Hunger (34 page)
Authors: Karen E. Taylor
I jumped, startled. “Max said?” I questioned him, my voice raised to a higher pitch than normal. “But Max isâ”
“Dead,” he interrupted, his charm lost suddenly in the flare of anger. “A most regrettable occurrence.” His eyes glittered in the moonlight and, I, barely aware of my reaction, backed away a few steps from him. He noticed my movement, and his expression and voice softened. “Forgive my poor use of the language, I didn't mean to alarm you. Max never actually said it to me. It was merely a part of the stipulations of his will: that I should watch for you after his death.”
“His will? But what has that to do with me?” I gave him a suspicious glance. “Or you, for that matter?”
Victor threw his head back and laughed loudly. “How like Max to not tell you. He was always such a secretive bastard, wasn't he? I won't keep you in suspense any longer, Deirdre. I am executor of his will and you, well, you are a very rich lady.”
“Rich?” I shrugged slightly. “I was rich before. How much did he leave me?”
“Everything he had, my dear. You are his sole heir.”
I stared at him in shock for a second, then repeated in disbelief, “His sole heir?”
Victor nodded, smiled, and took my arm. “I knew he hadn't told you, although I advised him to many times over. Max always insisted that he had all the time in the world, that he would explain everything at the right moment.” He began to walk back down the path, gently urging me along.
“Well,” I said, hoping that the bitterness I felt did not show, “that moment never came.”
“No.” His tone was noncommittal as he pushed the front gates open, giving first the padlock and then me a quick, curious glance. “Careless of the caretakers to leave these unlocked.”
“But so convenient for late-night visitors.”
He gave me a shrewd look, then smiled and patted my arm. “You can't imagine how good it is to see you alive and well. When you disappeared after Max's death, I was very worried.”
“Why would you be worried?”
He did not answer the question right away. “I left town on business the very night he was murdered. By the time I returned, Max was buried and you were gone. Without a trace, I might add. I'm afraid I may have jumped to the wrong conclusion, not that it matters at this point.”
I looked at him expectantly, but he seemed deep in thought. “And that conclusion was?” I prompted Victor.
He shook his head briefly and gave a small, angry laugh. “It does seem ridiculous now that I consider it again. I rather thought that Greer had killed you also. And hid your body.”
“Mitch Greer? Why on earth would you have thought that?”
Victor shrugged. “As I said, it doesn't matter at this point. What is important is that you are here now, and safe. We'll need to get together sometime soon. I have many papers for you to sign. Where will you be staying?”
“At a friend's apartment.” My privacy was still a major concern, and I saw no need for Victor to know where I would be. Especially that I would be at Mitch's place. There was too much I did not know about him and his anger at Max's death was still strong; the vehemence with which he said Mitch's name proved it. “I'll call you at the Imperial, if that's suitable.”
“Fine.” He waved and a car pulled up to the curb. The driver emerged, nodded to us, and opened the back door. Victor motioned for me to enter, but I shook my head.
“I think I'll just stay around for a while and go home later. It's a lovely night.”
He glanced at the sky and smiled his agreement. “If I were thirty years younger, Deirdre, I would be pleased to stay and keep you company. But watch yourself; this is not exactly the best neighborhood around.”
I stood on the curb and watched as they drove away. After they were gone from sight, I glanced back once more at the quiet cemetery, then began to walk slowly in the direction of Mitch's place. Three blocks away I hailed a taxi and rode back home.
Chapter 5
T
o my surprise, I did sleep that night and the rest of the next day as well. And although I dreamed, it was not of Max. Mostly I dreamed of Mitch, of the days and nights we had shared, of sunlit times together that were pure fantasy. All the same, I knew how he would look in the sunlight, his eyes lightened, squinting slightly, his hair reflecting shimmers of gold and silver. They were peaceful dreams of laughter and love, with no taint of blood or death. I woke with a smile on my face.
o my surprise, I did sleep that night and the rest of the next day as well. And although I dreamed, it was not of Max. Mostly I dreamed of Mitch, of the days and nights we had shared, of sunlit times together that were pure fantasy. All the same, I knew how he would look in the sunlight, his eyes lightened, squinting slightly, his hair reflecting shimmers of gold and silver. They were peaceful dreams of laughter and love, with no taint of blood or death. I woke with a smile on my face.
Stretching luxuriously, enjoying the smell of the clean sheets, I tested my hunger response. When thoughts of biting and drinking aroused no response, no growth of the canines, and no inner raging, I knew that I would remain sated for the next few days. I had fed only two nights ago and fed well.
I shuddered slightly at the thought of Robbie, his urgency, and my own needs. Having remained celibate for more than twenty years until I had met Mitch, it had been alarmingly easy to fall back into promiscuity. His final denial of me, and the presence of Max, had pushed me into my old ways: the trading of sex for blood. And although each time I found myself repulsed, sickened by the bartering, I did have the feeling that this way was more honest, more fair. My victims got what they wanted, as did I. But it had never occurred to me how I would explain the situation to MitchâI had never expected to see him again.
I rose and dressed in jeans and a sweater and went out to the kitchen to pour myself a glass of wine. I had almost finished it, when the phone rang.
“Hello.” My voice was tentative; I felt like an intruder here, without Mitch. I need not have worried, however, for it was Chris, right on schedule.
“Hi, it's Chris. Did you sleep okay?”
“Fine, thank you.”
“Well, I just wondered; I called last night when I got home, but there was no answer.”
“I went out for a walk.”
“Oh.” His voice sounded tense and disapproving. I guess he assumed I was out feeding already.
“Just a walk, Chris, nothing else.”
“Oh.” The intonation was different this time, embarrassed maybe, or apologetic. I laughed slightly, thinking that actually he had made the adjustment to the truth about his father's lover fairly well considering the enormity of it all.
“Something funny?”
“No, Chris, not really. Will we be leaving soon?”
“Yeah, I'll be by in about fifteen or twenty minutes.” He paused for a second. “But that might not be enough notice, I'm sorry. Can you be ready?”
“Of course. See you then.” I hung up the phone and rushed into the bathroom to apply my makeup and contact lenses.
After I had coaxed some color into my pale complexion, inserted a pair of green lenses, and brushed my dyed black hair, I stepped back and studied the results in the mirror. “Not too bad,” I said aloud with only a bit of a frown, “but first thing tomorrow night I need some clothes and a new dye job.”
“I don't know, my love, I've gotten used to the color. It makes you look more the part.”
There was no reflection in the mirror, but when I swung around, Max was leaning in the doorway, his lips curved in the condescending smile I remembered so well. The outline of his body was hazy though, and when I looked at him straight on, he seemed to fade in and out of my vision.
“Go back to hell, where you belong, Max.” I pushed past him as if he weren't there. And he wasn't. Still, my breathing had quickened and my pulse raced slightly. Hurriedly, I picked up my cloak and bag, turned out the lights, closed and locked the apartment door.
Chris was waiting, parked a few yards down the street. He blew the horn when I walked down the steps and waved to me. I waved back and got into the passenger side.
“You okay, Deirdre?”
“Yes, why?” My voice was raspy, and I coughed to cover it up.
“Well, I don't know, you look a little pale.”
“Is that supposed to be a joke?” I snapped in response.
“Oh, no, not really. Forget it, okay?”
He drove in silence for a while, concentrating on the traffic, ignoring, as much as possible, my presence in the car. Finally he cleared his throat and glanced over at me.
“You know,” he began hesitantly, “I seem to keep saying the wrong things to you. I don't mean to make you angry; it's just sometimes I don't know what to say. I've never been in the presence of someone like you.”
“But you have, Chris. We spent some time together before I left town. Can you remember how you treated me then?”
“Yeah.” A reluctant smile crept over his face. “We played pool. You skunked Dad every game. He really hated to lose.” The smile faded. “But it's all different now that I know.”
“It shouldn't be, Chris. I'm exactly the same person I was then.”
“Are you?”
“Yes,” I said, but my voice lacked conviction. “Yes,” I said again, stronger this time, and with more defiance. “I am the same.”
“Okay,” he agreed, turning into the parking lot of a large hospital. “If you promise to not be too touchy about it all, I'll try just a little harder to forget.”
When he finally found a parking space, he turned off the engine and the lights. I reached over for the door handle, but his touch on my arm stopped me.
“Deirdre, before we go in, I think you should know a little of what to expect.”
I nodded. “Tell me.”
He looked out the window intently; his voice was soft and pained. “He probably won't know you, most likely won't even acknowledge your presence. Dad hasn't spoken coherently for about two months now; he eats only when they feed him and he has absolutely no contact with reality. A total withdrawal from everything around him.” He sighed and continued. “We've tried all sorts of stimulation for him, but nothing works. Physically he checks out okay; other than looking like hell and having lost about thirty pounds, he's in excellent health. But mentally, he's gone.” He choked on the last words, and I could see the glistening of tears in his eyes. “He may never get back to normal, never be what he once was. But if we can get a reaction from him, just one reaction, they think they might get somewhere.”
I closed my eyes, letting the blackness enfold me wrapping myself in the starkness of Chris's words. One of the first things that had attracted me about Mitch was his sharpnessâthe alertness in his eyes, the feeling that he was totally alive and a hunter, akin to me. The fact that he might spend the rest of his life in an autistic state was unthinkable, obscene. I wanted to cry, wanted to rage and scream against this fate forced upon him. And I knew that should he prove unredeemable, those who had driven him to this extremity must pay with their lives.
Wearily, I put my hands up to my face and sighed. Was I always to be at odds with the others of my kind; would I never find rest from revenge and murder? When I lowered my hands and opened my eyes, Chris was staring at me, expectantly waiting for some sort of response.
“Dammit, Chris, I told you before I can't work miracles. You tell me that for over a year and a half he's been in the care of some of the best psychiatric experts in this city and yet you seem to expect that I can succeed where they have failed. Don't lay this entirely on my back; his case just might be as hopeless as they all think.”
“But don't you see, it's not entirely hopelessâit can't be. He's holding on for something. He's still alive, and where there's life there'sâ”
“No,” I interrupted. “Don't preach that adage to me. I've been dead so long, I've forgotten what life is like. But I will try, Chris. I will do my best to get a reaction.”
“It may take a while, and a lot of visits. It could be months or even years.” He looked over at me questioningly, pleading for my understanding, my cooperation.
“What the hell,” I said vehemently, repeating words I had said to his father not long ago but somehow an entire lifetime away. “I have all the time in the world. Shall we go in?”
I hate hospitals; so many memories are evoked by their appearance and odors, recalling death and war and sickness. This place was no different from others I had been in: It had the same sickly-sweet disinfectant smell, the sour odors of sweat and urine. But it was clean, sterile, and almost cheerful in an infantile way. Brightly colored posters and prints decorated the otherwise stark white walls, and the nurses' station at which we checked in was gaudily trimmed for an early Valentine's Day.
Most of the patients were aged, tired, and confused, walking the halls in a shuffling old-man gait, mumbling soundlessly to themselves. I shuddered at the sight of them, at the ravages of time, disease, and unkindness. Knowing that most of them had been toothless babies long after I had reached the age of sixty made me feel uneasy, guilty; I yearned to run back down the hall and hide in the darkness of the night.
Chris must have felt my hesitation, for he put a gentle hand on my elbow and steered me into a central room. A nurse greeted him by name and with a smile. I ignored their quiet conversation, concentrating instead on a search for Mitch. He wasn't there; I couldn't feel the slightest suggestion of his presence. Then as I half turned to Chris and the nurse, hearing her say to him that no, there had been no change while he was away, I saw him, and the shock of his appearance sent a terrible chill through my spine.
I had already observed the tall, too slender form standing at the grated-over window. He had laid his face against the grill, and his hands were splayed out beside him, grasping at the wire, scratching to get out into the night. His hair was totally gray and my eyes had passed over him, almost discarding him, until he turned to the side and I saw his profile.
“Dear God.” I gasped at the change in him and took a few tentative steps toward him. My movement attracted his attention for just one second; his haunted, nonfocused eyes touched mine, then flew away. He shuffled over to a nearby chair, and as he walked, he spoke, the words too quiet for me to hear. But there seemed a familiar rhythm to the movement of his lips, and I looked over at the nurse questioningly.
“Go ahead,” she urged me, “try to speak to him. He's not violent.”
The room seemed endless, but eventually I stood right in front of Mitch. He remained staring at the floor, and I discovered that he was not speaking, but singing.
“ âInto the ward of the clean, whitewashed walls . . .' ”
“Mitch.”
There was no response from him, but the song continued. “ âWhere the dead slept and the dying lay . . .' ”
“Mitch,” I said, louder this time. “It's Deirdre. I'm back. Can you hear me?”
His eyes moved from the floor and fastened on my face; there was no recognition, no spark to show me that this was the man I loved. But his voice grew more agitated, louder, as he sang the next lines. “ âWounded by bayonet, saber, and ball, somebody's darling was borne one day.' ”
I knelt in front of his chair. His eyes followed me and he jumped and shivered as I grasped his warm hands between my cold ones. I did not speak this time, but sang with him instead.
“ âSomebody's darling, somebody's pride, who'll tell his mother where her boy died?' ”
After the first four words his voice faltered and stopped, but I continued, feeling slightly foolish. His eyes darted nervously, trying to avoid my face, but eventually I drew them back to me and still holding on to his hands, gently urged him out of the chair. He was trembling violently under my touch, but that merely encouraged me, and I spoke his name again.
“Mitch.”
This time I connected. I knew he heard me and understood; his hands tightened on mine and he whispered my name. Then before I could react, he quickly dropped my hands, formed a fist, and silently punched me on the jaw, striking me with such force that I fell to the floor.
As I pulled myself up, shaking my head and gingerly feeling my jaw, I saw him running from the room, pursued by a nurse and two orderlies.
I stood, swaying in the air slightly, oblivious of the uproar Mitch's action must have been causing around me. The noise level in the room rose and as if from a long distance, I could hear the laughing and crying and shouting of the rest of the patients in the room. But my eyes were fastened on the door through which he had disappeared.
What the hell did you expect, you fool, I thought. A passionate embrace, a warm welcome-back kiss? His eyes had been the eyes of one who looked on hell, and I had helped to put him there.
I looked over to where Chris stood, open-mouthed, staring at me. The nurse who had been talking to us came over with a piece of gauze, dabbing at my bleeding lip, making her apologies over and over. Irritated, I shrugged her away and gave Chris a small, bitter smile, wincing somewhat with the pain.
“Tell me, Chris, was that enough of a reaction for you, or shall we try again?”
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