Once Bitten (7 page)

“Don't let them get to you,” he said. I was Rivron's boss but he was five years older than I was and it often seemed that our roles were reversed. He'd offer me advice and more often than not I'd take it because he was a good, solid psychologist and spent a lot more time going over the literature than I ever did. Rivron was one of those guys who faded from the memory seconds after he left the room. He had the perfect face for an extra in the movies, if you get my drift, it wouldn't matter how many times he popped up in the background, you'd never remember him. Pretty much everything about him was average. He'd have made a great criminal, you could just imagine the cops doing the rounds and collecting descriptions at the crime scene - average height, average build, brown eyes, brown hair, no distinguishing features. “Do you think you'd recognise the man again, mam?”

A pause. A cough. An embarrassed look. “Well, not really officer, no.”

His choice in clothing also bordered on the nondescript - sports jacket, neatly-pressed flannels,

light checked shirt, loafers, quiet socks. He had his own practice as a psychoanalyst, working out of an expensive office in Beverly Hills. His day job, he called it. Working for the LAPD was his pro bono, you know? Something to talk about at dinner parties with the stars. If I sound bitter,

ignore me, I'm just jealous because I don't get to tell Farrah Fawcett-Majors about my tangles with LA low life. Since Deborah walked out, I don't get to talk to anybody about my work.

The phone warbled and Rivron picked it up, took down a few notes and replaced the receiver.

“Toss you for a vampire?” he asked. “Downstairs in room D. Bit a couple of down and outs.”

“Killed them?”

He shook his head. “More likely he'll be going down with alcohol poisoning. Or worse.”

The phone rang and I reached for it this time. “You have it, I'll take this one,” I said to Rivron and he sighed and picked up his briefcase. Inside was his laptop computer and a copy of the Beaverbrook program. He waved as he went through the door and I waved back.

“Beaverbrook,” I said. It was a sergeant on the desk. They had a possession case for me. I started taking notes until it became obvious that he was talking about a teenager caught driving a stolen Rolls Royce.

“You cannot be serious,” I said.

“Hey, Doc, possession is nine tenths of the law,” laughed the sergeant, and hung up. Everyone's a comedian.

So you reckon this whole full moon stuff is a crock of shit, do you? That there's no way a satellite whizzing around the earth can possibly affect the actions of the billions of tiny people going about their business far below? Most scientists will laugh in your face when you suggest that the moon has a direct affect on the incidence of abhorrent behaviour, but you ask any police desk sergeant and he'll tell you without a trace of hesitation that when the moon is full, the crazies come out to play. OK, so maybe they've been influenced by too many video nasties and it's not actually a physical reaction, just a Pavlovian-type response, see the moon and howl sort of thing, but the end result would be the same, wouldn't it? Me, I've done enough basic research to know that there is a statistically significant increase in criminality during the full moon. I've started retesting suspects who were first examined during the full moon, running them through the Beaverbrook Program a couple of weeks after their arrest and comparing the results. There's a difference. Not much, to be sure, the curves don't shift so that a criminally insane person becomes sane when the moon's on the wane, but there is an effect. Once I've got enough raw data I'll put together a paper for one of the less serious journals but I already know I'll come in for a lot of stick.

Many people have a gut reaction about the moon, accepting without too much thought that they tend to get drunk easier when the moon is full or that they're more likely to get into an argument or a fight. There are lots of farmers around who reckon that crops grow better if you plant them when the moon is waning rather than waxing. It doesn't matter why, they just believe that it happens.

There is a theory that says the effect of the moon on men is tidal, that it has the same pull on the water in our bodies as it does on the planet's oceans. Water accounts for more than eighty per cent of our bodies, so it's possible that the pull of the moon effects the concentration of the chemicals in the body and the reactions they undergo. Another theory reckons its something to do with the light from the moon, something like Seasonal Affective Disorder which is reckoned to effect about one person in a hundred, mainly women. SAD usually occurs between October and March and is reckoned to be a form of light starvation in people whose hormones can't adjust to the seasonal lack of light. Sufferers tend to get depressed, anxious, and sometimes violent, and they can be helped with a form of light therapy, sitting in front of a light box that gives out ultra- violet light, not enough to tan but five or six times what you'd get under normal domestic lighting. It works. So if lack of light can effect susceptible individuals, maybe moonlight can change others, in a different way, but a way in which we don't yet understand. Whatever the reason, the end result is the same.

When the moon shines, the crazies come out to play.

I left the precinct at about four o'clock in the morning, dog-tired and feeling dirty, mentally and physically. Someone had hung a garland of garlic around the aerial of my car. I threw it on the back seat. It wasn't funny anymore.

The Release I guess I was so wrapped up in my work that I forgot about Terry Ferriman for a day or two. Peter Hardy hadn't called me back about the film star and I had a lot on my mind, what with Deborah's financial bombshell and all that, but it was mainly work that kept me occupied. Over the nights of the full moon my team and I worked pretty much around the clock, processing the alleged bad guys. I was on my way in after a hurried lunch with Rivron when De'Ath grabbed me by the arm in the squad room.

“My man, your bird is about to fly,” he leered.

“My bird?” I replied, totally confused as I usually was when talking to Black De'Ath.

“Bird. Bat. Whatever. Ferriman, Terry. Ms. Alleged vampire of this parish.”

“What, you're letting her go?”

He grinned. “I thought that would brighten your day,” he said. “She came up with a brief, a real high-powered hot-shot lawyer, and she managed to get the bail down to six figures.”

“That's still a hell of a lot of money, Samuel. For a girl living in a tiny apartment like she does.”

“Maybe she's got real rich parents,” he said with a shrug.

“Parents are dead, she told me.”

“Yeah? I must have missed that in the file. Orphan?”

“So she says. Maybe that's where she got the money.”

“Inheritance you mean?”

“Inheritance, or insurance settlement. Any news on the victim?”

“Still dead, last I heard.” He guffawed and then repeated the joke to Filbin, who'd just walked up to his desk with styrofoam cups of coffee for them both. Filbin laughed with him.

“You know what I meant,” I said patiently.

De'Ath slapped his desk and laughed all the louder. “No,” he said eventually after he'd calmed down. “Still no ID.”

“She still here?” I said. “You said the bird was about to fly.”

De'Ath wiped his eyes. “She's just getting her things together. You wanna see her?”

“Not really,” I lied. The fact was that I did want to see her, though to be honest I wasn't sure why. Yes I was, I was attracted to her, that's why I wanted to meet her, even if it was just to say 'hello' and to ask her how she was. I dumped my briefcase and computer in the office and then went to the main entrance to the precinct house, knowing that was the way they'd send her out. She was already there, arguing with the desk sergeant, making sweeping gestures with her arms and raising her eyes to the heavens at his answers. The sergeant was Patsy O'Hara, a genial Irish American with five children and a grandchild on the way, and I knew he wasn't normally hard to deal with so I wondered what her problem was. I looked around for her lawyer but she was on her own so I went up to the desk.

“I don't want to go!” she said and banged her fist down on the desk.

“Acting like that won't get you anywhere, young lady,” O'Hara said, and I could tell from his voice that his patience was beginning to wear thin. Terry was dressed in the clothes I'd seen in the bag on Filbin's desk: miniskirt, ankle boots with leather tassels on the side, black stockings, and the leather jacket over a white t-shirt. And sunglasses. She looked older than she did when she was just wearing the grey police-issue tunic.

“I just, like, wanna stay here until later, you know? You can't make me go!” She stamped her foot as she spoke.

O'Hara sighed and shook his head. “Ms Ferriman, your lawyer has gone to a devil of a trouble to get you released, for the life of me I can't understand why you don't just go.”

“Terry?” I said, standing next to her.

She turned and saw me, and removed her sunglasses. “Jamie, thank God,” she said. “Can you make this guy see sense, please?”

“What's the problem? Lieutenant De'Ath tells me you're free to go.”

“That's the problem,” she said. “I don't want to go. Not now.”

“What do you mean? Is there someone trying to hurt you?”

She looked even more exasperated. “I can't go out in the sunlight, that's all.”

I gave O'Hara a hard look. “You set her up for this did you, Patsy? I thought better of you.”

He looked pained and held up his hands. "Hey, Jamie, it's nothing to do with me. Scout's honour.

“Did you hang the bat on my aerial, Patsy?”

“That I did not, son,” he said.

“Look, I shitfire sure don't know what you two are babbling about, but I just wanna, like, stay put for a few hours,“ said Terry, putting her sunglasses back on. ”Until it gets dark, you know?”

“And as I've already explained to you, young lady, this is not a waiting room,” said O'Hara,

looking at me for support. “Your lawyer has fixed your bail, you're free to go.”

“I can't go,” she cried, and stamped her foot again.

I took her by the arm. “A joke's a joke Terry, but that's enough. I don't know who put you up to this, but it's not really funny any more. I've had far too many vampire jokes played on me over the years.“ I began edging her towards the doors that led outside. ”If you need a lift, I'll happily run you home. But drop the vampire act, OK.”

She was still pulling against me, her feet slipping on the polished floor. "Jamie, I'm not joking.

I get a bad reaction to sunlight, honest I do."

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I said. “Any more of this and I'm going to bring out my crucifix.”

She stopped dead and I was surprised at her strength. For a moment I couldn't budge her. I couldn't see her eyes because of the sunglasses but I got the impression that she was glaring at me,

then she just as suddenly relaxed as if she'd decided to drop the act. “OK, Jamie,” she said slowly.

“Have it your way.” She let me escort her to the doors and take her out to the steps that led down to the sidewalk. It was early afternoon and the sun was bright enough to force me to shield my eyes as I looked across at her.

“See,” I said. “You didn't burst into flames.”

She smiled, and then winced, and then I saw the right side of her face, the side nearest the sun,

begin to bubble as if acid had been thrown at it. Her forehead began to go the same way, first breaking out into hundreds of small bubbles and then browning like a pancake on a griddle. She put up a hand to shield herself and I saw that begin to go brown and I grabbed her by the shoulder and pushed her back inside the building.

“Jesus, Terry, what's happening?” I said.

She was shaking uncontrollably and I took her to one of the benches at the side of the room and sat her down. Patsy O'Hara came bowling over, asking me what was wrong.

“Is there a doctor here?” I asked him.

“You're a doctor, Jamie,” he said.

“A medical doctor!” I shouted at him. “For God's sake, Patsy, I'm a psychologist, I've no idea what this is. Get somebody, quickly.”

“Doc Peterson is in testing a couple of drunk drivers,” he said. “I'll get him.”

He jogged off to the cells while I sat with Terry. The bubbling had stopped but the patches of brown were still all over the right cheek and her hand and there were small pinpricks of blood on the skin. “Terry, I'm sorry. I'm really sorry,” I said. She just grimaced.

Patsy came back with Peterson. He pushed me away and sat down beside her, holding her head in his hands and inspecting the damage to her cheek. He took off her glasses and looked at the skin around her eyes and then checked her hand.

“Vitiligo?” he said to Terry.

She nodded.

“Why did you go out in the sun?” he asked her.

She shrugged. Patsy and I looked at each other and it was impossible to tell which of us looked the more guilty.

“Don't you normally wear sun protection screen?” Peterson asked.

“Factor 30,” she said. “It's the only way I can go out during the day. But I didn't have any with me.”

“You should have borrowed a hat, then. Or stayed inside. You've seen a doctor about this?”

“Of course,” she said. “I've had it since as I was a kid.”

“Have you tried steroid treatment?”

“Tried it but it didn't do any good. He said the best thing to do is to, like, stay out of the sun.”

Patsy went back to the desk. I sat where I was and wished that the ground would swallow me up. Peterson turned to look at me. He was about ten years older than I was, with a great bedside manner which unfailingly put patients at ease. He was a master at handling people, which is why the cops liked to have him in to test the drunks. He had a sympathetic face, oyster-like eyes and a Mexican moustache which he rubbed occasionally. “You seen this before, Jamie?” he asked.

I said no, and he held Terry's hand in front of my nose. “Vitiligo,” he said. “It's an immune disorder which stops the skin's pigmentation working normally and makes the skin hyper-sensitive to sunlight. It's not uncommon - about one in two hundred people suffer from it in one form or another.”

“I've not heard of it,” I said. I looked across at Terry. “I won't forget,” I said to her. She smiled ruefully and put her glasses back on.

“Is there anything you can do for her?” I asked Peterson.

“No, the browning will go on its own eventually,” he said. “As to the disease, as I said to....I'm sorry, I didn't get your name,” he said to Terry.

“Terry,” she answered.

“As I said to Terry here, steroids are about the only long-term treatment, but even that isn't guaranteed. The best remedy is just to stay indoors.”

He stood up and shook her hand. “Best of luck, Terry. And stay out of the sun, OK?”

“It's a promise, Doc,” she said.

As Peterson walked away I turned to her and put my hand on her shoulder. “Terry, I'm so, so sorry. I had no idea.”

“You didn't believe me,” she said.

"I know, I'm sorry. It's just that the guys here play so many tricks on me you wouldn't believe it.

They make my life hell."

“Jamie Beaverbrook, vampire hunter?”

“That's right. And after a while I guess I think everybody's at it. I apologise, I should have taken you at your word. I won't doubt you again.”

“You mean there'll be a next time?” she said, teasingly.

“I hope so,” I said.

“Yeah, me too, I guess,” she said.

“Friends?” I asked.

“Friends, for sure,” she agreed.

The Club The work load began to drop off a bit as the moon began to wane, and I got back home just before eight o'clock to find the red light flashing on my answer machine and a message from Peter Hardy asking me to call him. I did, but he wasn't in so I left a message on his machine. I was impatient to know what he'd managed to find out about Greig Turner and Lilac Time but LA being LA I knew that it could be days before we actually got to speak person-to-person. I microwaved myself a frozen chicken dinner and was sitting at my desk going through some transcripts when the doorbell rang. It was after midnight and I wasn't expecting anyone so I checked through the door viewer.

La-La Land isn't exactly what you'd call a safe haven after dark, even in my part of town, and being gang-raped by a group of bikers high on Angel Dust wasn't my idea of a fun way of spending a Wednesday evening. Paranoid, huh? You should try living here for a while.

There was nobody there, which didn't make me feel any better because that meant one of three things: they'd gone, they were hiding, or they'd gone round the back of the house and were breaking in as I stood with my eye pressed against the front door. Look, just because I'm paranoid doesn't mean there aren't a couple of guys out there with shotguns, OK? I went back to the study and the doorbell rang again. I thought of calling the police right away but decided against it because if I was wrong and if I was over-reacting I knew that it wouldn't be long before tales of Jamie Beaverbrook, the Vampire Hunter who was afraid of the dark, would be circulating among the boys in blue.

I went back and put my eye to the viewer. It was her. It was almost midnight and she was standing outside my front door. What the hell was going on? I opened the door and she smiled up at me.

“Hi,” she said. She was wearing a black linen jacket with the sleeves pulled up to her elbows, a black t-shirt, black leather jeans and wraparound sunglasses. She meant it when she said that black was her favourite colour. God knows how she managed to cross the road without getting run over.

“Do you know what time it is?” I asked.

She grinned. “Late,” she said. She looked at my clothes. “You weren't in bed were you?”

I wanted to ask her what she was doing, why she was there, how she'd got my address, and how come she looked so bloody attractive so late at night.

“Aren't you going to ask me in?” she said, almost petulantly.

A weird thought flashed through my mind, the bit in all the old Dracula movies where the Count stands on the doorstep waiting to be admitted, because unless you invite the vampire over the threshold he can't get in.

She saw the look of hesitation on my face and shrugged. "OK, fine. I just wanted to thank you,

that's all."

She turned to go and I stepped towards her and touched her shoulder. “I'm sorry, don't go,” I said. “It's late, that's all. And I was surprised to see you.”

She turned back to me, smiling. "You were so kind to me, you really seemed to care, you know.

They were giving me such a hard time. I just came to say thanks."

I held the door open for her. “Come on in,” I said. Her jacket brushed against me as she went inside. Somewhere up in the hills a dog howled like its balls had been trapped in a vice. I followed her inside and closed the door.

She walked through the house, checking it out like a prospective purchaser. “Neat,” she said. “I like it.”

“Turn left,” I said. “We'll go into the study.”

I watched her hips swing as she walked. God, she looked good. She stood in the middle of the study, looking around. She took off her sunglasses and turned to look at me. I'd forgotten how black her eyes were. There were no marks on the skin of her cheek, but I couldn't tell if they'd gone or if she'd hidden them with make-up.

“This is different,” she said. “I never pictured you in a room like this. It's, I dunno, pretty severe. Not like the rest of the house at all.”

“Yeah, this is the one room my wife let me call my own. She designed the rest.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Your wife?”

“Ex-wife,” I corrected.

“She has good taste, for sure. What was her name?”

“Deborah,” I said, a bit miffed that she rated her taste above mine. I mean, I liked the wood panelled, rugged intellectual look. I put a lot of thought into it.

“Divorced. Or did she, like, die?” The straightforward way she said it took me by surprise.

“Divorced. Take a good look at the place. It won't be long before I have to sell it.”

“Alimony?”

“Alimony,” I agreed.

She went over to the bookcase and scrutinised my diplomas.

“These are pretty impressive,” she said. “What does the D stand for?”

“Dean,” I said.

“Jamie Dean?” she said, then realisation dawned. “James Dean? Your parents named you after James Dean? That's really cute.”

“Yeah, my mother was a fan. I was born on the day he died.”

“Friday September 30, 1955. Highway 46. Cholame Valley.”

I was impressed. Most Californians knew where he'd died but not many people would have known the exact date.

“He crashed his Porsche at 5.45pm. I was born just after six. My parents had decided to call me Derek but when the news came over about the crash my mother wanted to change it and my dad agreed.”

“That was nice,” she said.

“Yeah, maybe. Though I'm not sure how good an idea it was to saddle a kid with a movie star's name. Not a kid in the north of England, anyway. I got teased a bit at school.”

“Is that why you call yourself Jamie and not James? And why you don't use Dean?”

“No, that's more for professional reasons. It'd be hard to be taken seriously as a psychologist with a name like James Dean.”

“Sounds like the same reason to me, Jamie. It'd just that the people who'd tease you would be older, that's all.”

I couldn't believe it. The girl was barely out of her teens and she was trying to psychoanalyze me.

“That's not why at all. It's not a question of being teased. It's just that....”

“I know, you didn't want James Dean appearing on your office door. People might laugh.”

“It's not a question of being laughed at, it's a question of being taken seriously.”

She looked at me with an amused smile, her eyebrows raised. She didn't have to say anything.

Maybe it was the same thing.

“Would you like a drink?” I asked.

“No thanks. I just came to thank you. And to take you out.”

“Take me out?”

She laughed. “To show how much I appreciate your helping me. Get your car keys. Don't bother to change, you look interesting enough like that.”

Interesting? An old pair of Levis and a Billy Idol t-shirt is interesting? That's not how Deborah would have described it. It belonged to the “You're not going out in that, are you?” school of fashion.

“You got a jacket?” she asked. “Something leather?”

“I've got an old motorcycle jacket somewhere, but it's been years since I've worn it.”

She laughed. “Great, go get it.”

I was in the bedroom going through the closet when I realised that I was following her instructions like a little kid. It was strange. She wasn't putting me under any pressure, I just wanted to do as she said. I wanted to win her approval. To win her smile. I found the jacket and to my amazement it fitted and I went back to the study and stood there with my arms outstretched.