Hunger (13 page)

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Authors: Karen E. Taylor

BOOK: Hunger
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“I want you to love me back,” he said in a choked voice, sounding at least ten years younger than he was. “I want to be with you forever.”
I gave him a sharp glance. “Why do you say forever? Nothing lasts forever.”
Although his head was down, his eyes glinted up at me. “That's what people say who love each other, I'll love you forever, they say. And I will.”
I shook my head and mastered the impulse I had to comfort him again. It would do no good. Instead, I looked him coldly in the eye. “I can't do that, Larry. If you wanted a friend, a sister, even a one-time lover . . .” His eyes glittered angrily. “. . . I could give you that. But I cannot return the gift of your love. I am sorry.”
He rose slowly from the couch and squared his shoulders. Methodically, he walked to the door and reached for the knob. His hand stopped, he spun around and confronted me. “You are what they say.” His voice was awful in its quietness and its rage. “No, you're worse than they say. I know what you are and who you are, Dorothy,” he hissed the name at me and I recoiled. “Hell can't come too soon for you. But before that, I will get what I want.” He softened a bit and reached out to stroke my cheek. “I would have been good to you. I could protect you, take care of you, give you anything you ask, give you all you require.” He licked his lips. “And I know what you require. But, no, you say you can't, you're sorry. You will be sorry one day, I'm sure.” He pulled away abruptly, making his brief touch feel like a slap, and left the room.
I stood staring at the door and raised my hand to my burning cheek. “Dear God,” I said in the emptiness of the room. “What does he know about me? How could he know the truth?” I had to find Max, discover exactly what he had told Larry. Maybe he had mentioned my original name, saying that I had changed it for professional reasons. Larry could know nothing about me, I rationalized, and even if he guessed at the truth, who would believe him? Unless, of course, he was the vampire doing the killing. I dismissed that idea almost as soon as I thought it; it seemed too unlikely. Surely I would feel some sort of rapport with another of my kind, some recognition, some spark would flow between us. And as for his being my transformer, that could never be. I would know him.
I gathered my belongings and went to Max's office where I had left my coat. I was surprised to discover his office was empty and the lights were out. I stared for a while at his desk, then, on impulse, turned to the employee directory. Finding Larry's name, I wrote down his address and phone number, folded the paper and carefully put it into my purse. If things got too hot, if he really
did
know something, I would have to take action against him. Shuddering slightly as the thought of what action I could take, I left the office and closed the door.
Walking slowly through the bar, I studied the faces of the patrons at the tables, hoping to find Max drinking with David Leigh. They were not there. But when I questioned the bartender, he shrugged and said that Max was probably around somewhere. Did I want him paged? I nodded and turned away, pulling on my black leather gloves while surveying the tables and the dance floor.
“Miss Griffin?” The bartender beckoned me with a smirk. “No answer from Max. But if you're looking for your other friend, he left just a few minutes ago. Maybe you can catch up with him.” His manner was unpleasant, sneering and I swallowed the urge to slap him across the face.
“Thank you,” I replied with a false grin, while looking him deep in the eyes. He shifted uncomfortably until I dropped my gaze. “I might just do that. Please tell Max that I need to speak with him as soon as possible. Good night.”
When I got out to the street, I saw no one I knew—there was no sign of Max, Larry or David Leigh. Just as well, I decided, if I couldn't find Max, I was in no mood for conversation with anyone else. Right now, I needed to find a victim so that I could be fed and rejuvenated before I met Mitch tomorrow.
The streets were full of people: couples, singles and large groups, bundled up against the evening air, their laughter rising up in billowy puffs. It was still relatively early and a Saturday. I would need to find a less populated street. After wandering aimlessly for a while, I found myself admiring for once the displays in store windows. The normally angry thought of celebrating yet another Christmas was softened now by images of spending the time with Mitch. I smiled so broadly about the idea that a couple I passed were shocked into returning my smile. With a half-embarrassed nod they hurried away on their business, reminding me suddenly of my own purpose tonight. My smile died, and I walked on with more determination.
Three blocks past the club, I turned into a side street. I could sense someone's presence at the end of this alley and went forward eagerly to meet them. He was sleeping and took no notice of me as I settled down next to him, pushed the baby–fine blonde hair away from his neck and fed.
When my teeth pierced his neck he stirred, moaned and went back to his fitful sleep. Not even my withdrawal awoke him. As always, when I had finished I checked his pulse and found it strong.
I turned to walk away, when I actually looked at him. What I saw was pathetic. Dressed only in ragged jeans and a lightweight shirt; he wore shoes, but no socks, and was shivering uncontrollably in his sleep. He seemed no more than fifteen or sixteen, most likely a recent runaway for he was better fed than some I had seen. He would survive the feeding, I felt sure, but the cold would kill him. Shaking my head, I took off my coat and removed the label by tearing the lining with my still sharpened teeth. Wrapping the fur gently around him, I tucked some money into his shirt pocket. Oddly enough the warmth woke him, and he stared at me out of eyes that belied his years, eyes shadowed with fear and despair.
“You will be all right,” I whispered confidently to him. He answered me with an angelic grin that almost made up for his desperate eyes. “There's a shelter just two down blocks down the street,” I pointed in the right direction. “Go there for tonight. I have given you some money; do you have a home to go back to?”
He nodded, getting to his feet slowly, my coat still draped around him. He made a move to take it off, but I stopped him.
“Keep it,” I urged, “and get a bus ticket for home tomorrow. Don't spend another night on the streets, please.” I began to walk away.
“Lady?” he called after me and I turned back to face him. “Thank you.” He smiled his choir boy smile again. I nodded to him and watched as he went in the direction I had shown him. His walk was youthful and strong, and I was confident that the small price I had extracted from him would not matter. His blood had had no taint of drugs or alcohol; if he took my advice, he would survive this night of cold and vampirism with no more than a small mark on his neck and a warm memory of someone who had helped him recover his life.
I lingered on the streets no longer, but returned to the office. I worked on the upcoming show throughout the night and at dawn retired to my apartment. The feeding had sated me physically and I felt uplifted from my contact with the boy. I slept dreamlessly, to awaken Sunday evening, as the sun was setting.
I lay in bed for some time, savoring, as always, the feelings of youth and strength that followed a feeding. The darkness and quiet of the room enveloped me, calming the nerves tortured by the past few weeks. I wanted to lay there forever, avoiding the world outside. Next time, I thought languidly, I will choose a more peaceful life. I had accumulated enough money to make it possible, for at least a few decades, to live somewhere with no job, no commitments, no complicated relationships.
“Oh, God,” I said sitting upright in bed and reaching for my contacts. “I forgot I have to meet Mitch.” I hurriedly consulted the clock, it was only a little before seven. I would have time to get back to the hotel and dress before he picked me up. I threw on some jeans and a shirt and ran down the spiral staircase. I put on my boots and searched the closet for a coat to replace the one I had given away. I put on the first one I found; it was an ankle length black velvet cape. I seldom wore it, even for me the effect was too theatrical. It flapped annoyingly around my legs as I rushed down the hall to the elevators. I burst into the lobby, called a quick good–night to the startled guard and sped to the hotel.
When I reached the front door, I was only a little breathless and was happy to see that it was just turning seven. I slowed down, and entered the revolving door.
Frank was at the desk and jumped a bit at my entrance. “Hello, Frank,” I said gaily. “How have you been?”
He stared at me uncomprehendingly at first, then said, “Fine. Uh, Miss . . .”
“I really am in a hurry, Frank,” I interrupted. “If someone named Greer stops in for me, send him up, please. Thanks so much.” Without a pause, I headed for the elevators, when a hand on my arm stopped me. I spun around and found myself facing two uniformed policemen. “Can I help you, gentlemen?”
The taller of the two spoke. “Are you Deirdre Griffin?” At my nod he continued. “We'd like you to come with us, if you would. We have some questions to ask you concerning a recent homicide.”
“Recent homicide?” I repeated stupidly. “But I have already told Detective Greer everything I knew about Bill Andrews.”
“Not Andrews this time. We have a new one.”
“A new one?” I felt a sudden stab of fear. Although I was not the killer, I had known the other two victims. If this third one was also known to me, it could create a very uncomfortable situation. One night in jail, followed as it would be, by the rising sun, and I would be dead; the fact that I was innocent would not matter then. I should have left town as soon as Bill Andrews died; instead I had stayed around, playing human, and this was where it got me. “Damn,” I swore softly under my breath and glanced over at Frank as if in appeal. He looked away and busied himself at the hotel register.
“That's right, Miss Griffin.” The policeman gave me what I thought was a chilling smile. “And we have reason to believe you can help with identification. Come with us, please.”
And although it was not the police escort I had expected that evening, I accompanied them to the station.
Chapter 8
I
sat in silence in the back seat of the police car, considering my alternatives. There was not much time to plan since the police station was only five blocks away. As the car pulled up to the curb, I cleared my throat loudly. The driver turned around.
“Yes, Miss Griffin?”
It was too dark to make sufficient eye contact, so I simply said, “What are the charges, officer?”
“You must have misunderstood, Miss Griffin,” he said with a half smile. “We are not making any charges, we only want you to answer a few questions, and as I explained before, help us with an identification of the corpse, if possible.”
He was toying with me, I thought, but I nodded and decided to play along. “I will be happy to cooperate in any way I can; I'm just not sure what help I can give you.” I got out of the car and went with them into the station. As we entered the lobby I turned to the nearest officer. “May I make a phone call? I have a . . . an appointment tonight; I'd like to let them know I'll be a little late. This won't take long, will it?” I looked at him for confirmation.
“It shouldn't, but you can call if you want.” He gestured to a telephone across the lobby. I walked there, checked for the number in the book and turned my back on their curious stares as I dialed.
The phone rang ten times before Mitch finally answered.
“Hello,” he sounded brusque, hurried.
“Hello.” I did not want to say his name out loud here.
“Deirdre, I was just coming to get you. What's up?”
“I wanted to let you know that I'll be detained for a while. Something important has come up.”
The tenseness in my voice did not escape his notice. “What's wrong? Where are you?”
“At the police station.” From his muffled exclamation, I could tell he knew nothing about this situation. “Don't worry, they tell me it won't take long.”
“What the hell is it all about? I swear I had nothing to do with this, Deirdre.” He sounded confused and angry, very angry. “I'll be right there.”
“No, I will be fine, just wait . . .” I had no chance to finish; he had already hung up. I said goodbye to the empty receiver for the benefit of my listeners and walked back to them.
“Shall we go?” I addressed them with more confidence than I felt.
We rode the elevator down to the basement level, and exited into a gray, dimly-lit hall. I recoiled visibly as the doors opened, for my heightened senses reeled with the overwhelming reek of death and decay. God, it was foul; the smells of formaldehyde, disinfectant and rotting flesh permeated the air. Coughing and gagging in an uncontrollable reaction to this assault, I leaned against the wall in an attempt to calm my retching stomach and my mind travelled back to a time and place I never desired to visit again.
 
The casualties of the first battles had been worse than anyone had ever expected. Men who marched out proud and resolute returned torn and wounded, both physically and mentally. All too soon the tents set up for the injured were overcrowded; cots and blankets with the bodies of maimed and dying soldiers overflowed onto the pathways of our encampment. I remember the early days of that war as smoke-filled and alive with pain and suffering.
I had elected to take night duty in the medical tents; few of the other women wanted the task for it was at night that the moans of the dying were loudest, during the day the sounds of battle would block most of the cries. Beginning at sunset, I would carry my lantern through the rows of men, stopping to administer what was most needed: water, food or morphine. By the time I would reach the second tent, my skirts would be soaked to the knees, sodden with muddy water and blood.
It was in the second tent that the worst odor lingered. Here we kept the most severly injured and the dying. Those men who had lost limbs were the lucky ones. Even though they might be feverish or delirious, minus an arm or a leg, they still stood the best chance of living. But the ones with the belly or groin wounds were fated to die, a horrible, clawing death that tore them apart with the pain. The smell these soldiers exuded seemed almost tangible; a mixture of bile, feces and gangrenous flesh combined with sweat and blood. Most nights I would have to stop my rounds before entering the second tent, so that I could empty my stomach. Even if there was nothing in my stomach, I would still be possessed with the uncontrollable urge to vomit. I continued on because I was needed, but I never adjusted to the odors of death.
 
Dimly I became aware of the person beside me, the officer had his arm around me and was supporting me. “I'm sorry,” I gasped. “It's the smell.” Soon the nausea passed and I was able to stand erect and gain control over my body.
The officer shrugged apologetically. “It gets some people that way. I guess I've just gotten used to it.”
The other man addressed me. “We're sorry, Miss Griffin, but this trip is necessary. Let's just get it out of the way as quickly as possible. Will you be okay?” He pulled a small vial from his pocket.
“You may put away the smelling salts, please. I promise you I won't faint.” We walked slowly down the corridor, our shadows undulating on the walls. I stopped outside the morgue door.
“Before we go in, can you tell me what to expect? Who is it?”
“We don't know, we hope you can tell us.”
“Why me?”
“He had something on him that belongs to you. Are you ready to go in?”
I nodded and nervously drew in a deep breath of the foul air. He pushed the door inward and turned on the lights. They led me past carts and tables, some still containing bodies, their shapes distorted by the bright light and stark white coverings. Our destination was soon reached, a small examination room in the back.
We entered and with no preliminary warning the sheet was stripped away. The body was naked and gray, the skin waxen; and the neck was badly bruised. The fangmarks were apparent, but were not mine. Even if I could have believed that I fed on this man and had forgotten, I knew that I left no such marks. They were wider than mine, coming from a larger mouth and they were torn and stretched, as if worried by an animal. But no animal left these marks. I reached out and touched a hand, it was cold and flaccid. Choking back the tears that threatened, I gently replaced the sheet over the face.
“Miss Griffin,” the officer's voice sounded soft in that brutal environment, “did you know him?”
“Yes. His name is David Leigh. I met him last night.”
“We have a few more questions to ask. Would you like to go back upstairs now?”
“Yes,” I nodded gratefully. “Thank you. This is all very disturbing.”
He turned out the lights and closed the doors as we walked back. Waiting for the elevator, I glanced at the clock.
“We will only take just a little more of your time, Miss Griffin. Your, um, appointment won't have to wait long.”
Before we got off the elevator, I discovered that my appointment was waiting in the lobby. I could hear his raised voice through the opening doors. “. . . and why wasn't I informed that you had taken me off the case? There's no need . . .”
The man he was talking to mumbled something, then fell silent as we appeared. Mitch turned around and our eyes met. I could read his concern for me underneath the anger. He came to my side and grasped my arm. “Are you okay, Deirdre?”
I smiled. “I'm fine, now, thank you.”
“Can she go now, Lieutenant?”
The lieutenant looked to the officers. They shifted uneasily. “Actually, Mitch, we weren't quite done.”
“Let's finish it up, then. But I want to stay with her. I trust that there are no objections.”
The lieutenant shrugged, walked off and Mitch escorted me to a small room, the other officers trailed behind us. He sat down next to me, across the table from the other two. The silence grew uncomfortable until I turned to Mitch.
“Could you get me a cup of coffee or something?”
He hesitated briefly, then got to his feet and left the room.
“I don't really want to cause any problems for you,” I said, smiling. “Maybe we can finish this before he comes back.”
They sighed their relief. “It is a bit difficult with him here,” one admitted. “Just tell us what you know about this guy.”
“His name was David Leigh,” I repeated while one of them began to take notes. “I met him at the Ballroom of Romance last night. He's a good friend of Max's.” They didn't seem to recognize the name. “Max Hunter,” I prompted. “He owns the club.” The one taking notes nodded and I continued. “Dave was an auditor; I don't remember for whom he worked.”
“Local guy?”
“No, he was from out of town. He came to the city frequently, though. He's known Max for about five years. If you need any more personal information, you might check with him.”
“When we found him his wallet was gone. Of course that's not at all unusual; in fact if it were still on him, that would be strange. But he had your business card in his coat pocket. Had you made plans to meet again?”
I grimaced inwardly thinking how all this could have been avoided had I not given him my card. “No, no plans as such. I told him to bring his wife to town next time he came; I offered to have some clothes made for her.”
“Why? I can't believe you make that offer to everyone you meet.”
“Oh, I don't really know. I am a bit eccentric; but I liked him, he seemed like a nice guy.”
“Do you know any reason someone would murder him?”
I didn't hesitate. “Quite honestly, I did not know him well enough to make that judgement. But offhand, I would say no. None of this makes any sense at all.”
“One final question, Miss Griffin.” He gave me an apologetic look. “You understand I have to ask this one. And I hope you understand you don't have to answer it, at least not without the advice of counsel.” He hesitated, then looked directly into my eyes. “Did you kill him?”
“No, I did not.”
As we held eye contact, I felt his doubt of me lessen and fade away entirely.
“One more thing, Miss Griffin,” the officer taking notes interrupted, “we may need to talk with you again; don't make any plans to leave the city for a while.”
“I understand. Will that be all?” At their nods of affirmation, I stood up. The door opened and Mitch walked in bearing a tray with four cups of coffee and set it on the table. I selected a cup for myself and took a sip. “If you don't mind, I will drink mine on the way out. I do have an appointment, you know. I hope he won't mind waiting a while; I still have to get ready.” I felt sure that Mitch wouldn't want our personal relationship made common knowledge at the station. But the knowing smiles exchanged between the two officers made me think that my caution was unnecessary.
I gathered up my cloak and couldn't resist a theatrical swirl as I settled it on my shoulders. “Good evening, gentlemen.”
“Wait,” Mitch called as I left. “I'll walk you out.” He strode beside me, we went out the front door together and on to the street. He looked around and seeing no one, gave me a brief kiss. “I'd wait forever,” he whispered, “but if you're not ready in an hour . . .” I laughed at his feigned threat. He gestured for a cab and when one stopped, he helped me in. “I just want to do some checking on what's going on. And I want to get myself reinstated on the case. I won't be long.” He gave me another kiss, closed the door and the cab moved away.
 
Upon my return to the hotel, I gave Frank a curt nod and went directly to my room. I had not been there for a week now, but it was clean and sterile for my arrival. I entered without turning on the lights, dropped my black cloak on the floor and shed the rest of my clothes on the way to the shower. I made the water hotter than usual, to wash away the reek of the morgue that still lingered about me.
I dressed with great care, selecting a forest green sheath with a high neck and a low-cut cowl back. I wore a thin gold necklace, gold button earrings and pulled my hair up from the sides with combs, the rest of my hair rippled down my bare back. I applied my makeup carefully and tried to coax as much color into my pale complexion as possible. For a finishing touch I changed my contacts to a pair tinted deep green to complement the dress. I checked the clock and discovered that Mitch's prescribed hour had elapsed. He would arrive soon.
One hour later I still sat in the near darkness of the room. I rose from the sofa, went to the window and pulled the drapes aside. The streets were still crowded with people hurrying to their various destinations, but I saw no one familiar. A shadowy figure walked below my window, it might be Mitch, I thought, feeling a rush of anticipation. But as I watched, he passed the hotel entrance without a backward glance. It was not him. Disappointed I closed the drapes, then went to the bar and opened a bottle of wine to kill the time, to calm my nerves as the minutes dragged. There was work on my desk that I wanted to finish sometime this weekend; I turned on the light and tried to review the plans for the show, but I could not concentrate and kept checking the clock in disbelief. I put aside my work, switched off the light and went back to the sofa, the wine and the darkness.

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