Vampires (5 page)

“And other times?”

“Other times she makes me think of a gang-bang victim waiting for the motorcycles to start.”

The men laughed. Annabelle said, “Oh, Cherry!” and gave him a playful slap on the shoulder.

Cat was feigning grievous injury when Father Adam returned wearing civvies and a grini look.

“Are we ready?” he asked.

“We are,” replied Jack with equal seriousness.

They found their way outside and climbed into the truck. Cat insisted Jack drive, saying he was so drunk Jack looked handsome to him. Jack drove without replying. On the way he tried talking to the still stiff young priest.

“Father Adam,” he began.

“Aha!” chirped Cat from the back seat. “Tact!”

“Shaddup, Cat!”

“Yes, bwana.”

Jack tried again. He was fairly gentle, the others thought, for him. He explained that the priest needn't worry too much about this-or, for that matter, any other-reporter. Jack told him about all the reporters they had met and been interviewed by in the past. About all the stories that had been written. About all the editors who had killed the stories. Or their careers trying to push the stories on through.

Because nobody believed in vampires.

Or wanted to believe in vampires.

Or wanted to admit they believed.

Or wanted it known that they believed.

Or anything else.

Jack told him some more about it in their brief drive through Carmel and into the Del Monte Forest. He told about the big stack of apologetic letters from a long string of publications. Told about the one story they did get printed, for the “Inquiring Minds” people. About how that story, despite all the fuss and silliness it caused, actually led to their getting a legitimate call from a sheriff in Tennessee.

Jack ended with: “So I wouldn't worry too much about this girl-what's her name? Yvette?”

“Davette,” corrected Annabelle.

“Whatever. I wouldn't worry about her. Her tale won't get printed either. Even if it slams us. They don't even publish those for some reason. But.. .” And he pulled up at a stop sign and turned in his seat and faced the younger man. “But I wish they would. This ain't Rome, kid. This is the battleground. And if I could get on Good Morning, America tomorrow morning, I would. One of the biggest troubles we got is belief. Most people don't or won't believe until it's too late. But if they knew about somebody to call without going through all the rigmarole of the feds or the Church or whatever-Well, most times their local priests don't even buy their fears. But if they knew about somebody who did-and just one or two goddamned days quicker-we could save lots of lives. You get it?”

Adam coughed, cleared his throat. "Yes, well, it's just that..

Jack's voice was iron. "Nope. Yes or no, son. There is no third way. Are you here with us or someone else? Yes or no.,'

The young priest stared out the front window of the truck for a few moments. Then he glanced at Annabelle, who smiled at him warmly. Finally he looked at Jack.

“Yes, sir.”

Behind them another car at the stop sign honked for them to move. They did.

A few minutes later Jack pulled off the famous 17-Mile-Drive and onto a side road that climbed and curved up the side of a bill overlooking the Pebble Beach Golf Course and beyond, the glittering blue of Cannel Bay. Down below had been mostly cottages, but up here astride the ridge were the great estates, walled and spread-out and beautiful, with their towering pines and tennis courts and postcard courtyards and flower-eating deer. The home of Team Crow was one of the grandest atop the ridge, a huge multiwinged tudor mansion set back far from the road, with a five-car two-story garage, a Japanese garden in the rear surrounding a steamy heated pool, and eight acres left to play in.

A true palace, thought Jack as he negotiated around a parked car and started up the drive. And incredibly, it had felt too small.

But that was before.

Don't think about the phone.

Cat and Annabelle were craning their heads to look behind them.

“Is that her?” she asked.

Cat nodded. “I think so. Looks like her car.”

“What are you talking about?” Jack asked.

“It's Davette,” Annabelle replied. “I think she fell asleep out front waiting for us to pick you up from that late plane of yours.”

“Want me to run down and get her?” Cat asked.

“No!” blurted Annabelle firmly.

Jack glanced at her, surprised, as he pulled the truck to a stop in the empty carport. “I thought you liked her.”

“I do. But we leave in six hours and I want to put you under first. After that you can talk to her.”

“Put you under.” Jack sat cringing behind the wheel as a wave of misery flushed through his system. Put me under, hypnotize me, make me remember back, remember everything that just happened-two weeks ago? Yesterday? Go back there and remember everything and make a tape of that same everything because any one detail might mean the difference later on. Nobody knew shit about vampires and they had to learn, had to, had to. . . Anthony! Oh, God! I don't want to go back there again!

Adam spoke up from beside him. “Haven't you made that last tape yet?”

And Jack's memory scrambled desperately to help him.

“Sure I have,” he insisted, looking pale into their faces and feeling sweaty and lost. “Haven't I?”

“No” was all Annabelle said in reply and it was gentle but it was also firm and that meant she loved him and understood even, but he was going to have to do it anyway.

Jack closed his eyes and let the wave pass.

He hadn't thought back once. Not specifically, not in detail. Not once.

Not awake.

“How come you know about the tapes?” Carl asked Adam, and his voice sounded suspicious.

And that woke Jack up. Leader again. Depend on me. Rock and roll.

Jack turned in his seat and faced Carl. “This is the kid who keeps track of the tapes for the Man. Been doing it for three years.”

He noticed Cat was also leaning forward with interest, eyeing the man who, he had suddenly learned, knew all his secrets under fire and fear.

But all Cat said was “Oh,” and leaned back.

“Okay,” said Jack, yanking the door open. “Okay,” he said again, more quietly, to Annabelle.

And then they were all clambering out and reaching for bags and starting up the walkway to the front door.

“Six hours, huh?” Jack asked no one in particular. “You've moved everything already?”

Annabelle was cheery. “You actually could have flown straight to Dallas, if we could have gotten hold of you to tell you. Carl just has the one load left.”

“Weapons,” Carl offered, walking along beside him. “Crossbows and the like. Gonna have to truck 'em to Dallas tomorrow. Stupid F.A.A. feds! Scared to death a closed crate of medieval weapons is gonna take Pan Am to Cuba.” He laughed. They both paused on the front step. Jack thought he .could already hear it ringing. He tried smiling along with Carl as the others gathered in a bottleneck before the door. Somebody was jingling keys.

“Funny thing,” Carl was saying. “If it was guns, something they're already scared enough to know something about, they wouldn't mind so much.” He paused, laughed again. “We oughta be using guns.”

Jack Crow, stepping numbly along with the others into the empty grand foyer, thought: Guns.

And then he thought: guns? Guns! Guns!

“Guns?” he all but shouted.

All turned toward him, surprised, alarmed, worried.

“What?” Carl asked him.

“Guns!”

“Guns?”

Jack hugged him and yelled: “Yes, goddammit! Guns! Hot Damn! Guns! Don't you see?”

“Gum?”

“Rock and roll!”

Surrounding the bar, surrounding the last of the booze, surrounded by Jack Crow's obvious glee, they played his little guessing game.

Carl evinced irritation. Annabelle tried to look bored. Cat was amused. Adam was just as bewildered as he had been since Rome. But Jack

Jack was having so goddamn much fun that nobody really cared.

He's back, thought Cat to himself.

And when he spotted the misty affection in his comrades' eyes, he knew they were feeling the same.

“Look,” Jack began again, propping his boot on the railing behind the bar with a thump that echoed in the now-empty room. “It's just a matter of putting the pieces together.”

He stared at their blank faces. He somehow managed to smile while still grinning.

“All right, class. We shall begin again,” he said and they did.

And this time they began to see.

.“.....and the bullet hole from the sheriff's gun-in his forehead, remember? It was already closing, right? And it was trapping the blood from Hernandez's silver cross gash, right?”

No one spoke.

“Right?” repeated Jack.

“Right,” Cat responded slowly. “Well?”

“Well, what, goddammit?” growled Carl.

Cat suddenly sat forward. “The gash hadn't healed. . ”From the cross.. .“ continued Adam. ”From the holy silver cross,“ Jack corrected. ”But the bullet wound was already closing!" Carl jumped in, seeing it all now. He stood up from his stool and slapped the flat of his hand loudly on the top of the bar.

Jack was grinning mischievously. “You see it, don't you?”

Carl looked disgusted. “I see it, all right. I just don't believe it.”

And then Cat saw it. He moaned. “I don't believe it either,” he said. But now he, too, was starting to grin.

Annabelle looked lost. “If somebody doesn't tell me what's happening pretty soon..”

Cat leaned close to her against the bar. “A cloud of dust and a hearty Hi-yo fucking Silver!”

And everybody, save Annabelle, laughed. She looked downright angry. “Would someone please tell me what's going on?”

“Silver bullets,” said Father Adam. Then he paused and, with a nod toward Jack, amended, “Holy silver bullets, blessed by the Church.”

“But I thought silver bullets were for werewolves,” Annabelle asked.

“They are,” replied Adam calmly.

Too calmly, thought Jack. He held up a hand to cut off the questions all had turned to ask the young priest. “No!” he barked firmly. “No! I don't even want to know, Adam.”

Adam smiled, eyed his glass.

“You hear me?” Jack insisted.

“I hear you.”

Jack turned to Carl. “Can you pour the bullets?”

Carl grinned smugly. He sat back down. “Sure, I can pour them. But can anybody here shoot except me?”

Jack frowned. “You're not going, Joplin. You're the base man. How many times do I have to-”

“This is different,” Carl insisted. "I'm a marksman. Somebody else could..

Jack leaned his elbows on the bar and stared him into silence. His voice was gentle but absolutely final. “It's not going to happen, my friend.”

Carl hated this. “Well, dammit!” he retorted. “Can you shoot?”

“Qualified whenever Uncle Sam asked.”

Carl snorted. “Qualified! Shit! Any fool don't shoot himself in the foot can qualify!”

“Then good news, everyone,” popped Cat brightly. “I can probably qualify.”

Jack sighed, looked at him. “That bad?”

Cat smiled back. "Pretty bad. I can hit the broadside of a barn, but. .

“But what?”

“It would help some if I was inside the barn at the time.”

Jack put his face in his hands. “Oh, great.”

“Jack,” Carl began. "I . .

“Shut up, Carl. You'll do no shooting.”

Carl laughed. “Like hell I won't, big boy. I'll have to just to teach you bums.” He turned to Adam. “Unless you're a fast draw or something.”

Adam smiled thinly. “They didn't teach that in seminary.”

Cat nodded. “It's why I didn't go.”

“Quiet, Cherry Cat,” snapped Jack. “Carl's right. We need the training. Tell me, Crack Shot, how long till we get as good as you.”

Carl took a sip from his glass. “Forever.” He held up his hand before Jack could say anything. “I'm serious. Jack, this is a very different, very special tool. You've gotta have a knack for it. A certain touch. I was just thinking that it's small enough that you could both carry it as a backup. That damn crossbow of yours is too unwieldy and too tough to load in a hurry, and Cat needs something besides those stakes and wooden knives he carries. Always has.”

He sat back, drained his glass. "But neither one of you is good enough to depend on your shooting. If you were that good, you'd already know it. I can teach you to be better than you are. But if you're serious about this you're gonna need something else.

“You're gonna need a gunman.”

Annabelle spoke up. “You've already said you need at least two more men.”

Jack looked at her. “At least two.”

“Then one of 'em had better be a shooter,” added Carl.

“Or both,” said Adam.

“Or both,” Jack agreed.

Carl rattled the ice cubes in his empty glass. Jack took it and started to refill.

“The thing is,” Carl mused, almost to himself, “that the kind of man we need, the kind that fits in around here, well, he's not likely to be good at this sort of thing.”

Annabelle frowned. “It's nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Well, no. . .” Carl admitted.

“You're good at it.” -

Carl nodded, took a sip from his new drink. “I am. An expert pistol shot. But the real gunmen I've known. . . and for our work it's what we need.. . real gunmen. That's just a different kind of a dude.”

Jack stood up suddenly. “Well, I'll be damned.” He grinned and looked at the others. Then straight at Carl. “Car-los! Everything you say tonight reminds me of something. Silver bullets, and now.. .”

“A gunman?” Annabelle asked quietly.

Jack ignored the question. “Adam, call the Man and have some silver shipped to Dallas in a hurry. Annabelle, give him the address.”

“I can get us silver,” protested Carl. “Can't the kid here bless it?”

“Kid.” Adam frowned. “It should at least be a bishop.”

“Okay,” said Jack. "Call the Man. Have him send an ingot or three. ... Hey! How about a shotgun? Anybody could with that! Or an M-16 or..

Adam shook his head. “It must be a single bullet. It must be a small one. And it must have been part of a cross at one time.”

“How do you know this?” Carl wanted to know.

Jack did not. “Never mind. How small a bullet?”

“Any pistol will do.”

Jack looked at him. At his confident face. The kid knew his facts, it seemed.

“Okay,” he said. “Have 'em send us enough for a thousand rounds.”

Adam smiled. “How much is that?”

“We'll know when it gets here. Carl, you sure you can melt the crosses? Pour the silver?”

Carl snorted. “Fuck off.”

Cat, grinning, leaned close to Adam. “Allow me to interpret. 'Fuck off,' in this case means: 'Why, of course, Mr. Crow! I'm surprised you asked!'”

Adam smiled readily, but distantly. Cat noticed it. “You still with us?” he asked smiling.

Adam shook his head, embarrassed. “I'm sorry. I was just thinking.” He looked at Jack. “For over four hundred years. . . longer, really. But for four hundred well-recorded years man has been fighting vampires. And nobody has ever thought of using silver bullets before.” He paused. “His Holiness was right. You do have good instincts.” And then he blushed and sipped.

And when Cat saw that Jack was almost doing the same thing, he about laughed out loud. But he didn't, thank God.

“Yeah. . . well.. .” mumbled Jack and then, abruptly, shook all that away and raised his glass in a toast. Everyone else did the same.

“Here's to the great ones. . .” he began.

“There's damn few of us left,” finished Cat and Carl and Annabelle and for a single instant, as Adam watched, a look of infinite sadness and.., and what? Something else, passed between' them. What is that look they share? wondered Adam. And then he recognized it.

Fatigue.

Bone-aching, soul-grinding tiredness. Because this job would never, ever, ever be over.

“So!” began Jack, suddenly almost cheerful again. “Tell me about the house in Big D.” The goddamn toast had been just a little too pertinent in this great empty house. “How many bedrooms?”

Annabelle offered him her empty glass. “Seven,” she replied. “And quite lovely.”

“There's even room for Carl's hobby,” Cat added, grinning wickedly.

Carl growled, drained his glass. “Hobby, my ass!”

“I'll try,” replied Cat with an absolutely straight face. “But you have such a big ass. And I have such a small hobby.”

“Children!” snapped Annabelle, pretending offense.

“Right,” agreed Jack. “Enough of this shit.” He stopped mixing more drinks and came around from behind the bar. “C'mon, Annabelle. Let's go get it over with.”

“You want to do the tape now?”

“Yeah. Let's get it done.”

“But you can't go under drunk!”

He gave her a hug and lifted her off the stool to the floor. “Young lady, you'd be damn surprised at the stuff I've done drunk.”

“Humph,” she said, rearranging her skirt. “No, I wouldn't.”

“Hell,” Jack cackled, “I've even fought vampires drunk.”

She stopped, looked serious and school-teacher-like. “You have never gone to battle drunk.”

Jack nodded. “True. But if things keep on like this, I'm gonna start.”'

And together, arm in arm, they marched in step from the room.

So Cat and Carl sat and talked to the young Father Adam to see what he was about. The first thing they discovered, with more than a little embarrassment, was that he considered them both to be heroes-make that Heroes. Heroes for Mankind, Heroes for the Church, Heroes for God.

It was awful.

Cat not only hated it but found it a complete mystery. This kid has heard my tapes and still thinks I'm a hero? Has heard all the times I was scared and all the times I screamed?

Hell, he's heard me scream, by God, 'cause Annabelle said

I did that once making a tape under hypnosis. And he thinks

I'm a hero?

Cat fixed himself another drink and eyed the young man suspiciously.

I wonder if he's on something, he thought to himself.

Carl was pretty much miserable, too. Not as much as Cat. Being base man got him a little less (but damn well not enough less) hero worship from the priest.

They learned a lot more about him. He was, for one thing, a good one. Adam was true Boy Scout blue, secure in his faith and in what it all meant and eager to do the right thing.

Maybe a little too eager, actually, but who knew if that was bad in this stupid job?

Born Adam Larrance, originally, in Berkeley, California, and infused with the “in” thinking of both that place and the new lefist leanings of so many priests concerning Liberation Theology for the masses in Central and South America, gun control, the death penalty, women's lib, the two superpowers as synonymous and, of course, more welfare. But even with all of that, and the driving antiviolence that pervaded it, the lad knew just why he was there-to kill vampires. Just kill them. He didn't want to “communicate” with them or get them government benefits or free mental health care or even try to bring them back to God.

He wanted them slain, purged, wiped out, wiped away.

He wanted them gone.

The punk had even learned to shoot a goddamned crossbow.

And yes, he did believe the silver bullets would work. And better still, he didn't tell them why he thought so. It was close, but they managed to stay out of the werewolf business, too.

Then the kid did something else that surprised and confused and pleased them. He got up to go to the bathroom, paused, looked back at them and spoke: “I just want to say that I know I acted like an ass at the airport about the press thing. It was wrong of me. I humbly apologize.” And then he was gone to pee.

Carl and Cat looked at each other and frowned. They didn't speak. Then Carl leaned away from the bar and fixed them both another drink. They went back to sipping and staring. Still, they said nothing.

Adam came back in shortly and resumed his place in the triangle. He looked a bit nervous and stayed quiet. At last, Carl met Cat's eyes and turned to Adam.

“If you're gonna apologize that easy,” he said, “you're not gonna be much fun to pick on.”

Annabelle returned to tell them that she and Jack were up to date and Cat thought she looked damn good, considering. A little pale, a little shook up, but overall just fine.

Maybe it was better to do it drunk.

And then again, he reminded himself, she's already cried for all of them once.

Jack was sleeping comfortably, she informed them, and would continue to do so for another forty-three minutes on the nose.

Aha! thought Cat. So it took you seventeen minutes to get yourself together before coming back in to see us. Still damned good, Annie.

And he gave her a little mental pat.

But he was still worried about Jack.

“Is he all right?” Cat asked gently.

She looked at him, surprised. Then she smiled reassuringly. “You heard him, Cherry.”

He considered, thought back. “So I did,” he replied and smiled himself.

“Who's that?” asked Adam, gazing past them out the leaded-glass window.

They all turned to look. A young lady with light blond hair and rumpled clothing was walking rather stiffly up the walkway to the front door. She was trying, all at the same time, to smooth out her dress, check her makeup in a hand mirror, and feel her teeth with her tongue to see if they were clean enough.

“Aha,” announced Carl, lifting his glass. “The press has arrived.”

“The reporter?” Adam asked nervously.

“Yep,” Cat told him. “Looks like she spent the night in her car waiting for us. Or part of the afternoon anyway.”

“Bless her heart,” mused Annabelle. “She must want this awfully bad.” She looked at Adam. “Relax, dear. We just won't tell her you're a priest.”

“Naw,” offered Carl. “She'll find out if she's any good at all. Better just make her keep that part tied down. Off the record or whatever it is they call it.”