Blood Will Tell (31 page)

“No. The night of the full moon I cannot heal until I've fed. Even the little blood I lost took its toll. But it doesn't matter now, Brandy. I'm fine, thanks to you."

She glanced at herself in the large motel mirror. She was disheveled, but glowing. The marks on her neck had already closed, showing only as small red dots. Otherwise, she looked healthy, happy, satisfied. “I feel as if it's you who give me strength."

“That's as it should be,” he told her. “I don't think vampires would be able to feed if it were not a reciprocal relationship."

“You don't think people are naturally selfish?"

“Babies are selfish,” Dan agreed, “but isn't learning not to be self-centered a major part of growing up?"

Was that why Dan seemed so—alien at times? “I guess I'm not grown up yet,” said Brandy.

“Oh, Brandy. You have no idea—at least I hope you haven't—how I have to fight my desire to keep you to myself. I've gotten used to never being sure when you'll be available. That doesn't mean I like it."

“Well, you have me for tonight,” she told him.

In the shower, their stomachs rumbled louder than the water. While the clean second bed was an advantage to being in a motel, the lack of a kitchen was not. They had meant to go out for dinner soon after their sharing and its inevitable aftermath. Now it was 3:00am, and the only restaurants open were fast food places by the interstate.

Brandy dug into their picnic supplies, finding half a loaf of bread left, some oranges, pretzels, cheese, peanut butter, cold drinks, and a couple of beers. “Why don't we just eat enough to tide us over,” she suggested, “and have a big breakfast while the car's being fixed?"

Dan peeled and sectioned an orange while Brandy made sandwiches. Naked, they sat on the unused bed and fed one another until one kind of hunger was temporarily satisfied and they reached once again to assuage the other.

* * * *

Brandy woke at sunrise, later than she had intended. Dan was still asleep, so she tiptoed around, and woke him only when she was about to call the glass shop.

They hadn't planned to spend their last morning in Florida waiting for the car to be repaired. Fortunately, there was a Denny's across the street, so they tucked into steak and eggs while the windshield and side window were replaced.

Brandy called the police, and was told that the young thief, Jerome Courtland by name, had decided to plead guilty to attempted robbery to avoid assault with a deadly weapon charges. “The way they walk in and out of Florida's prisons, he'll probably be out in six weeks!” Brandy told Dan in disgust when she returned to their table.

“But we won't have to testify,” said Dan, “and the boy won't have the chance to say anything about me in court."

So his fears of last night were not simply anxiety brought on by his Craving. “Dan, do you want to visit Jerome Courtland before we leave?"

“Why?” he asked.

“To make him certain you're not a vampire. He thinks he knows the rules, from Dracula movies. If you visit him in daylight, in the interrogation room where he can see you in the mirror, he'll be sure he's wrong. We can even stop at a Wal-Mart and pick up a cross for you to wear."

Dan put a hand over Brandy's. “Thank you,” he said. “If the case were going to court, I'd do it. But since it's not, it's probably best that he simply not see me again. Eventually he'll forget."

“But you won't."

“I don't know why I can't influence him. That power is at its strongest during the Craving—a survival characteristic to make prey vulnerable and allow me to escape without their remembering me. I need to know why Jerome Courtland is completely impervious!"

Brandy frowned. “Dan, do you think he's a vampire?"

“If he were, he'd have been out to get blood last night, not to steal a car."

“Could he have fed before we encountered him? You said you can't tell—you weren't sure about Land till he died."

Dan puzzled over that. “Do you think this Courtland kid's that good an actor? Why pretend he believes the old Dracula routine? What about the danger in giving the police the idea that there are vampires around?"

“He has fingerprints, so if he is a vampire he's young—maybe he's using reverse psychology. Or—could he be older than he looks? Thirty or forty?"

Again she watched Dan mull over her question. Odd how sometimes he seemed so puzzled by questions he ought to know an immediate answer to. Finally he said, “No, he's really the age in his records. What was it—nineteen? A vampire would continue to mature into his thirties, and then stop."

“He could be like you at that age, figuring out the rules. He already knows he doesn't have to kill to live."

“He does?"

“Florida has become famous for murders the past few years, but there's no serial killer leaving a trail of drained corpses. Not even a full moon killer."

“Yes—you'd know, wouldn't you?” Dan thought it over. “He could be a young vampire, still experimenting. He might wear that cross for the same reason I have a mirror and a crucifix in my living room. So, what should we do, Brandy? If he's not a vampire, we could make fools of ourselves. But if he is, he probably needs my help."

“Wait,” said Brandy, “until he asks you for it."

“What?"

“If Jerome Courtland is human, he'll soon convince himself that he imagined what he saw. If he's a vampire, he'll come looking for you—his lawyer can get him your address. Let him come to you if he needs your help."

“Sometimes you're too smart for your own good,” said Dan, and they left it there and started back to Kentucky.

But on the way home, Brandy noticed something. The waitress where they stopped for dinner warned them away from the special, and told them which dishes were actually prepared fresh. The attendant where they stopped for gas not only pumped it, but also checked the oil and cleaned their windshield. And when they stopped for the night, the desk clerk didn't charge extra for a ground-floor room.

When they were inside, Brandy asked, “What are you doing, Dan?"

“What do you mean?"

“You're testing your influence on everyone we come into contact with."

“Do you blame me?” he asked. “Brandy, I've always been careful to avoid influencing people indiscriminately. As a consequence, I had no idea some people might be immune."

“You've decided Jerome Courtland isn't a vampire?"

“The more I think about it, the more certain I am that his panic was real. Another vampire wouldn't pass out with terror. One with criminal tendencies would try to blackmail me. And he didn't try to use influence on us. That leaves Courtland as a normal human being who is immune to influence. How many such people are there?"

“You've decided to find out?"

“I can't test the whole world, but I need to know what the chances are. I thought I would easily get us out of that situation last night—and instead I made things worse. What if Jeff Jones had been immune?"

Brandy remembered Dan rendering Church's son unconscious with the “Vulcan nerve pinch.” “He might have gone into shock and died. But that wouldn't have been your fault, Dan, any more than it would have been mine if you hadn't been there."

“I know. But, I've gone to many people to feed my Craving over the years. It never crossed my mind that I couldn't prevent a donor from panicking."

“You just wouldn't have gone through with it."

“My point is, it never happened. But then, I've developed a group of regular donors wherever I've settled for any length of time."

Brandy had deliberately not pursued that question. She didn't want to know who in Murphy Dan had fed on. Now, forced to think about it, her police officer's mind insisted that she ask, “Was Carrie one of your regular donors?"

“No. I stayed too late, wanting you—and then I took the easy way when I left you and the Craving hit me."

“If you didn't know there were people you couldn't influence, why did you risk having regular donors?"

“Risk?” Dan asked.

“You established a pattern. Someone might have noticed."

“You might have noticed. Not everyone thinks like a cop,” Dan reminded her. “And ... I didn't want to hurt anyone."

“I of all people know it does no harm."

“I was afraid of spreading disease, Brandy. I appear to be immune to all human diseases, including AIDS. But that one really made me think. I don't know if I don't get sick because the bugs don't like my taste, or if my immune system kills them."

“You're human. It's probably the latter."

“Perhaps. But people can carry diseases they're immune to. I don't want to be responsible for spreading AIDS or hepatitis. It's not possible to tell without a blood test, but at least I could live where such diseases are less prevalent, and pick donors at least risk."

“You always chose people you knew?"

“Never close friends.” He smiled. “Until now."

“Since your wife—became too sick,” Brandy corrected, and again saw that puzzled look flicker momentarily in his eyes.

“Yes,” Dan agreed. “Since Megan got ill."

Brandy didn't attempt to stop Dan from testing his influence; the more information he had, the better off they both were. They returned to Murphy and Brandy's routine.

Brandy had to work on New Year's Eve. Although Callahan County was dry, plenty of alcohol flowed that night, and the police were kept busy with traffic patrol and “drunk and disorderly” calls.

As midnight approached, though, those cops not out on call gathered in the squad room, ready to drink a toast in coffee at midnight. At 11:30pm, the door burst open to admit Dan Martin, Coreen Jones, Melissa Blalock's husband, and the wives of two other officers. They brought a cake and what looked like champagne—but turned out to be sparkling grape juice. Plastic wine glasses were passed around, and everyone prepared for a festive moment.

Then the dispatcher reported, “Silent alarm at the courthouse."

“Damn!” said Brandy, and gave Dan a swift kiss as she grabbed her coat and followed Church out into the cold. Reynolds and Menafee, rookies stuck with New Year's Eve duty, were close on their heels.

The courthouse was just around the corner—they saw nothing out of the ordinary. A few Old Timers gathered outside for a New Year's toast, that was all.

The elderly men who hung about the benches by the courthouse were not homeless. But tonight they had gathered to see in the New Year together. They were passing a couple of bottles wrapped in paper sacks around, but the police ignored that breach of a city ordinance. A dry county had no equivalent of Cheers to provide such people a home from home.

All the men had that “lost old man” look, clothes that had stretched out of shape while their bodies shrank or increased in girth. Their attempts to keep warm included sweaters or suit coats hanging below waist-length jackets, work boots with what had once been dress pants, caps with ear flaps tied down against the cold.

The usual crew was there, the same people Brandy saw on the benches year in and year out. “Hey—what're the police doin’ here?” one of them asked as Brandy and Church approached.

“Did anyone go inside?” Brandy asked.

“In the courthouse? It's locked,” one of the other men responded.

“Naw, we're all here,” said the first man, looking about him to count heads. Then, “Where's Troy?” he asked.

“He was here a minute ago,” said a man wearing a Day-Glo hunting cap. “You think he went inside?"

The west door was firmly locked. When the police went around to the east, however, they found the door open, bent metal and splintered wood indicating forced entry.

Telling the Old Timers to stay outside, Brandy and Church moved into the cold building. There was no one in the ground floor hall, and all the offices were locked and dark. As they turned back toward the east end, however, a soft electronic “beep” sounded from somewhere above.

The second level held the courtroom and judge's chambers, soon to be moved into the modern annex being built a block away. Callahan County's historical courthouse in its traditional square could not be expanded; it would be preserved with the sheriff's and tax assessor's offices on the ground floor, the upstairs converted to other uses.

But just now there was still that atmospheric old courtroom. Church and Brandy carefully climbed the worn marble stairs, finding the door to the courtroom a victim of the same tool used below. The room was dark, but at the other end the door to the judge's chambers stood open, pouring a shaft of light across tables and benches.

As they approached, Brandy heard the soft click of computer keys manipulated by a hunt-and-peck typist. Staying out of the light, Church bent to retrieve a crowbar abandoned beside the door.

From inside the chambers Brandy heard swearing in a familiar voice, then, “Dammit, tell me what I want to know!"

Brandy and Church stopped in the doorway, seeing the old man struggling with the machine. “And just what is it,” Church asked, “that you want to know, Dr. Sanford?"

Chapter Fourteen—Discovery

Doc Sanford looked even worse than last time Brandy had seen him. His good wool coat was open over a shapeless suit, worn too long without cleaning or pressing. The old man's shirt collar was frayed, his wrinkled tie knotted untidily. He wore a snap-brim fedora that had lost its snap; his ears and nose were red with cold. She realized with a shock that he had turned into one of the Old Timers.

He smelled of whiskey.

“Come on, Doc,” Brandy said gently. “Let us take you over to the station, and you can tell us what you were trying to do here."

“The proof's in that damn machine!” said Sanford.

“What proof?” asked Church.

“The proof that Judge Callahan killed my boy!"

“Now, Doc,” said Church, “you come along with us, and you'll see things clearer in the morning."

“Aren't you gonna arrest him?” asked Menafee, who had followed them in.

“Jurisdiction problem,” Church prevaricated. “Courthouse is county property. We'll just take Doc over to the station and hold him for questioning."

“You know him.” Menafee finally got it.

“Doc Sanford. He was coroner till a couple of months ago,” Brandy explained. She realized that Church was annoyed that Doc Sanford had tried something Church's position as a police officer put off limits to him.