenuous and subject to challenge.  She’d subtly used her
power to suggest to certain employees that she was beneficial to their efforts
and should be granted access to the premises. 

The autopsy rooms were in the
basement, around the corner from the cafeteria.  She stopped to buy a cup
of coffee and a glazed donut.  In her experience, evildoers rarely enjoyed
snacks in the midst of criminal activity.  The coffee was the reason
Starbucks was successful.  Small bits of the Styrofoam floated to the
top.  She planned on handing off the donut to the first cop who looked at
her.

Inside the exam room, lounging cops
blocked the doorway, clogging the room in front of the corpse.  Rude and
oblivious, the cops didn’t move as she came through the door, so she bullied
her way through the mob.  Inured by centuries of dealing with police in
dozens of countries, she kept moving forward, exerting just enough pressure to
move through the clump but not enough to challenge shallow egos.

Popping out of the scrum, she saw a
corpse on a table.  Young, the dead was Northern European male, white,
muscled by regular workouts.  Savaged by the aggressive teeth of a
predator, the neck was a tortured mess; the corpse sagged, empty of
fluids.  To free her hands, she handed the donut to a flustered policeman
who salvaged his brio by stuffing it into his mouth with a “thank you” mumbled
around the fried dough.  Next, with the napkin and coffee delivered with a
dazzling smile, he politely stepped aside, allowing her to stand beside the
corpse in the coveted front row.

Parker Melmick, medical examiner
assigned to the case, stood to the left pointing at the neck while a fleshy
olive-complected detective bent over inspecting the damage. The detective wore
a blue suit a couple of steps above insurance salesman but below successful
divorce attorney.  Stepping closer, she noted that the dead face was
squashed flat like the guy had been smacked in the kisser with a board;
correction, she thought, smacked extremely hard in the face with a board. The
nose was flat, stretching from cheekbone to cheekbone, and both eyes were
deeply black and blue, giving the face the grotesque appearance of a deranged
aboriginal mask.

 Oliver had made it to Seattle
and might as well have taken out a billboard to announce his return, she
thought.  “What caused it?” asked the in-charge detective.  Melmick,
natty as always, his bow tie showing above the gown, squinted through the round
tortoise shell glasses, drew himself up, took a professorial breath and
launched.  Arabella smiled to herself, knowing that he was good for at
least five minutes of gobbledygook about the exam not being complete, results
of tests not returned, preliminary investigations not concluded, all interwoven
with Richard III’s demise at the Battle of Bosworth Field leading to the Tudor
ascension.

Melmick was an ardent Plantagenet
rehabilitationist and, she knew from painful experience, this was mere prelude
to his favorite topic: Shakespeare, apologist of the Tudor political order.

The detective, professionally
acquainted with gobbledygook, interrupted, “That’s all well and good, but what
caused this damage?”  A question she knew a lot of cops would be asking as
Oliver kept feeding.  In her pocket her phone vibrated.

Melmick took the interruption with
studied grace, waited for the detective to stop interfering and picked up with
the alleged murder of the cousins in the Tower. Arabella settled in to watch;
rarely did you get two this evenly matched.   The detective started
turning pink above the collar, flushing to rosettes on his cheeks. 
Knowing she had only a moment of distraction, Arabella opened her lunchbox,
slipped on gloves and began snipping at tissue.  “What the hell,” blurted
the detective, “are you doing?” 

“Gathering samples,” she replied,
as Melmick, finished with the cousins, diverted to Anne as Lancastrian impostor
wife.

Command authority slipping away,
the Detective turned on Melmick demanding an opinion as to the cause of the
damage. Drawn by the scent of conflict, the lounging cops pushed forward into a
tight circle around the table.   She ignored the one behind her
pushing too close as she leaned over the corpse snipping samples.  Melmick
launched into the proclivity of farm animals, particularly hogs, to kill and devour
their keepers.  Melmick made pigs eating Humans as boring as his English
history lesson.