The Devil You Know (25 page)

It is truly an awful thing to pick up a dead body. I was too-aware of every ounce of its slack weight as Brogan and I hoisted it into the back of the truck.

Hell, yes, it made me sick.

Not so many minutes ago Swann, the end result of generations of countless ancestors, had been alive, kicking, and desperate to escape. I’d been in that position myself more than once, but that’s where my similarity to him ended.

He’d literally bet his life on an ambitious plan to put himself in charge of God knows what. He’d been willing to casually kill others to get it. What, in this sad and sorry world, could possibly have been worth that much to him?

Some guys like power; they crave being in charge.

I’m not one of them.

I could understand killing to protect yourself or to save another’s life. Heaven help me, I understood about killing for revenge and in the heat of blind rage, but to kill to put yourself a few steps up on a ladder to nowhere was insane.

In those last seconds, if he’d been awake to see Brogan closing on him—I didn’t know—he might have figured it out.

Kaiser was missing, which was a relief. I didn’t like him, but I’d had enough death for one night. That, and it would have been hell getting
him
into the truck.

After we left the house, Brogan stopped once to use a pay phone outside a closed gas station, then continued
^,
on.

He kept a boat at a marina not two miles away. He let drop that in the summer he and the lady sometimes took it out for leisurely turns in the Sound around Davids Island. She always packed a good lunch.

“Sounds nice, but I’m not going out on the water,” I said as he backed the truck toward the dock.

“What? You ’fraid of it?”

“Something like that.” Free flowing water and my condition don’t mix.

“We’re loading,” he stated.

“I can do that. But no sailing.”

“It’s a motor launch.”

“Then no launching.”

It turned out to be a big motor launch, a long, lean former rumrunner with a surfeit of power and speed, perfect for the deeper areas of the Sound where bodies and body parts could disappear forever if you put enough weight on them. I mentioned the point. Brogan said he’d cover it; he planned to return well before dawn to finish the job. The gray water looked calm enough, but I did not envy him his sea trip.

We loaded the tarp in a locker and shoved Swann in another. I was glad to be shed of them both, but paused before jumping back onto the dock.

“Mr. Brogan, you religious?”

He finished checking something by the wheel and gave me a funny look. “Yeah, I guess I am. What’s it to you?”

“When you go out there with them, when you’re doing what you need to do . . .you might want to read a service. One of those burial at sea things. Y’know what I’m talking about?”

“I know the service, but I don’t get you.”

“I’m not superstitious—not much, anyway—but maybe Endicott will stop coming back if you just lay him the hell to rest. The same for Swann.”

“You serious?”

“Yeah. The dead have a way of coming back when they don’t get their due. You’ve seen that tonight. It nearly got you and the lady killed. Say a prayer over her husband and the other bastard. What can it hurt?”

He stared at me a long, long moment, then barked laughter.

I’d kind of
expected as much. “Hey, I just—”

He waved a hand. “It’s not that, kid.”

“What, then?”

“When Gordy pointed you out to me he said you were crazy. He also said you had a truckload of smarts and to not let the crazy part fool me into forgetting it.”

That was interesting.

“For what it’s worth, I think you’re right. I got one of those books on board with the service in it. Must have belonged to the previous owner. I can do that. Like you said: what can it hurt?”

* * * * * * *

* * * * * * *

We returned to the house to find little had changed. A few of the walking wounded had recovered enough to escape when Barrett wasn’t looking, the rest he left where they lay.

Mrs. Endicott had taken care of Izzy, plying her with brandy-laced tea, sandwiches, and loaning her a coat. It was still too long, but a better fit in the shoulders. I was glad to get mine back. It covered up the wrecked suit.

Barrett got a coat, too. It was seven years out of style, the previous owner—having been stuffed into a boat locker—had no use for it. Barrett graciously thanked Mrs. Endicott and assured her the smell of mothballs was of no importance at all to him.

The lady retreated upstairs to pack for her jaunt to the city.

I wound up in the billiard room, keeping watch on groggy bad guys, but not for long.

A fresh wave of Brogan’s men began to arrive, responding to the phone call summons from their boss. There was no way to tell if they’d been suborned by Swann, but it no longer mattered. If they’d not turned up before, then maybe they were loyal. It wasn’t my problem; I cleared out of the way while Brogan directed traffic.

Casualties ended up in the truck, getting a miserable cold ride to who knows where. If Brogan ran things like Gordy, he would have a number of places to take wounded troops. He’d probably have a talk with each of them, too. Not a show I’d want to sit through.

Clapsaddle sat down for a drink and a quiet chat with his favorite protegé. Izzy wore a serious face and didn’t clobber him or anything, so apparently it turned out well. He nodded to Brogan at one point, indication that she would keep the confidence.

This might work out after all
, I thought.

The drive back to the city in Mrs. Endicott’s sedan was embarrassingly quiet. A lot had happened worth talking about, but there were topics that had to be avoided entirely. Naomi sat in front with Clapsaddle; Barrett and I were in the back with Izzy between us. She got drowsy and nodded off. I made sure she wound up leaning against me. Barrett seemed unconcerned. I’d be on a train headed west soon enough. He could bide his time.

Clapsaddle took us to Park Avenue and escorted Naomi into the Waldorf-Astoria. Our next stop was to drop Izzy at her more modest lodgings. He escorted her inside as well. Before leaving the car she gave us each a kiss on the cheek and a brief hug.

Barrett took note of the street and number, then caught me glaring at him.

“What?” he asked.

“How hard did that guy hit you in the head?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Nothing. Just . . . thinking.”

* * * * * * *

* * * * * * *

“A last drink to top off the evening
?”
Clapsaddle suggested as he pulled up next to Barrett’s Champion. “I know several delightful places that are still open.”

Barrett beat me to the punch and was more polite about it. “That’s most generous, but another night would suit me better. I want to go home and clean up.”

“I shall hold you to that rain check, sir. Until then, adieu.”

“Indeed.” He shook hands with Clapsaddle over the backseat and got out.

“And you, my lad?”

“I’m with The Saint,” I said, nodding toward Barrett.

“You read Leslie Charteris?”

“My girl does. She doesn’t have trouble with the big words the way I do.”

Clapsaddle gave an unamused snort and muttered, “Philistine.”

I’d lived down to his expectations, which cheered me to no end. “What’s with you reading lurid literature?”

“I have an acquaintanceship with the author. Like most novelists, he’s a pain in the backside, so I read his works and point out their flaws whenever we meet. I think he quite enjoys the aggravation.”

“You’d be the expert.”

“I may have to give that seat up to you if you decide to stay.”

“Not me. Tomorrow I’ll be on the Twentieth Century Limited shaking off the dust, but if you’re ever passing through Chicago . . . ”

“I’ll know to keep going. Cheers, my lad.”

We shook hands, and I got out. He drove away, probably heading for one of those still-open bars. I could wish for him to cut back on the booze, but it was his life and liver, not mine. I had my own drinking problems.

Barrett waited until the other car had turned, then vanished and poured through the driver’s side window. When he was solid again, he reached across to unlock the other door.

“Thought you’d be too tired for that,” I said.

“I am, but it’s my only way inside. The keys are in my overcoat, which is still at Brogan’s nightclub if I am not mistaken.”

“You’re not. But the club’s closed.”

“Which presents no difficulty to us.”

“Never mind, just get outta the car.”

“Why?”

“So I can get under the dash and hotwire this buggy. You can get your coat some other night.”

He opined that to be a good idea and vacated the seat. I showed him how to start a car without a key and got the motor running, then slid over so he could drive.

Barrett explained why he liked the idea. “Returning Miss DeLeon’s wrap gives me a reasonable excuse to call on her again, and yes, you have my word of honor I will be considerate of her feelings.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You’re the one who said I should get out and do something.”

“Just remember: make her cry and I will hurt you. So will Clapsaddle.”

“I will keep that foremost in mind, Mr. Fleming.”

He damned-well better.

“Though if this is your idea of a typical night on the town then my seclusion is preferable. Look at that—this
was
one of my best suits.” He put a finger through a bloody bullet hole in his coat’s upper shoulder.

“Welcome to my life,” I muttered.

“Good God in heaven, Mr. Fleming,” he said with a visible shudder. “I hope not.”

* * * * * * *

* * * * * * *

* * * * * * *

* * * * * * *

The author hopes you enjoyed this novel of
The Vampire Files
and invites you to check out more of her books and ebooks at her website,
vampwriter-dot-com
.

The original draft of this novel contained a chapter about Jack Fleming’s train trip on the 20
^th
Century Limited, but the author decided it slowed the flow of the story and removed it.

That chapter, now a short story called
Drawing Dead
, appears in the
P.N. Elrod Omnibus
. It is available on
Smashwords
,
Kindle
, and
PubIt!
.

Preview samples of it and all the other stories in that collection are on the
vampwriter-dot-com
website.