Hunter of the Dead (20 page)

Kasprzak turned the page. A vampire with one red eye was driving a sword through the Bishop’s back. The other vampires surged forward, destroying the Crusaders.

“Cicatrice.”

Kasprzak nodded.

“It was a hard-fought battle, but in the end, the vampires were victorious. And unlike a mortal army, whose numbers dwindle after combat, their ranks grew fat with the freshly dead. The vampires had not only defeated Christendom’s mightiest warriors, they had converted many of them to their side. The sun was rising, so the vampires retreated to the Necropolis. And at the next sunset, Lily the Half-Faced declared a Crusade of her own – an unholy Crusade, to cast down the kingdoms of men and their church.”

Kasprzak leaned back in her chair and put her fingertips together. Nico realized he was practically falling off his chair. He settled himself back.

“Then what happened?”

“See for yourself.”

He turned the page. It was the strange inkblot figure.

“The Hunter of the Dead. So what happened?”

Kasprzak shrugged. Nico turned to look at Price. He rolled his eyes.

“The Necropolis was never heard from again.”

“Nor has any archaeological evidence of it existing ever been found,” Price muttered.

“Lily the Half-Face disappeared. An entire army of vampires and supposedly an entire city was completely wiped from the face of the earth.”

“And there were no survivors?”

“Cicatrice. And supposedly Otto Signari had left earlier, at Lily’s request. To this day Cicatrice blames Signari for not bringing back reinforcements.”

“What did Signari say?”

“He said he delivered the messages as ordered and it wasn’t his fault none of the patriarchs responded to her call.”

“Huh,” Nico said.

“The point of the story, kid, is that The Hunter isn’t real. It’s a boogeyman. Something vampire sires tell their get to keep them in line. ‘Follow the code or The Hunter will come for you. Listen to me or The Hunter will take you.’ Same as Santa or the Tooth Fairy.”

“Carter, I’ve never seen a vampire scared of anything. But they
are
scared of this horseman.” She tapped the illustration heavily. “Boogeyman or not, they believe in him and they are terrified of him.”

“They’re terrified of Cicatrice. Cicatrice is the one who spreads this legend. I don’t believe it’s real. I don’t even believe the Necropolis was real.”

“The proof that the Necropolis existed is the way they live. The code exists because they believe The Hunter was revenge for the hubris of gathering too many vampires in one place. That was when the code was established: no large gatherings, no public identities. They’ve lived in fear ever since that if they broke the code The Hunter would resurface.”

“It’s a myth, Professor. The time the code was founded was the same time the Inquisition started to really get going. People were actively hunting witches and vampires. The only way they could survive was by going underground.”

Kasprzak picked up Price’s phone and waved it in his face.

“So what do you make of this little piece of evidence?”

“That’s what I’m here to ask you about. It’s got to be somebody faking it, right?”

Kasprzak looked at the picture again. She shook her head.

“I can’t be sure of anything without getting a look at this object. I guess at a minimum I could attempt to date it. If it’s really medieval then…at least an argument could be made in favor of The Hunter resurfacing.”

“What about that serial killer the vampires are all worried about?” Nico asked.

Price and Kasprzak both turned and stared him down. He felt like he could disappear up his own asshole and no one would notice.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“No, no. Go on, my boy. What were you going to say?”

He coughed into his fist.

“Well, um, I heard Carter and that lady he calls Bonaparte talking about a serial killer that only kills vampires, that all the vampires are scared of lately. So, you know how there are copycat serial killers?”

Kasprzak slammed the butt of her hand down on her desk, over and over.

“That’s the way to think! Whatever you’re paying this boy, it’s not enough, Carter!”

Price nodded.

“Actually, that’s not bad thinking. Somebody’s knocking off nightcrawlers in the shadows. He’s not getting the reputation he wants. So he dresses up like The Hunter of the Dead. Suddenly everyone’s paying attention.”

“And this is the same guy who killed our Damned?” Nico asked.

Kasprzak snorted.

“Killed one of The Damned? The Damned can’t be killed. Well, not easily, anyway.”

Price gritted his teeth.

“We saw one that was.”

Kasprzak’s eyes went wide.

“My God, Carter. Tangling with The Damned…their reputation alone…”

“Yeah, I tangled with one, all right. Their reputation is…well deserved.”

Kasprzak leaned back in her chair.

“Well, you may well be dealing with the actual Hunter of the Dead, then. I can’t imagine anyone else who’d be capable of killing one of The Damned. Barring maybe Cicatrice.”

“Yeah, I was afraid you’d say that.”

Price sighed and crossed his arms. He tipped the plush chair back.

“Well, why don’t we go talk to this Cicatrice?”

Price and Kasprzak turned to stare at Nico.

“What? I just said talk. I didn’t say piss in his cornflakes. Blood flakes. Bloody cornflakes. Whatever.”

Price looked at Kasprzak, and rubbed his chin.

“Actually…what do you think, Professor?”

“Well…there is something of a truce between House Cicatrice and the Inquisition.”

“A truce?” Nico asked. “How the fuck did that happen?”

“It happened during the ‘50s. It was actually a rather complicated plan that his get, Topan put into action…”

“Eh, with all due respect, Professor, let’s hold off on a second round of story time. The important thing is there’s a truce. At least, every Inquisitor I know of knows not to fuck with any Cicatrices. They flash the scar on their hearts and it’s like a get-out-of-jail free card. The question is, does Cicatrice reciprocate it?”

“I don’t think he’s scared to kill Inquisitors. Although most vampires don’t kill Inquisitors unless directly attacked. They usually prefer to turn them on their enemies.”

“So there is actually a lot more crosstalk between vampires and vampire hunters than you’ve let on?” Nico asked.

Price shrugged.

“I don’t like being played. But my opinion is a dead nightcrawler is a net positive. Whether I did it because it played into some other nightcrawler’s political bullshit is beside the point.”

“Everything I know about Cicatrice suggests he is fixated on The Hunter,” Kasprzak said, “Perhaps he never really got over that early life trauma. If you go to him and suggest that The Hunter is back, he may just assist you.”

“But what if my theory’s true and he just made it up?”

“In my experience, people are even more proprietary about their lies than about their truths.”

Price turned to Nico.

“Put on your big boy pants, kid. We’re headed to the Aztec.”

Five

The Red Scare…

Maurice Valais ran his handcuffed hands through his sweaty, unkempt hair, trying to turn it into something akin to a decent man’s cut.

“How long do you plan to keep me in here?” he shouted at the top of his lungs.

In disgust, he kicked the leg of the metal table in front of him, realizing from the sharp knock it gave him that it was nailed to the ground. He pushed the chair back, and it screeched loudly along the tile floor. He rose and began to pace. Those were the only two things he had to do in the tiny interrogation room: sit at the table or pace.

A huge mirror covered the top half of the entire back wall. Maurice had seen enough cop shows on the idiot lantern to know what that meant. The mirror was a ruse. The G-men were back there watching him, probably enjoying seeing him scurry around like a rat in a cage.

“Fuck you,” he said, raising a middle finger in the rigid digit salute towards the mirror, “Fuck you and fuck your boss. Yeah, you can tell The Pepsi-Cola Kid I said that.”

Maurice tried to kick over the chair but it was too heavy. Everything was metal and heavy and cold and inhuman. He slammed his back into a corner and sank to the ground, hanging his head in his hands.

“Mr. Valais?”

Maurice looked up. He blinked, realizing it seemed he had fallen asleep in the corner, though he had no idea whether for a few minutes or a few days. The door was a bright rectangle of light and a shadow figure stood ensconced within.

“Congress ready for me? I won’t sign my own death warrant, I can tell you that.”

“Actually, Mr. Valais, you might be happy to know that we’ve worked something out.”

“What does that mean, ‘worked something out?’ Who are you?”

The figure stepped through the doorway, and as the bright light of the hallways receded behind him, he came into more contrast. Maurice rubbed his eyes.

“A Chinaman?”

The Oriental stranger’s lips quirked. He was wearing a business suit just like a regular American, and he barely even had an accent at all. It was queer. Damned queer.

“Malay, to be technical, but no doubt you’re not interested in technicalities at present. You can call me Topan.”

The Chinaman extended a hand. Valais nodded.

“I see. I shake your hand, you have some hidden camera around here, and snap, suddenly you’ve got photographic evidence of me giving aid and comfort to the enemy. Well, nothin’ doin’, bub. I’m true blue, all-American. I was quarterback of my high school football team, and, yeah, I fucked the captain of the cheer squad on prom night. No matter what you or your boss McCarthy say, you can’t take that away from me. Or all the slants like you I killed in Indochina, you can’t take that away from me either. I’m true blue, true blue, it doesn’t matter what you say.”

The Chinaman retracted his hand, but the smile remained rigid on his face, as though in rictus.

“I suppose it’s my own fault for trying to offer an idiot pleasantries,” the Chinaman said. “I’m fairly certain that if there were a hidden camera here…”

“And you’re going to pretend there’s not?”

“I’m fairly certain that if there were, your hands being cuffed would say all that needs to be said. But not to worry, Mr. Valais, I don’t work for Senator McCarthy. Why don’t you have a seat so we can discuss it?”

Maurice licked his lips.

“Thanks, I’m good here, Fu Manchu.”

The Chinaman nodded, the smile finally fading from his face.

“Perhaps you need some clarification about who I am,” he said, grabbing Maurice by the shoulder and pulling him to his feet as though he were a ragdoll. “My name is Topan. And I’m Malaysian. Not Korean. Not Japanese. Not Chinese. Malay.”

Topan thrust Maurice at the table, which struck his jaw with a shudder that resounded through his whole body. He felt the hard chair strike his back, then his knees, and force him into a sitting position. Topan grabbed the other chair, the heavy metal nightmare, and dropped it on the other side of the table like it weighed nothing. He flopped down on it and stared deeply into Maurice’s eyes.

“Are we clear?”

“Crystal,” Maurice said, through the blood pooling in his mouth. He had nearly bitten through his tongue when Topan had tossed him against the table.

“Good,” he said, nodding and placing a briefcase down on the table. “Now, as I said, I don’t work for Senator McCarthy. In fact, I’ve been working rather diligently to get you out of this congressional hearing. Can I assume that we’re at least both on the same side in not wanting you to go before McCarthy?”

Maurice sensed a trap, but wasn’t entirely certain what it was yet. He simply nodded, and swallowed another mouthful of bloody saliva, wishing that his tongue would stop bleeding.

“Good. Progress. Now, my pa…my boss has called in several favors. Both Nevada senators, a whole bevy of congressmen, and G-men up and down the chain. There’s a problem, though. You know what they all said?”

Maurice shook his head.

“‘There’s no crossing Joe McCarthy.’ No one wants to be considered a Red. It’s not the right climate for sticking your neck out like that. The best that that all these supposedly powerful men could get me is this meeting with you right now. How do you like that? American democracy in action.”

“Hey, if you don’t like it, you can go back to…” Maurice paused as Topan stared him down, “Malaysia.”

“It’s nice to see that your faith is not misplaced. So seeing as this is the best we could arrange, here’s what I’m going to do for you. I’m going to go over some of the questions that the Permanent Subcommitee on Investigations is going to ask you. Forewarned is forearmed or something like that, don’t they say that?”

“I suppose.”

Topan nodded.

“So what’s going to happen is I’m going to ask you questions just like Senator McCarthy or his cronies would. And you’re going to answer them. And you’re going to do it calmly, and correctly, and you’re not going to sweat and you’re not going to sound nervous, because sweating and sounding nervous makes you look guilty. And then I’m going to redirect you, just like Senator McCarthy and his cronies would. And I’m going to try to make you sweat all over again, and you’re going to not let me. Think of it like a game of chess. You like chess, don’t you?”

“I fucking hate it.”

Topan nodded.

“Good.”

He turned his briefcase towards himself and opened it. Maurice tried to glance around to see what was inside, but Topan had already slammed it shut before he could catch a glimpse of anything. In his hands, Topan held a stack of white 3x5 cards. He shuffled through them as though they were a deck of cards before finally settling on one.