Hunger (19 page)
Authors: Karen E. Taylor
It was Gwen, her skin was heavy and solid, her small naked body pitiful, lying in the brown stain of her own blood. And emerging from her chest was a large wooden stake; her back was arched, actually raised an inch from the bed where the other end protruded. Her eyes were open and her hands tightly grasped that horrible implement of death, as if she tried to wrench it away in her last moment of life. “Dear, sweet Jesus.” I was glued to the spot; I could not take my eyes away from her.
This was something I had read about, something I had envisioned so many times. But it was worse than I had ever imagined, and it was wrong. The body should have been mine.
Pulling my gaze away from the stake, I reached over and gently stroked her tousled hair, closed her eyes and carefully pulled the sheet back over her. I looked into Mitch's eyes. I could tell he shared my grief and horror, but I did not want his comfort.
“Get him,” I said, my voice stony and harsh, “you find the bastard that did this. And when you do, he's mine, do you understand? He's mine. I'll tear him apart.”
Both Mitch and the other policeman looked at me in shock. “Deirdre?” Mitch softly approached and I permitted him to put his arm around me and lead me back down the stairs. “Do you want me to take you somewhere?” He helped me to the couch as if I would break in his arms. “Your hotel, maybe? Or my place? I'm afraid it'll take some time to get this all taken care of.”
“No, thank you. I would like to wait if I may.” I wiped my hands over my face to remove my tears. “This was meant for me,” I said to myself. “It should not have been Gwen, it was meant for me. If I had known, I could have stopped this.” My voice sounded dead and emotionless.
“Deirdre,” he clasped me to him roughly, “don't do this. Don't blame yourself. It happened, there was nothing you, or anyone else, could have done to stop it. How could you know? You're only human.” He tightened his grip on me and gave me one brief kiss before turning away.
“How I wish that were true, Mitch,” I said softly as he climbed the stairs.
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The entire investigation took several hours. I sat motionless for some of the time, staring at the art on the walls. It gave me a point of focus other than the activity in the loft. But that focus was shattered when the morgue employees arrived to bundle Gwen up in a zippered plastic bag. I stood up and walked toward the kitchen. “I'll just make some coffee now, if anyone wants it.” I spoke to no one in particular and no one answered, but the task enabled me to turn my back on the awkward package, that was once my friend, being carried down the stairs.
The smell of the coffee drew them to the kitchen, one by one. Disinterested and mechanical, I served them all. Mitch was the last to arrive. I fixed a cup and handed it to him. My hands were steady again and he gave me a sad smile. “You doing okay?” he asked.
“As well as can be expected, I suppose.” I tried and almost succeeded in returning his smile. “Will you be much longer?”
“No, not too much. But you can help with something, if you would.”
“You know I will do whatever I can, Mitch.”
“We need to fingerprint you; we'll need to be able to tell your prints from the others we found up there. So we can get a positive ID.”
The thoughts of leaving a permanent trace of my existence with the police department made me shiver involuntarily. But I knew I could not refuse, nor did I want to. I needed to identify the murderer, not only for revenge but for my own personal safety. I knew what Gwen's death meant. Somebody knew who and what I was. Somebody who was enjoying the game he was playing with me. Somebody who wanted more than my death. “Larry.” I whispered his name with loathing.
Mitch said nothing, but sat watching me, his cup of coffee grasped between his hands.
Finally, I nodded to him. “I will allow the fingerprinting, but you may find it to be a futile gesture.”
“You don't think we'll get him?”
“Oh, I am sure we will.” I laughed, low and threateningly and he inadvertently drew away from me. “We will find him. But after I'm done with him there won't be enough left to identify.”
“Jesus, Deirdre. I know that this has been a shock to you, it would be for anyone. Even if you didn't know her. But you can't do anything about it. Let us do our job.”
I looked at him defiantly. He stood up and grabbed my arm, pulling me roughly to him. “I don't want you involved. I know she was your friend, I can even imagine how you must be feeling. But you must stay out of this; he will be taken care of, I promise you.”
“Fine, Mitch. I'll play by your rules, for now. But if he gets away, or gets released on some technicality, I will track him down and I will kill him.”
He stared at me in disbelief. “Deirdre, you're in shock and slightly hysterical; later on you will feel differently. You can't expect me to believe that you would be capable of . . .” His voice trailed off.
“You'd be surprised what I am capable of, Mitch.” His eyes held a mixture of doubt and confusion, suspicion and fear, as if I had changed in his eyes. I found the emotions he reflected discomforting and saddening. “But then again,” and I smiled when he relaxed at my softened voice, “maybe you know me better than I think. Let's get this over with.”
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When all of the prints had been taken, and all of the evidence examined and photographed, the policemen left. Mitch and I sat in an amiable silence at the kitchen table, finishing the rest of the coffee. He rubbed his hand over his eyes and combed his fingers through his hair. “Tired?” I queried gently.
“I feel like I haven't had a good night's sleep for months. I didn't get much sleep last night, as you well know,” he said with a goodânatured leer. I blushed slightly and lowered my eyes. “And I don't think I'll get much tonight.” He placed his hand over mine at the table. “Unfortunately, it won't be for the same reason.”
“What else do you need to do tonight?”
“At the very least, I have to go to the station and file a few reports. We've got an APB out on Larry, but he may not turn up for a while. The lab guys will take care of the prints and the evidence. I hope that after the paperwork is done, I'll be able to go home and get some sleep.”
“May I accompany you to the station?”
“That would be a good idea, since I'm supposed to have you under protective custody. Even if that weren't the case, I won't let you out of my sight until Martin is arrested.”
I shivered again, the picture of Gwen impaled was imprinted on my mind. “Make it soon, Mitch.”
He said nothing, just looked at me sadly.
“Can we go? I don't want to stay here any longer than necessary. I may never stay here again.”
“I don't blame you,” he agreed. “It is a shame, though. This place is very nice.” He walked into the living room and began to turn off the lights. As he passed the wall of pictures, he stopped and surveyed them. “These are wonderful. But I don't recognize this one. I mean, I know it's a Van Gogh, but I don't believe I've ever seen this particular picture.”
“You probably haven't, Mitch. I, well, it's sort of a family heirloom. We acquired it at an estate auction, quite a bargain, I was told.”
“It's the original?” he exclaimed in astonishment. “You have an original Van Gogh and have the nerve to tell me it was a bargain? It must be worth a small fortune.”
I shrugged. “It is, I'm sure. But the picture was bought during the Depression. Times were hard, people were anxious to recoup their losses, even if it meant selling something as precious as this.” I wanted to tell him how precious it really was, how I had risked my life in the daylight to acquire it. How when I looked at it, I felt almost human again.
I had fed for five straight days prior to the auction, trying to build up my strength for the ordeal. Fortunately the day was overcast and the estate shaded with large trees. I had sat under one of these trees, swathed in yards of material. The bidding had been almost as fierce as the ravaging of the sun's rays. But I was determined to get it and get it I did. And though I lay in bed, burnt and shriveled for a week afterwards until my skin finally healed, I never doubted for a minute that it had been worth the cost.
“Deirdre.” I tore my gaze away from the painting to see his eyes warm with concern. “Let me get you out of here.”
I nodded and accepted his support. He reached for the light switch but took one final look at the wall. “It's so beautiful,” he said as we left the room.
I couldn't lock the doorâthe key had been taken away with Gwen's effects; I merely adjusted the curtain to hide the entrance once again. As I did this, I realized that I would never return here, not to sleep, not even to work. Gwen's death had cruelly severed any ties I had with this place. The office would be closed and the business sold. I could leave this portion of my life now with little regret.
As we slowly walked to the elevators, I studied Mitch's profile in the near darkness. He had come to mean so much to me during the few days we had spent together. I could hardly visualize what my life would be like without him when I finally had to leave. For I would have to go, I knew, and as the elevator car began its downward journey, I sighed. He gave me a sad smile and put his arm around my shoulders, drawing me closer. I would miss Gwen desperately, though I truly believed she was in a better world. I would miss the daily grind of the fashion industry, the hectic deadlines and even the demanding clients, yet there were other ways I could fill my time. But as for leaving Mitch. . . . I sighed again as the doors opened and we went to the street to his car. Oh, God, I thought, leaving Mitch will be one of the hardest things I will ever do.
Chapter 14
I
t was just after midnight when Mitch completed his work at the station. Then I persuaded him to return with me to the hotel to gather some of my clothes and personal effects. By the time we finally arrived at his apartment it was after one. That he was exhausted, mentally and physically, was apparent from the way he dragged up the steps, stumbled in the door and slumped on the couch. I set my case down in the hallway and sat in a chair facing him.
t was just after midnight when Mitch completed his work at the station. Then I persuaded him to return with me to the hotel to gather some of my clothes and personal effects. By the time we finally arrived at his apartment it was after one. That he was exhausted, mentally and physically, was apparent from the way he dragged up the steps, stumbled in the door and slumped on the couch. I set my case down in the hallway and sat in a chair facing him.
“What happens now?” I asked quietly, hating to disturb him.
“What?” He sat up straighter and looked at me. “Oh, I'm sorry, Deirdre. I'm absolutely beat.”
“I know,” I said sympathetically. “Is there any way I can help?”
“For now, no. I need to get some sleep. We've got men out looking for Larry now and all of his normal haunts are under surveillance. If he shows up, they'll let me know.”
“And if he doesn't show up?” I somehow felt there was more that could be done and the question sounded sharper than I had intended. I glimpsed a flash of anger in his eyes.
“Then, tomorrow, we try to flush him out. I can't do anything else about it tonight. And neither can you.” As suddenly as it arrived, the anger died and he smiled wearily. “You should get some rest, too, if you can. There will be plenty for you to do tomorrow.” He walked over to me and lightly held my arms. “Right now you can help me most by just staying here, with me. Will you be able to sleep?”
I nodded. “I think so. You go ahead. I'll be in a little later.”
He gave me a lazy kiss and hug and turned to go, unbuttoning his shirt. As he walked down the hall I watched him with a tenderness that still surprised me. I wanted nothing more tonight than his presence. I would forego for a while my plans of vengeance and do as he wished. With a sigh I picked up my suitcase and followed him.
He had discarded his clothes into a rumpled pile. After I folded each garment and draped them over a nearby chair, I quietly slid into bed next to him. He was asleep already, his breathing was slow and regular. I could not get the picture of Gwen's corpse out of my mind. I replayed the night over and over, receiving no answers, no comfort. “Damn,” I swore and turned over roughly. Mitch jumped in his sleep and lifted his head to regard me with sleepy eyes. “Go back to sleep,” I soothed him, staring into his eyes. “Everything will be fine.”
Nothing is fine, my mind raged and the promises I had made to him and to myself about not getting involved dissolved into the picture of Gwen, staked to my bed. I reached over and took his face in mine. Smiling, I strove to touch his mind with mine. “Everything is fine, Mitch,” I repeated again. “Sleep now, I will be with you tonight, all night. I will not leave, I will stay with you all night. Sleep now.”
He relaxed and his eyes closed. “Sleep now,” he murmured. “You will be here.” I released his face and he rolled over and went back to sleep. Ever so quietly I slid from his bed, dressed in the black pants and sweater I had packed, smoothed on my black leather gloves and went out the door.
The night was glorious, clear and cold, with no moon. The streets I traveled were dark and shadowy and took me to an alley behind Larry's apartment. Easing around the corner, I saw the car stationed outside; the shadowy figure inside lit a cigarette and I could smell the rich tobacco from where I stood. I did not need the lowered hum of the radio to identify Mitch's surveillance team. But there was only one in the car and I realized that there must be two.
Where was the other one? Silently, I listened to the sounds of the night, the traffic noises, the muffled sounds from within the surrounding buildings. With an effort of will, I blocked these sounds and tuned them out. There, there he was. I heard the quiet breathing of a man standing just inside the entrance. He stamped his feet, and the scratchy sound of knit gloves rubbing together drifted back to me.
From the personnel file in Max's office I knew that Larry Martin lived on the third floor. I assessed the back walls of the building, laughing silently to myself. Too bad, I thought, too bad that I can't turn into a bat or a mist. Then I could be in and out with no one the wiser. But I thought I could manage the climb.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, a voice urged me to back off, to walk down the dark, beautiful streets and return to Mitch and the warm bed that awaited me. But I had become reckless with the rage at Gwen's death, almost as if her death had set me free of the final restraints of humanity. That's not true, my mind prodded, if you care that much you are still human.
“Nevertheless,” I whispered to the night sky, “I will go.” I slipped off my shoes and set them at the side of the wall; I removed my gloves and put them into my pocket. A thrill of excitement, akin to the hunt and capture of a victim, enveloped me. My senses vibrated, my teeth enlarged. A severe hunger and restlessness overtook me and I began to climb, slowly at first and then with more confidence, my fingers and toes clinging tightly to the coarse surface of the bricks.
Before I knew it I was halfway up the wall. My balance was superb and I scaled the rest of the distance effortlessly. It was a simple matter to complete the climb, find an open window and ease myself in. As my feet touched the floor, I suppressed the impulse to laughâso easy, it was so easy.
Walking down the hall, I found his apartment. I suspect I could have identified it even had the number not matched that found in Max's personnel file; Larry's familiar odor permeated the hall directly outside the door. I put my gloves back on and rashly turned the knob, not caring if he were inside or not. The door was locked but I twisted the knob again, harder this time; the lock broke and the door opened. I looked up and down the hall before I enteredâno one had seen me.
Closing the door softly behind me, I glanced around. It was empty, as I knew before I had even taken one step inside. There were only three rooms, I checked the kitchen first, grimacing as a roach ran over my bare foot. The bathroom, next; there was nothing here that would indicate his involvement. If there was any evidence, it would have to be in the main room, that served as both a sleeping and a living area. “But not for long,” I bared my teeth at my reflection in the window as I passed.
His bookshelves held a large assortment of paperback books. I took a second look at these and was not really surprised to find that every one of them were vampire novels; he had them all, from the classics to the tawdry. Most of them, I had read and discarded for their uselessness, but from their worn appearance I could tell that Larry had read each one thoroughly several times.
There were two stacks of books, horizontally arranged on the end of one of the shelves; the fact that they were out of line with the rest caught my eye. I moved one of the stacks and saw behind it not the wood of the case but the leather binding of a larger book. Pulling it out, I almost dropped it in shock. The cover was black, bloodâred letters emblazoned the surface with the name, Dorothy Grey. My hands trembled and I longed to tear off the confining gloves, but I knew that I did not dare.
The first page held an old, worn picture, in sepia tone. A group of union soldiers, stern and unsmiling, stood around a tent. It could have been any encampment in that war, but I knew these men. Some had died in my arms, some I had even helped along their way. Looking closer, I saw myself, gaunt and glassy eyed, peering out from within the tent. Underneath the picture Larry had written, “The first appearance of Dorothy Grey, The Angel of Death.”
“Jesus, he knows.” I slid down to the floor, grasping the scrapbook to my chest. “How the hell could he know?” I frantically rifled through the pages; many of my lives and identities were charted here, names, towns, occupations. Oh, he had missed some, but those he had captured were correct and completely damaging. What had he planned to do with this, I wondered, what possible purpose could it serve for him? None, now, I affirmed, for I would take it with me and burn it.
The last few pages he used as a journal, and when I read them, his purpose suddenly became clear. He was searching for eternal life; he wanted to become a vampire. Nowhere did Larry explain how he learned the truth about me, but his aspirations were plainly expressed. His obsession with me went further than love or lust; beyond all of that, he longed to live forever, longed to walk the night, powerful and invincible. I was merely the key to his desire.
I snapped the book shut and stood up again, searching the room and finding a backpack. I unzipped it, emptied its contents onto the floor and put the book inside. As I did so, a scrap of paper fell out. On it was written simply “the blood is the life” and the address of the blood bank that had been robbed.
I let the paper lay where it had fallen. On impulse, I crossed the room and went back to the kitchen. The roaches scattered from the light as I opened the refrigerator. Inside were a dozen bags of blood, neatly labeled and stacked. I wondered if he thought that he could become a vampire simply by drinking the blood or if he were merely stockpiling in the event that I fulfilled his desires. He will never get to use them at all, I thought and removed all but two of them, and, hoping that the plastic would resist punctures, stowed them into the backpack along with the book. Then with a grim smile, I found a piece of paper and a pencil. “My dearest Larry,” I wrote, “thank you for dinner. Watch for me, I will be back.” I felt a deadly rush of satisfaction as I taped the note to the refrigerator door and left the apartment.
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Getting back into Mitch's place was no problem, but as I quietly shut the door and set the backpack down on the floor, I realized that I would have to leave. I glanced at the clock; it was already after five, too much of the night had been lost at Larry's apartment. After checking to see that Mitch still slept, I began to make my plans. The evidence that I now possessed must never be seen, especially by him. And Larry must die. I had never killed before and the decision was anathema to me, but there would be no choice in the matter. For now, though, I had to seek safe harbor. I could not return to the hotel or to the office; Mitch would most certainly look for me there. And I could not allow myself to be found, not yet.
I walked back down the hallway and stood above Mitch's bed. The lights from the street shone in through the window and illuminated his sleeping features. “Damn it, Mitch. It would have been easier to have never met you.” Even as I said it, I knew it was not true. No matter the outcome, my love for him was real and uplifting, a memory I could cherish in however many countless years I had remaining. There would be other lovers in my future, but none like him.
He rolled over and spoke. “Deirdre?” He was still half asleep.
“I'm here, Mitch.”
“Why aren't you in bed?”
“I have to go to the bathroom. Relax, go to sleep.”
When he settled back in, I quietly picked up my suitcase and left the room; if I stayed any longer, I would be lost, in more ways than one.
I did stay long enough to write another note. Taking care to write in block letters so that the paper left at Larry's would not be connected, I wrote: “Mitchâalthough your protective custody is wonderful, I find I must get away. Please don't worry about me or try to find me. Trust me, I will stay safe and I will contact you as soon as I can. I love you.”
The sky was becoming cloudy when I went back to the streets. I hurried three blocks away from Mitch's apartment and went into a convenience store to make a phone call.
“Answer it, damn it. Answer it,” I urged, as the phone rang for the tenth time. Finally, on the twentieth ring, a surprisingly alert voice answered. “Yes.”
“Max, thank God you're there.”
“Deirdre, to what do I owe the honor? I would have thought that after our last meeting, it would be a cold day in hell before you called on me again.”
“If so, then I guess Satan is skiing right now. Max, look, I really need your help.”
“My help?” His voice took on a grieved tone, but I could hear the humor underlying it. “And what about the intrepid Detective Greer, his shoulders are not as broad as you thought, eh? Or maybe he discovered the truth about you and threw you out on your blood-sucking ass.” I had mistaken the humor, these last words were spoken in a hiss, as if through clenched teeth, and Max never stooped to vulgarity unless angered.
“Jesus, Max. I'm serious, I need your help. Can I count on you or shall I call someone else?”
“And just whom would you call, my dear? It seems to me your options are very limited. They must be, for you to come to me.”
He was right, I realized in shock as I ran through a very short list in my mind: Gwen, dead; Mitch, unapproachable; Larry, unthinkable. No, there was only Max now. There was always the option of checking into a hotel, but I needed to talk the situation over with someone. And given the circumstances, that person could only be Max. I sighed.
“Max,” there was a pleading in my voice that made me cringe, “I have backed myself into a corner and don't know how to get out. We have been friends for so many years, and I need your help. As far as the other night, well, maybe we could make amends and start over.”
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