Underground Vampire (8 page)

Fed up detective held up his hand,
saying, “This guy left work at Columbia and 4th and was dumped in an alley
about four blocks away.  Are you saying he was kidnapped by a hog in the
middle of downtown, killed and eaten by the pig with no one noticing?” The cops
laughed on cue and pushed tighter.  “Then the pig carried him four blocks
and put him in an alley?”  The detective knew his audience and milked the
pig angle for all it was worth. 

Astounded that the detective drew
such a conclusion, Melmick said, “Of course not, whatever gave you that
impression?”

Sensing the penultimate moment had
arrived, Arabella plunged the big needle into the victim’s heart, eliciting
oohs and ahhs from the cops.  The detective, completely befuddled with
Melmick, shouted, “Who the hell are you?”

Pulling the needle from the chest
and transferring the blood to her lunchbox, Arabella turned to the detective
and, pointing at the stiff’s groin, said, “That’s a big one don’t you
think?” 

“What, what?” he blustered.

“I’d say it’s a keeper,” she
observed, taking a closer look.  “Say, didn’t you used to work vice?”

The dark one against the wall
started laughing and Arabella thought that was a good sign, at least one of
them wasn’t a complete prick.  Meanwhile, the detective flushed purple up
across his cheeks until his forehead turned to molten lava and it looked like
his hair might burst into flames.

 The cops pushed in to get a
better view of the dead guy’s penis, which was actually shriveled purple in
death and not that impressive, but the cops didn’t seem to know the difference.

“Here, take a close look and tell
me what you think,” like she was discussing whether to keep a trout or throw it
back.

The detective stood in the circle
of flunkies, face crimson; he tried to speak but could only gargle.

“I’ll leave you fellows to decide,
you will let me know, yes?” Turning, she headed for the door, the cops parting
before her. Her cell phone buzzed in her pocket.

She fixed the face of each person
present in her mind; where she could, she captured their eyes for a brief
moment.  Oliver would keep eating and killing and these officers would
keep showing up at crime scenes; it was vital that she recognize them and more
important that they see her as familiar, somehow a part of the investigation.

The tall Latino-looking cop
standing alone in the back stepped forward to open the door for her,
whispering, “Actually it looked a little undersized but I’m not really a
specialist like the rest of these guys.”

The Detective barked, “Ortega, what
are you doing here, aren’t you supposed to be on the street?”

“Your email said be here, so here I
am.”

“I’m taking you off the email list,”
the Detective said, comfortable again with someone to bully.

Leaning close to his face Arabella
caught his eye without capturing his mind and whispered, “Lucky you.”

“And while you’re at it, Ortega,
why don’t you show our guest out and you keep going too.”

Smiling, Jesse nodded her out the
door.

He tried to chat her up walking
beside her down the hall, but at the elevator she somehow maneuvered him in and
as the doors closed she remained in the hall, waving “Good bye.”

Her phone vibrated again and,
walking to the street, she pulled it out and selected the message: ‘Disturbing
patterns of blood distribution.’  The text was from no one.  She
typed ‘thank you’ into the reply box and hit send; there was no response. 
The Trogs were on it.

Ortega sat at the bar watching
Finkelstein pour a draft for a guy in a suit, maybe an attorney slumming
lunch.  The file he’d read was like everything else about this non-case,
confusing, with scant evidence, fewer facts and a lot of unanswered questions.
The only thing for sure were bodies, dead ones with, as they said in the
reports, throat lacerations.

“I read the file,” he said, as
Finkelstein approached, “I met Malloy, he said hello.”

Finkelstein said, “Yes I know, he
called.”

Ortega registered the fact that
Malloy and Finkelstein had talked and resisted the impulse to ask what they
talked about, what Malloy said about him, what Finkelstein said to
Malloy. 

“Like I said, I read the
file.  There wasn’t a lot in there other than those two,” jerking his head
toward the wall behind him, “I don’t understand how that is Malloy’s
brother, the dates don’t match up.”

Mr. Finkelstein stood there
oblivious, old hands, gnarled from a life of work, flat on the bar.

“That one,” said Jesse, pointing at
the picture, “died a very messy death but the file was incomplete, probably the
worst investigation I’ve ever seen.”

“I believe that Sergeant Malloy
investigated the death of his brother.  Perhaps you should discuss any
shortcomings with him,” said Mr. Finkelstein.

Finkelstein could turn into a right
prim little skid row barkeep when he felt like it, thought Jesse, as he
contemplated telling Malloy he did a crap job of investigating his brother’s
death, deciding there was no future down that road.

“How’s about that drink you
promised me?’ said Ortega.

“Malloy said you quit drinking,”
replied Finkelstein.

“Malloy doesn’t have anything to do
with my drinking,” said Ortega, his voice edged with resentment.  “I
decide when and where I drink, so pour me a boilermaker,” he ordered, slapping
a handful of bills between Finkelstein’s hands.

Finkelstein stood there mournful as
a basset hound that couldn’t find his biscuit, “I’m sure he said you quit
drinking.  Maybe I made a mistake; you want I should call Malloy and ask
him?”

Ortega looked at the money on the
bar as Finkelstein turned to the rotary phone next to the ancient cash
register.  Finkelstein dialed the first number and Ortega listened to the
primitive clicking of the dial rolling back.

“No need to bother Malloy, I’m sure
he’s got better things to do today,” placated Ortega.

As Finkelstein hung up the receiver
and turned back to the bar he said, “Yes, he is an important man and it’s
better not to bother him with trivial matters.”

“You and Malloy good friends?”

“How so?” replied Finkelstein,
suddenly engrossed with rearranging the five-gallon jar of pickled eggs
prominently displayed next to the Klondike cheese.

Ortega watched fascinated as
olive-tinted eggs bobbed in green juice, like eye bulbs of an alien residing on
the back bar of your friendly skid row tavern.  “You have his phone number
memorized,” said Ortega, “that’s rare these days; no one knows anyone’s number
anymore.”  Finkelstein looked at him with a ‘what are you talking about’
look on his face.  “You know, cell phones, you can’t remember numbers
anymore, modern technology, maybe it hasn’t gotten here yet,” he babbled,
pulling his cell phone out and shoving it into Finkelstein’s face, like he was
demonstrating shiny beads to the stone age tribe he’d found undiscovered in the
middle of Seattle.

“This phone was used by my
grandfather, my father and now me.  It’s the bar phone. You know how
difficult it is to keep a rotary dial?  They have to maintain equipment just
for this phone. Tried to pay me to take it out, then threatened to turn me off
if I didn’t upgrade. Had to pull a lot of favors to back ‘em down, but I still
got my phone.”

Finkelstein reached into his pocket
for the latest offering from Apple, which made Ortega’s phone look like a
brick.  “This is the one I like; I manage inventory, order supplies and do
the financial reporting on this, and it’s got an app for Torah.  Here,
look at this,” he beamed as he pushed buttons until the screen was filled with
incomprehensible Hebrew letters. 

“Oh yeah,” said Ortega, befuddled
by the text, “so you got Malloy in there?”

Finkelstein put away his phone and
drew himself up to his full five foot four inch height and looked to Ortega
like he was about to launch into a dissertation.  To forestall the
lecture, Ortega said, “I mean it’s amazing that you still remember
numbers.  It’s kind of a dying art these days, don’t you think?”

“Sergeant Malloy’s phone number is
in my head,” he said.  “Some things are important.”

 Would that be his office
number or his personal number, you know, his cell?” Ortega asked, as casual as
he could manage while he sipped the coke and tried to pry into Mr.
Finkelstein’s and Sergeant Malloy’s personal business.  “I mean are you
guys friends or what?”

 The Finkelsteins and the
Malloys have a long and treasured relationship, at least as far back as my
grandfather.  His father attended my bris and was an honored guest when I
first read Torah at my bar mitzvah.  The present Sergeant Malloy was also
in attendance,” replied Mr. Finkelstein.

“Oh,” said Ortega, “so you two are
buddies, well why didn’t you say so?  What’s a bris?”

“Did you read the file,” asked Mr.
Finkelstein, ignoring his questions.

Ortega said, “The file didn’t have
a lot of information and Malloy didn’t tell me anything.  All I know is
the two patrol cops were attacked and one died from savage wounds to his face
and neck.  They were chasing someone down here and caught up with them in
an alley.  It all happened about two blocks from here.  What’s
interesting is what’s missing.”

Finkelstein considered for a moment
then, “how so?”

“Two cops are attacked for no
reason on the streets of Seattle, one is killed, the other mauled and there is
nothing in the file.”

“Yes, so, you have a point,” a
pedantic little prick.

“The point is the Seattle Police
Department doesn’t like it when their officers get attacked, let alone mauled
and killed.”

“I see.”

“No you don’t, the file should be
about three feet.  It isn’t, it’s barely sixth grade term paper thick.”

“Why is that,” asked the suddenly
sincere Mr.Finkelstein.

“I don’t know,” replied Ortega,
“And while you’re telling me what you know, be sure to explain how Malloy is
the dead guy’s brother and still around after all these years.”

“I know about the Monsters,” said
Finkelstein, “the Monsters are scary; you are referring to a bureaucratic
mystery.”

“I’m guessing you know what
happened to them and you think something’s going to happen now, so why don’t
you tell me everything you know.”

Mr. Finkelstein leaned over the
bar, looming into Ortega’s face and whispered, “Monsters live under the City.”

“Monsters under Seattle,” Ortega
snorted.  “Are you crazy?”

Finkelstein’s bony fingers wrapped
around Ortega’s wrist, clutching harder than Ortega would have thought
possible.  “We foresaw this; they are back; you have been chosen to
destroy them.”

“There are no Monsters and there’s
no bogeyman under the bed,” said Ortega, “Is this a joke Malloy cooked up with
the boys at the station?”

“How many bodies have turned up
with their throats torn out?” said Finkelstein, staring into Ortega’s face with
the intensity of a madman.  “How many?”

“Several,” he grudgingly conceded,
“San Juan’s, Everett, now several here.”

“I hope you can count, Mr.
Policeman, because there will be more, many more.”

“Tell me,” said Ortega, “tell me
what you know.”  Maybe there was something that would get him out of the
doghouse. Wouldn’t that be something, he fantasized, they stick him in a dead
end and he catches a serial killer. They’d have to take him back, take him
back, give him a medal and promote him.  He’d be a hero.

“It’s starting again,” said
Finkelstein, as he limped his way to the front of the bar, shooing the lawyer
back to work and locking the door.  Returning, he motioned toward the back
saying, “Come, I will show you.”  He led Ortega past the restrooms to a
backdoor, which opened onto stairs leading down into a dark basement. 

“Come, come,” he urged as Ortega
paused at the top of the stairs.  “What are you afraid of?  One old
man; what kind of hero are you; what did they send us; must be a
mistake.” 

Mr. Finkelstein clumped down the
stairs, sinking into the dark basement with the familiarity of old age. 
At the bottom his hand found the familiar switch and, turning it, illuminated
wooden stairs ending at a plank landing turning left into an ominous room. The
light was a bare bulb hanging on twisted electrical wire.  The staircase
was dirty pine nailed together. The treads bowed from generations of rough
soles scraping their way up and down.  A single four by four post was
nailed to the side of the stairs, wobbling when he touched it.  He let go
and kept going.  Behind him the door swung shut on an old twine tied to a
sash weight connected to the door by an eye bolt screwed into the wood. 
Pausing halfway down the stairs he joked, “OSHA hasn’t been down here, have
they?”  Finkelstein ignored him.

 The basement was the original
Blue Anchor from before the Great Seattle fire of 1889.  Post fire, the
City sluiced dirt from the hills to fill in the streets, raising the streets to
the second floor.  Now the original bar had become the basement and the
second story was street level.  Finkelstein’s great grandfather moved
upstairs, keeping the basement in use for gambling, drinking, and private
matters of the heart while the upstairs catered to patrons comfortable with
societal constraint. 

Through the original front door and
windows the old sidewalks still fronted the buildings, making a secret
passageway leading along the row of basements.  The sidewalk was walled in
on the street side, making a claustrophobic passage lit from above by glass
embedded in the concrete when they laid the new sidewalks.  He went out
the door into the walkway.  Overhead the ceiling was the rough underside
of the sidewalks, with light from Seattle filtering through the embedded
colored glass. 

Finkelstein followed him out
saying, “After the fire my grandfather reopened the bar here,” pointing at the
basement, “then the city put up these walls and filled in the streets so that
the second floor became the first floor.  They raised the whole area one
story, leaving all this. We moved the bar upstairs and used this as a private
club. During prohibition upstairs was a grocery and this was the bar.  
Now, this is where we study.”

“Study?” asked Ortega, “Study
what?” still figuring out the geography of the subterranean world.

“The mysteries of the book,”
replied Finkelstein.

“Come look,” he said excitedly,
pulling Ortega back into the old barroom. Charts filled with arcane symbols
were pinned to the walls; the windows, Ortega noticed, were covered in
translucent paper lettered with unbroken rows of strange markings. 
Peering closer, Ortega said, “Are these words? Sentences?”

“Of course,” said Finkelstein,
“what else?”

Staring intently, the letters and
marks seemed to squiggle about as if they were living beings, small and
distinct, precise bits of living information reaching out to him, the data
beginning to squirm on the page, backlit by violet light from the corridor.

“How do you read this?  It’s
just letters, no words no periods.”

“Perceptive, you grasp the
problem.  The ancient texts, the originals, you must decipher letter by
letter into words, into sentences, into paragraphs, into a complete text to
understand; it is not for everyone.”

“What’s it about?”

“What seized you are the words of
Metatron, the archangel speaking the beginnings of man.”

Ortega tore his gaze from the
windows and, looking back, again saw that the letters weren’t moving.  He
shook himself to clear his head.

“Somewhere in here,” Mr.
Finkelstein gestured all about and Ortega noticed for the first time
manuscripts, vellums, papyri, codices, pottery shards and even, he noted,
books, “is the answer.”

“What’s the question?” said Ortega,
picking up a rolled skin bound with a blotched ribbon.

Finkelstein took it from him before
he could undo the tie, saying, “Fourth century, very fragile, we try not to
handle it,” reverently carrying it across the room to set it on a shelf.

On the floor was a complex diagram
of geometric figures containing and surrounded by circles composed primarily of
triangles and cubes, with each point originating at the center of a
circle.  Ortega became either nauseous or dizzy, he really couldn’t tell
which. His mind seized on the lines and began, of its own accord, tracing from
point to point until he had no locus and traveled through the sacred geometry,
captive to its gravity.

Finkelstein’s voice called to him,
pulling him back to the room that was a basement, a tavern, a gambling den and
a door to some other cosmology, “The cube calls you, that is good, another sign
fulfilled,” was what Ortega heard while stumbling into the present.

“What is that thing?”

“The cube is the sacred geometry
derived from the Tree of Life.”

“Cover it with a rug or, better
yet, paint it.”

“You will get used to it,” beamed
Mr. Finkelstein.

“The killings, what about them?”

“The question, my friend is where
did they come from or, more accurately, how were they made.”

Reeling, Ortega’s confused mind
croaked, “Who are you talking about,” as he turned to the windows, avoiding the
diagram on the floor.

“The Monsters,” said Mr.
Finkelstein, clearly exasperated with Ortega’s powers of concentration, “who
else?”