Untitled (21 page)

  The old man didn't touch the twenty. "One hundred dollars," he said. In English.

  Marvin laughed sourly. "Dream on, Sitting Bull. I'm being a nice guy giving you anything, after you stank up my house. Take the twenty or forget it."

  The old man jabbered at the kid. He didn't take his eyes off Marvin. The kid said, "You don't pay, he won't turn the medicine off."

  "That's supposed to worry me? If I believed in this crap at all, I wouldn't want it 'turned off.' Leave it on, keep the roaches away forever."

  "That's not how it works," the kid said. "It won't affect anything that wasn't in the house when the medicine was made."

  Marvin thought of something. "Look, I tell you what I'll do. You give me some of that stuff you were burning yesterday, okay? And I'll write you out a check for a hundred bucks, right now."

  After all, when you cut past the superstitious bullshit, there had to be something in that smoke that got rid of roaches better than anything on the market. Screwed up their brains, maybe, who knew? Take a sample to a lab, have it analyzed, there could be a multimillion-dollar product in there. It was worth gambling a hundred. Hell, he might not even stop payment on the check. Maybe.

  But the old man shook his head and the kid said, "Sorry, Mr. Bradshaw. That's all secret. Anyway, it wouldn't work without the song."

  Marvin's vision went even redder than it already was. "All right," he shouted, "get off my porch, get that rusty piece of shit out of my driveway, haul your red asses out of here." The kid opened his mouth. "You want trouble, Tonto? You got a license to run a pest-control business in this county? Go on,
move!"

  When the rattling blat of the old pickup's exhaust had died away, Marvin returned to the living room. Pamela was standing on the stairs in a white terry robe. Her hair was wet. She looked horribly cheerful.

  "I thought I heard voices," she said. "Was it those Native Americans? I hope you paid them generously."

  Marvin sank onto the couch. "I gave them what they had coming."

  "I'm just disappointed I didn't get to see them again. Such an honor, having a real shaman in my house. Such an inspiring ceremony, too. Remember that lovely song he sang? I can still hear it in my mind, over and over, like a mantra. Isn't that wonderful?"

  Singing happily to herself,
hey ya hey yo hey ya
, she trotted back up the stairs. And
poong poong poong poong
went the drum in Marvin's head.

He spent the rest of the day lying on the living room couch, mostly with his eyes closed, wishing he could sleep. He made no move toward the liquor supply. He would have loved a drink, but his stomach wouldn't have stood for it.

  The hangover didn't get any better; at times it seemed the top of his skull must surely crack open like an overcooked egg. His whole body ached as if he'd fallen down a flight of stairs. Even the skin of his face felt too tight.

  Worst of all, he was still hearing Indian music, louder and clearer and more insistent than ever. Up to now it had been no more than a nuisance, one of those maddening tricks the brain occasionally plays, like having the
Gilligan's Island
theme stuck in your mind all day. Now, it had become a relentless clamor that filled the inside of his head with the savage boom of the drum and the endless ululation of the old man's voice; and from time to time Marvin put his hands over his ears, though he knew it would do no good. He might even have screamed, but that would have hurt too much.

  Pamela had vanished around noon; off to visit her crazy friends, Marvin thought dully, never mind her poor damn husband. But around four he tottered into the kitchen – not that he had any appetite, but maybe some food would settle his stomach – and happened to glance out through the glass doors, and there she was, down on the beach. She wore a long white dress and she appeared to be dancing, back and forth along the sand, just above the line of the incoming tide. Her hands were raised above her head, clapping. He couldn't hear the sound, but his eyes registered the rhythm:
clap
clap clap clap,
in perfect synch with the drumming in his head and the boom of blood in his throbbing temples.

  The sun went down at last. Marvin left the lights off, finding the darkness soothing. He wondered if Pamela was still down on the beach. "Pamela!" he called, and again; but there was no answer, and he decided he didn't give enough of a damn to go look for her.

  But time went by and still no sign of her, and finally Marvin got to his feet and shuffled to the door. It wasn't safe, a white woman out alone on a beach at night. Besides, he needed some fresh air. The stink of smoke was so bad it seemed to stick to his skin; he itched all over.

  He went slowly down the wooden steps to the little beach. The moon was up and full and the white sand fairly gleamed. He could see the whole beach, clear out to the silver line that marked the retreating edge of the sea.

  He couldn't see Pamela anywhere.

  He walked out across the sand, with no real idea what he expected to find. His feet seemed to move on their own, without consulting him, and he let them. His body no longer hurt; even his headache was gone. The drumming in his head was very loud now, a deafening POONG POONG POONG POONG, yet somehow it didn't bother him any more.

  The damp sand below the high-tide mark held a line of small shoeless footprints, headed out toward the water. Marvin followed without haste or serious interest. He saw something ahead, whiter than the sand. When he got there he was not greatly surprised to recognize Pamela's dress.

  The footprints ended at the water's edge. Marvin stood there for a while, looking out over the moonlit ocean. His eyes were focused on nothing nearer than the invisible horizon. His toes tapped out a crunchy rhythm on the wet sand.

  He took a step forward.

Up at the top of the bluff, sitting on a big rock, the Indian kid from Antonio's said, "There he goes."

  Beside him his grandfather grunted softly. "How long's it been?"

  "Since she went in?" The kid checked his cheap digital watch. The little bulb was broken but the moonlight was plenty strong. "Hour and a half. About."

  "Hm. Didn't think he was that much bigger than her."

  "She had small bones."

  "Uh huh." The old man grinned. "I saw you when she took off her dress. Thought you were going to fall off the bluff."

  "She did have a good shape," the kid said. "For a woman her age."

  They watched as Marvin Bradshaw walked steadily into the sea. By now the water was up to his waist, but he kept going.

  "Guess he can't swim," the kid remarked.

  "Wouldn't do him much good if he could. Come on, son. Time we were leaving."

  As they walked back to the truck the kid said, "Will you teach me to make that medicine?"

  "Some day. When you're ready."

  "Does it have a name? You know, what we – you – did, back there. What do you call it?"

  "A start."

  The kid began laughing. A moment later the old man joined in with his dry wispy chuckle. They were still laughing as they drove away, up the coast road and toward the distant glow of the main highway.

  Behind them the sea stretched away flat and shining in the moonlight, its surface broken only by the small dark spot that was the head and shoulders of Marvin Bradshaw, wading toward Europe.

I was out on Halloween, as I always am, doing what I always do.

I was hunting vampires.

  I'd waited until just after it grew dark, when the last rays of life-affirming sunshine had finally faded away, and then I'd headed out. No point in leaving before that, while they were still at home, sleeping their unholy sleep of the undead.

  Those accursed creatures! How they'd pay!

  I wandered the streets, searching and searching, knowing they were out there, knowing only I could find them, knowing only I could destroy them.

  I paused under a streetlight, checked my weapons, rechecked my gear. I was ready. I'm always ready.

  I smiled. Vampires get cocky around Halloween. They let their guard down. They think they can just blend in with us, that we won't notice them, that they won't be spotted. But they're wrong. They try to slip into the crowds, to hide among the trick-or-treaters, the costumed candy seekers, but they still stand out. I can spot them.

  I was two hours into my patrol when I finally found one. He was nestled among a group of loud and obnoxious partyers, trying in vain to camouflage himself. But I saw through his disguise almost immediately. I approached the group from behind, careful not to make my presence known, and I followed and studied them until I was positive. They continued on their way down the block, oblivious to me, laughing and flinging empty beer cans, all the while unaware that a demon was among them.

  I got sufficiently close and made my move.

  "Freeze, hellspawn!" I shouted.

  They all stopped then and turned, obviously wondering how to proceed. There was a pause as they tried to size me up. I wondered whether they could sense my righteous aura, or if they'd already fallen under the vampire's hypnotic influence. Either way, their lives would never be the same.

  "Sorry," said a chubby man dressed as a clown. "But we don't have any change for you."

  "I'm no beggar!" I said. "I'm out destroying evil. Donations welcome."

  "Beat it," said the clown's transvestite friend. "You're creepin' us out."

  They obviously had no idea that I was their only salvation. They were completely blind to the fact that I and only I could save their worthless necks. All save one. The demon, of course. He knew who I was. I could read it in his cold, cold eyes. I could also see fear settling in. I knew he'd be begging soon. I could hear it already, like music in my ears. The centuries-old game of hunter versus depraved satanic vermin would soon be played out.

  "Don't you realize? That's no man! That's a vampire! Straight from the seventh level of Hell!"

  "Yeah . . . and I'm Batman," the one in gray leotards replied, in what I felt was a rather Renfieldish sort of way.

  "No." They were such blind fools. "I mean he's really a vampire. A real vampire. He'll drain you fools like a cheap bottle of wine!"

  The cretins began to laugh then, laugh like the hand puppets of Lucifer that they had become. It was sad really, seeing them all bewitched so easily. I locked eyes with the beast, and he laughed too, thinking all too smugly that he was safe now.

  I knew it was time to act. I reached into my coat for the vial in my pocket, brought it out, and removed the cork.

  "This should make believers out of you," I said, holding my hand high. "It's holy water. The one true test for a vampire." I wound back my arm and let loose with the vial, flinging it in his direction.

  Bullseye. It shattered against him, dousing his chest and sending droplets along his arms and across his face.

  He laughed harder then, and the others joined him. They chuckled and slapped their knees. They kept doing it and doing it. Until, that is, the smoke started to rise.

  The vampire's skin steamed and blistered and burned, and he let out a howl like the savage beast he was.

  Panic ensued as the others broke out of the spell the vampire had woven.

  The group began running about in circles, arms flailing and heads shaking, all in disbelief of what they were seeing. These people who only seconds before had considered this fiend to be a friend were now seeing him as he truly was. It was an awakening.

  "Good God!" screamed the clown. "It's true! It's true! He's really a vampire!"

  That's when it was my turn to laugh. Telling them it was "holy water" always made them let their guard down. Every good vampire hunter knows that that religious crap doesn't work for shit. For a proper reaction, you have to resort to a good undiluted dose of hydrochloric acid.