The Real Vampires

THE REAL VAMPIRES

He had loved her as much as he could love anyone. They were from different worlds and still he loved her, and she reciprocated to the fullest of her heart’s ability. He had still been young, but then, she was even younger. Their love was not so young… He had loved her for her intelligence, for her compassion, for her strength. Her world may have been backward, sure, but she stood out from the rest of her kind; he had not simply imagined that. She had been among the first of her kind to become aware of herself. As young as they were, their love had not been blind, foolish, or fleeting. Her beauty had entranced him from the very beginning. Not accustomed to garb, she had been free and natural with her body – her soft, smooth, sweet smelling body. Together they had lived and loved for the span of a perfect lifetime. Even as her youth faded, their love grew. It had been a blissful life filled with passion, hard work, and all the comforts that they needed, but few of the comforts that he wanted. This, however, he did not begrudge her. He knew that additional comforts and luxuries would come in time, and didn’t they have all the time in the universe? No. After only one hundred and forty cycles of the seasons, it was clear to him that she had the dreadful disease that had only so recently plagued his own people – the disease of age. He had only wanted to save her. He had thought that the cure in his own veins would be sufficient to cure her, and it had, but something had not been right. The cure had instantly driven her mad, changed her so utterly that she was no longer his gentle and compassionate Lillith. Her still somewhat primitive mind, notwithstanding the years of learning that she had spent with him, could not cope with the amazing side-effects of the cure. She had spent that first night in a feverish state of deranged frenzy. To see her in such a condition broke his heart. It had all been a terrible mistake. He did not have the means to undo what he had done. Then, she inadvertently gave the cure to others of her kind, and they too went mad. At the end of that night, she had been consumed by the dawn. He would never get over the loss of his lovely Lillith. He would be held responsible for altering the evolutionary course of an entire species. His self-imposed sentence was to spend however much time would be necessary to remove the cure from the veins of all those that had been infected. Such was his penitence, and his just mission. Table of Contents 3 – Finding Fredricko 4 – The Passing of Maria 5 – The Execution PART ONE 6 – Giovanni and Marcus 7 – The Teachings 1 – Public Safety 8 – The Parting 2 – The Bare Cage 9 – Insanity 3 – Musings and Maria 10 – Vengeance 4 – Bones 11 – Venus 5 – The Sick 12 – The Wooing of Shalimar 6 – The Dying 13 – Marcus and Shalimar 7 – Janet and Mimi 14 – The Return to Insanity 8 – Graft 15 – The Promise 9 – The Cover-up 16 – The Reunion 10 – Henderson Investigates 17 – The Slaying 11 – Jesus and the Vampire 18 – Marcus and Ava 12 – Marcus Intervenes 19 – Marcus and Cyllia 13 – Janet’s Therapy 20 – The Fight 14 – Marcus and Tina 21 – The Crystal Orb 15 – Chad and Janet 22 – Gerald and Maria 16 – The Trials of a Cop 17 – A Vampire’s Nightmare 18 – Gerald and Marcus PART III 19 – The Educating of Captain Hiers 20 – The Musings of a Dead Man 1 – Chad the Vampire 21 – The Seduction of Shannon 2 – Detective Work 22 – The IRS Agent and the Drug Dealer 3 – The Story of Scott 23 – The Example 4 – Chad’s Close Call 24 – Starved for Entertainment 5 – Janet and Gerald Discuss Poop 25 – The Psicko Killer 6 – Jamie and the Vampire 26 – Looking in on Tina 7 – Officer Nader and the Vampire 27 – Stood Up 8 – Marcus Walks with Tina 28 – The Story of the Vampire Slayer 9 – Henderson Earns His Pay 29 – Part II of the Story of the Vampire 10 – Noonan’s Big Moment Slayer 11 – An Eventful Night 30 – Looking for Trouble 12 – The Framing of Jensen 31 – Theology of a Vampire 13 – Marcus Meets Tim the Vampire 32 – Mimi’s Confession Slayer 33 – Janet and Marcus 14 – Death with Dignity 34 – Henderson and Noonan 15 – Marcus and Sarah 35 – Chad’s Decision 16 – Henderson Works the Phone 36 – A Night Out with a Vampire 17 – Marcus Gets Some Recon 37 – Marcus Reveals Himself 18 – Jensen Sings 19 – Marcus Confronts the Slayer 20 – The Real Vampire PART TWO 21 – A New Day 1 – The Origin of a Vampire 2 – Lucio and Maria PART I

Why are you reading this? Don’t you already know the ending? All of the bad people get killed and everyone else lives happily ever after, until they die of old age. And then everyone in the story is dead. Right? Is that not how just about every story goes? So what is the point?

CHAPTER I

Even the halogen street lamps couldn’t pierce the fog. They were visible, but did very little to illuminate the nearly empty parking lot. The lawn area around the Public Safety building was even darker. Several lights still shown through shade covered office windows. It was about 7:30 and most people had gone home hours before, unconcerned about the power bill. The front entrance with its double glass doors was mostly dark, but around to the side of the building was another door with a glazed window. Light from somewhere behind the door made the lettering in the window easily readable in spite of the failing twilight – “MULTNOMAH COUNTY DEPARTMENT OF PUBLIC SAFETY. VISITORS PLEASE USE FRONT ENTRANCE.” From the darkness behind a large bush near the side of the building a shadow moved. Entering the glow of the dim light emanating from the glazed window, the shadow resolved into a man; a hunched man in layers of dirty, ragged clothes. The ripped and shredded left arm sleeve of his tattered trench coat revealed an arm marred by needle track marks both old and recent. The man’s face was obscured by a dingy scarf wrapped around his neck and head. The derelict stood hunched against the door, seemed to be working something, when a form suddenly took shape through the window. He lurched awkwardly away from the door, once again becoming one with the shadows, and then the door opened. A woman stood in the open doorway, looking out into the night. “Oh, god,” she said quietly with a shudder. “It’s foggy!” A slight dread settled over the woman. Was she forgetting something? Perhaps something in her office? Or was it just the disconcerting weather? A deep breath served to blanket her anxiety with something like composure. She decided that on a night like this, she should have her car keys ready. Rummaging through her purse, the woman stepped slowly out of the doorway, down one step and onto the walk that led to the parking lot. The door began to shut very slowly behind her, but the woman was too engrossed in locating her keys to notice. The eyes of the junky watched the woman with dim interest from his place in the shadows. And from another nearby shadow, a second pair of eyes also watched the scene develop; dark eyes, with very acute vision, noting every detail; dark eyes that were very accustomed to the shadows. They missed nothing. The woman had just put her hand on the key chain when she suddenly became aware of someone very close walking up behind her. She whirled, startled, jingling her keys. “I just thought you’d want to have me walk you out to your car, Darlene,” said Bob Wilson, the stealthy person. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” “Oh! I’m fine,” said Darlene Lowri, trying to slow her accelerated heart. “You didn’t scare me. But I sure appreciate you walking me out. That’s so nice!” “You’re very welcome,” said Bob. He was such a good guy. And hardworking, too. Why, here he was, working late, going the extra mile, (getting time and a half), doing his small part to make the world a better place for John Q. Public. And now, after a satisfying hard day’s work, he was walking nice old Darlene Lowri out to her car. “I really am a nice guy,” he thought with false gratification. ‘Nice old’ Darlene was actually only 45 years old, just ten years older than ‘good guy’ Bob. She hadn’t been working late as much as she had simply been avoiding going home. Her abusive husband was sure to be waiting there to start a fight, so that he could ruin another evening and then have ‘make up’ sex with her. She was an attractive woman with a traditional look. Bob, on the other hand, was not overly handsome. He was truly average in virtually every respect – size, intelligence, potential. The door was again slowly closing behind them when quite suddenly Darlene said, “Oh, damn it! I forgot some papers in my office.” Heroically, Bob dived for the closing door and caught it just after it closed. “Shoot!” he exclaimed, and there was an added tinge of edge to his voice. Something had jabbed his hand! “Oh well,” said Darlene. “I guess it can wait until tomorrow.” And that was precisely what Bob was thinking regarding whatever it was that had stabbed him in the hand. It must have been some loose mechanism on the door handle. But at that moment he was being way too macho to complain of a little pain in front of Darlene. He didn’t even look at his hand. Hell would freeze before he would ever let on that he had been hurt. And nearby, the dark eyes followed them as they walked together through the fog. “There you go,” said Bob, as they approached her car. “Thank you, Bob,” said Darlene. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” “Anytime, ma’am,” said Bob as Darlene got into her car. She started up the engine, and rolled the car out of the lot, into the street and away, growing hazier and more difficult to see all the way. Bob had already begun walking the short distance to where his own car was parked. Now that he was alone in the dark fog, he consciously thought about anything except how spooky this night was. He fished his keys out of his pocket and was about to unlock his car. Suddenly, from out of the foggy night, like a rush of wind, a shadowy form approached him so swiftly that Bob could not even think of how to react. A vice-like bony hand covered Bob’s mouth before he had time to cry out. In a split second, he was enveloped by the darkness and carried away by the shadowy form. As swiftly as it had appeared, the shadowy form disappeared back into the foggy darkness, Bob Wilson with it. His keys swung gently from his car door lock, as the night stillness resumed. CHAPTER II

The room was dimly lit. The main lighting consisted of three or four neon signs advertising the names of various lager beverages. A string of small Christmas lights outlined a large mirror behind the bar, and a fluorescent tube glowed from underneath a glass shelf in front of the mirror, illuminating a row of bottles sporting different amounts of assorted hard liquors. Each table was adorned with a single candle burning inside a spherical holder, the glow from which cast hideous shadows on the horny faces of the men that sat at the tables, facing the stage. From the stage came the flashing of some cheap, but amusing specialty lighting: a spinning red light that was all too reminiscent of the old police car light; a multi-colored ray that spread apart gently from its point of origin, cutting through the cigarette smoke; and finally, an occasional strobe light for an added effect on the naked female dancer. A small lamp barely lit the area in the corner where an oily-looking DJ was in the act of cueing up his next record. The aromas of stale and fresh cigarette smoke combined to create the almost overwhelming funk that permeated every square inch of the strip joint. No one noticed the smell, though; everyone there was smoking. Some old classic rock song was crashing to an end, and the DJ’s voice oozed from the sound system. “That was Luscious Amy Lynn doin’ it there for ya’, fellas. Let’s really hear it for her!” The applause was a little delayed, but completely heartfelt, to be sure, as evidenced by the even heartier whistles and catcalls that ensued. The naked ‘Luscious’ Amy Lynn scooted hastily to pick up the remaining dollar bills that lay on the edge of the stage, almost as if she were racing to get them before the men changed their minds and retracted their tips. She was a very pretty girl, but her natural beauty was clouded by low self-esteem and poorly applied make-up. As the hubbub began to subside, the PA started again, this time with a mid-eighties Madonna song, and the DJ puked, “And now, put your hands together and welcome to the stage,” he paused for effect, “Mitzi Titzi!” The drunken audience roared again with whistles, catcalls, and delayed applause as Amy Lynn skipped off the stage to the left, her perky breasts bouncing gently all the way, and the extremely voluptuous Mitzi entered from the right. The din swelled with renewed fervor, and was not quick to die down. “That woman’s got a body that would make a priest kick out a stain-glass window!” howled one inebriant. “Woo-Hoo!” yelled another young wanker as Mitzi paused to flirtatiously blow him a kiss from her full and tempting lips. Mitzi stood five feet, nine inches tall. With high-heels, she looked giant, especially to the sexual degenerates that were gawking up at her from directly in front of the stage. Her short brown hair was just long enough in the front to cover one of her big blue eyes. Protruding from Mitzi’s chest were two very round breasts that were each easily bigger than her head. Her perpetually hard nipples were visible through the material of the tight mini dress that hugged her tiny waste and curvy butt. The outfit was completed by a leg holster housing a costume gun on the inside of her thigh. Mitzi danced, and every man in the room was hers. The door to the little back alley strip joint opened, swinging gently to the outside, and a young-looking man stepped in. He was hauntingly handsome, with relatively delicate features. One might have guessed his age to be as low as seventeen. Or, upon looking deeply into his hazel eyes, one might have guessed as high as one hundred and seventeen. His long brown hair cascaded over a gray turtleneck shirt that was tucked into completely wrinkle-free black slacks, finished by a simple black leather belt. The man’s sharp appearance was in total contrast to the rest of the strip joint patrons, and yet, he did not seem to stand out. “I’ll need to see some ID, bud,” said the bouncer seated on a stool just inside the doorway. The young man produced a driver’s license from his pocket and handed it to the bouncer, who then scrutinized the little card under a small light hanging from the wall. It was his habit to read the name on the ID’s that he inspected, and this name read Bob Wilson, born March 24, 1967. The likeness on the ID looked nothing like the young man, but the bouncer seemed unaffected. “OK, enjoy yourself, Mr. Wilson,” he said, handing the little plastic card back to the young man. The young-looking, sharp-dressed man was, of course, not Bob Wilson, the average-in-every-respect probation officer. The handsome young man took the license, said nothing, and turned his attention to the stage. None of the other club patrons took notice of him as he sat down to the right side of the stage, across the room from the bar. All eyes were on Mitzi. From out of nowhere, a chewed up cocktail waitress appeared at the young man’s table. “Can I get ya’ anything?” “I’ll have a Bloody Mary,” replied the young-looking man with just the slightest hint of a faded Italian accent. He was pleased to see the waitress shudder lightly with a cold chill at the sound of his voice. Even through the pungent funk of cigarette smoke, he could still smell the fear that she was at that moment denying, and it whet his appetite even more. “Damn! What I really want is a Mary bloody!” he thought, and a dark smile barely creased his face. If you are doomed to be dark, be dark. “I’ll be right back,” she said in a voice that was little lower, a little sexier than before, and she walked away feeling warm, throwing just a little more sway of the hip into her step; leaving the young man alone to contemplate his hunger. He wasn’t really in the mood for a drink. Not alcohol anyway; it did nothing for him. He had not been taking good care of himself lately. There had been times in his past when he had been quite diligent about feeding. This was not one of those times. And he was also getting careless. He used to be so clean, so crafty, so clever, even artistic, but not lately. Now was not the time to think about this. His hunger was getting too strong and his judgment was becoming clouded. “Hm, sound judgment,” he thought. “I can’t even remember the last time…” But he could. His thoughts were interrupted by the return of the cocktail waitress with his drink. “Here ya’ go, honey,” she said, trying to make eye contact with him. “That’ll be six dollars.” The young-looking man handed her a ten spot and smiled tiredly. “Thank you, my dear.” The cocktail waitress walked away and immediately forgot that he was there. The handsome young man sipped his Bloody Mary. It served only to tease him. Suddenly, a distraction. Mitzi had gotten to the part of her show where she revealed her enormous breasts, and the male audience was going crazy. A man would have had to be dead to not be completely aroused by her exotic dance. The Madonna song was over and an old Prince song was next on the cue – ‘Sex Shooter.’ Mitzi pulled the gun out seductively and began using it creatively to amuse and thrill the crowd of naughty men. One man stood up and walked stiffly to the front of the stage. Holding up a twenty dollar bill, he bellowed, “Hey, baby, how about giving me a little of that!” Mitzi’s smile went fake, but nobody noticed except for perhaps the sharp-dressed, young-looking man. She positioned her mostly naked body in front of the puffy man and set about earning the twenty dollar tip. He was fairly tall, and had probably been handsome once upon a time, but now a layer of soft fat and sweat made him somewhat less than a fine catch. The man wasn’t grossly obese, just sloppy. His grungy looking tee-shirt had been worn very thin and was half tucked into his saggy jeans without a belt. Mitzi did a fine, but unimpassioned dance for the man, and finally leaned over to receive the money, which she was prepared to take sensuously in her teeth, loathe as she was to have germ-soaked bill anywhere near her mouth. But the sweaty man had other plans. He ran the corner of the twenty dollar bill clumsily up her leg. Getting to the upper thigh he took the opportunity to cop a feel. “Quit it, Rodney, I’m trying to do a show,” Mitzi said through a clenched smile. “Oh, you like that, doncha,” said the stoned Rodney, grabbing her leg to prevent her from stepping away. Mitzi caught the eye of Quince, the bouncer, and he started quickly for the stage, but not before Rodney had hooked a clumsy fingertip around Mitzi’s G-string. “Rodney, you’re ruining my show!” Mitzi whined. “All right, let’s go, bud,” said the hugely muscular Quince as he grabbed Rodney by the shoulders. “But she’s my girlfriend,” Rodney protested, struggling uselessly against the bouncer. “Yeah, sure she is, mack,” said Quince as he walked the drunk man forcefully to the door of the club. “Now get outa here.” The bouncer thrust Rodney out the front door of the strip joint, causing him to stumble for a step or two. “Just get your hands off me, man!” Rodney slurred as he caught his balance. As the door swung shut he yelled, “I’ll be waiting for you back home, baby!” “Yes, you do that, Rodney,” said the young-looking man to himself as he sipped on his Bloody Mary. “Mitzi is going to be a little late tonight.” Poor Mitzi’s show was over, at least as far as her composure was concerned. It didn’t matter, though. Every man in the club had already laid down his last dollar trying to coax some attention out of Mitzi Titzi. She had already cleaned up, like she always did. She was amazing looking. After Mitzi Titzi left the stage, it wasn’t long before most of the room had cleared out, even though there were still girls dancing. Nobody noticed as the sharp-dressed man left the club and disappeared. Some of the dancers were wandering out of the dressing room one by one, or sometimes two, and the bouncer began escorting them out to their cars. Mitzi emerged from the dressing room with another dancer named Tina. They were chatting flirtatiously. The DJ glanced at them and rolled his eyes. For a second he wondered if the trouble of a sex change operation would be worth it for the chance of getting with the amazon. Tina Angelino was a smaller, gothic looking girl. She had thin, straight black hair that used to be a different color. Several small tattoos, none of them very interesting, adorned her pale skin. Her ears had been pierced, along with her nose, tongue, right eyebrow, navel, and both nipples, which, along with the rest of her breasts happened to be quite small. On her wrists she wore many numerous bracelets – bangles, black bands, and little woven friendship bracelets. They were worn in an attempt to cover the many rows of scars that traversed her forearms almost like tally marks. Of all the female dancers at the Bare Cage, she was the least attractive, but she was a tough little girl. Nobody knew that she was only sixteen years old. She had run away from home at fourteen, managed to survive a year of prostituting herself, and then got a job at the Bare Cage with the help of a fake ID and a great couch audition. She looked much older than she was. At first glance, one might have been confused as to why such an incredible beauty like Mitzi would be flirting with Tina. The DJ had seen it happen before and knew the answer. For another second he wondered if the expense and the risk of getting nailed on a drug charge would be worth it for the chance to sleep with the voluptuous woman. “Hm. Oh well. I’d probably get smothered under her breasts,” he thought. He was not much of a risk taker. The bouncer opened the door for the ladies. “We’ll be all right, Quince,” said Tina. “We’re just walking around the corner to the Bismarck. My friend is havin’ a little party.” Her ‘friend’ was just another two-bit dealer like Rodney, only a lot slicker looking. Like Rodney, he was a user, which kept both of them from getting very high on the drug dealer food chain. And then there was poor Mitzi, who would willingly fuck anything for a line of coke. Almost tragic to think about – all that potential being vanquished by an addiction. The sharp-dressed, young-looking man had seen it so many times before, if he could have cared less there might have still been hope for him. He watched the girls from a dark shadow. The girls stepped out of the Bare Cage exotic dance club into the Portland night. The streets were shiny from a recent drizzle, and the thin fog made a colorful haze around the streetlights. The temperature of the Indian summer night was comfortable, and for a second Mitzi felt grateful to be alive, until her thoughts turned of getting high, and then she simply felt cheerful in anticipation, with the knowledge of where she was going to get her next hit. Echoes of their chatter and high-heeled footsteps resounded off of the buildings that lined the now empty avenue. The late night traffic just happened to be either far down or far up the street as they turned the corner onto Morrison Street. The sign for the Bismarck Hotel was visible just a half- block up. Suddenly, a hand on Mitzi’s shoulder stopped her dead in mid chatter. “Hey!” Mitzi jumped with a start and spun around. “Oh! Rodney!” She gasped with relief. “You scared the shit out of me!” “Hey, baby,” said Rodney, still sounding pretty fucked up. “When you comin’ home?” “Listen, sugar,” Mitzi said flirtatiously. “Momma’s gotta stay out a little late tonight.” “But I’ve got some of your favorite candy,” coaxed Rodney, trying to sound like a little boy. Tina looked back and forth at both of them with a look of disgust. Mitzi turned to her and said quietly, “You go on ahead. Let me just take care of this real quick and I’ll be right up behind you.” “I’ll be waiting for you,” said Tina seductively. She did not realize that Mitzi couldn’t have cared less about having sex with her. For Mitzi, this whole situation was just another chance for her to nail another sex-for-drugs connection. With a little finesse, she would be able to score both of them. If she played it just right, she could be taken care of for the next couple of days. Once Tina was entering the front door of the hotel and out of earshot, Mitzi turned back to Rodney and put her hands loosely on his shoulders. “Oh, baby, baby, I’ll be home real soon. Have you got any of that candy with you?” She was actually very repulsed by Rodney, but she wanted to make sure that he actually had some stuff before she completely committed to the ‘date.’ Rodney stepped back into a narrow alley that happened to be conveniently located right there and beckoned for Mitzi to follow. “Let me show you back here.” Just like Mitzi had owned all of the men at the strip joint during her show, Rodney now owned her. She followed his voice obediently into the alley. Visibility was very low in the dark alley as Mitzi stepped close to the shadow that was Rodney. It took just a second for Mitzi’s eyes to see what it was that Rodney held in his hand, and she gasped when she realized that was not her beloved drug, but a knife! “Now, bitch!” Rodney’s tone had changed. “Things are gonna be little different tonight!” Mitzi didn’t make a peep. “Let’s start by you handin’ me over all your tips for the night, and all the rest of your money!” Mitzi obeyed, silently. “Slowly!” snapped the paranoid Rodney as Mitzi went to withdraw her fist full of paper bills from her purse. Rodney grabbed them with his free hand and stuffed them into a pocket on his worn tee-shirt. The unfolded wad of bills protruded in the pocket like a single lumpy breast. He had been having a very bad night. His drug sales were down, due largely to his lack of discretion, which was, of course, a direct result of being constantly tweaked. One of his connections had dropped him, lowering him from the status of client to customer. Another connection was looking for him to collect a note, or kill him. The bill he had used to tempt Mitzi back at the Bare Cage had been the last of his cash. “Now, undo my pants, bitch,” ordered the greasy man as he brought the knife up to her neck. Now that he had some cash to take care of business with, he wanted to take a second and get his rocks off, and since he didn’t really have any coke for her, forcing himself on her seemed to be the only way at the moment. Besides, this power over her felt great! “Goddamn you, Rodney,” Mitzi said meekly as she started on the task. She had had sex with Rodney many times before, but it had always been for drugs, not her life. Rodney wanted to believe that Mitzi had been with him because she actually liked him, maybe even loved him, and not simply because he supplied her. The eroding of that denial by the reality of this situation, along with his other mounting problems, complicated by a deep-seated contempt for females, was enough to drive him to want to use the knife on Mitzi, and then on himself. Yes, after she finished him, he would have to do her. She belonged to him. No one else could have her. Suddenly a shadow moved swiftly, and the body of the would-be rapist was ripped away from Mitzi by a powerful force! It happened so quickly that at first she couldn’t see where he had gone! A cold, gusty wind seemed to come from out of nowhere, spinning around the frightened stripper. The sound of Rodney’s weak moan from above turned her attention to a fire escape where she could just make out the shadows of two people. The shadows merged and Mitzi heard the clatter of Rodney’s knife as it bounced off the fire escape after falling from his grasp. It fell, tumbling in mid-air to the cement alley floor, clattering again just a few feet from where Mitzi stood frozen with fear. A terrible voice soaked with lust, power, and the faintest hint of compassion, said, “Get out of here!” To Mitzi, the voice sounded like the growl of an animal, and every hair on the back of her long, graceful neck stood up, but she still understood the message. She ran, her drug-filled mind swimming, her enormous melons flopping wildly. Without thinking where to go, she ran, sobbing, as fast as she possibly could, to get herself away from that terrifying voice. She ran for her life. She ran for her soul.

CHAPTER III

Is life nothing more than a sick joke? They spend their whole life, searching for purpose, a meaning for their lives, their existence, but what happens if they find it? They die, because it took their whole life to discover the meaning of it. But is death such a bad thing? If not, why do they do everything in their power to avoid it? And who would want to ‘pull the plug’ to find out, anyway? It’s very easy to focus on life’s pain, irony, cynicism. I guess that is what love is for – something else upon which to focus. This is not life. This is not death. I do not abide by the laws of life or death. There is growth – there is change. With every passing generation I grow more powerful, and I grow more fatigued of existing. Long ago I lost my will to exist, but not having that will doesn’t end my existence - it simply lessens my ability to think rationally. If I continue like this, I shall become nothing more than a very strong animal. Eventually, they will hunt me down and destroy me. At long last, it would all be finally fine. Yes, I shall fade into a color of gray thought, then black. I suppose I shall not even miss my essence. It has just been such a long time, so much time. I am tired of time, I’m tired of light, of color, of feeling, of killing. I long for an eternity of complete oblivion.

The old woman lay asleep in her bed, breathing quietly, illuminated by the soft light of the room. It was bright enough that a passing attendant would be able to peak in and check on the old woman, but not so bright that she should have any trouble sleeping. The attendant for the nursing home had indeed just made the rounds, when another form darted into the room, quickly and stealthily, so as not to be seen or heard. Once inside the room, the young-looking man cast his gaze upon the sleeping elderly woman. Slowly now, he moved to her bedside. He knew that it would be at least 30 minutes before the nurse would again pass by. The digital clock on the little night stand read 3:12. The handsome young man stood there like a statue for over a minute, just looking down at the withered old woman. Her previously long hair had been recently cut, and was now just a tuft of gray, her large ears now easily visible. The lines in her face were only the result of a loss of elasticity in her skin, and not from years of stress or anger, hence her wrinkles didn’t contort her face at all, but simply reflected a life full of good years. With a sharp intake of breath, the old woman awoke suddenly. You might think that she would scream at the sight of someone in her room but the young man was not a stranger to her. She smiled weakly, looking into the eyes of the young man. “Why, Marcus,” she said quietly. “You still look so beautiful.” Even after twenty years, the young-looking man had never gotten used to seeing the old woman in this condition. The image of her young, fresh, beautiful face was indelibly etched into his memory, and he couldn’t hide his sadness at the contrast of that image and sight of her now. It wasn’t that he found the old woman ugly, not at all. But her wrinkles were a prediction that she would soon be gone. Time was stealing her away. “Ah, Maria, my love,” he said. “You are as beautiful as the day I first laid eyes on you.” And he meant it. The old woman, Maria, laughed softly and then coughed lightly. “Marcus, how can you say that? I’m old and gray.” Marcus just shook his head. She continued, “And look, they cut my hair. They said it was just getting to be too much trouble. And Marcus, I’ve been getting more confused lately. Why, Leslie came to visit me the other day and I didn’t recognize her at first. I think my memory is going.” “Oh, Maria,” Marcus began as he knelt by her bedside and took her hands in his; he had always been totally honest with her. “I believe I can surely relate to your feelings of disorientation. But always understand and know that I love you more than any other person in this universe, and you are most beautiful to me. You are in me; deep in me. I do not want to go on without you.” Tears welled up in his eyes. Maria also began to cry softly for her own mortality. She didn’t really want to die, but growing old had been hell on her. Health problems, one right after another, had afflicted her since her mid-sixties. Now, with the added frustration of going senile, she knew that she would rather be in control of the when and the where. She looked tearfully into Marcus’s eyes. “I know you hate it, Marcus, but have you given any further thought to what I asked you?” “Yes,” he said, closing his eyes. “Do it now, my darling,” Maria pleaded. “My affairs are all in order; please, I’m ready!” Marcus hesitated. “Please,” she implored, “don’t make me go on like this. After all the time we’ve had together, you…..” her crying stopped her, but she had meant to say “you owe it to me!” Marcus touched her face tenderly. Looking into her eyes, those beautiful deep brown eyes, he asked, “You are sure?” “Yes,” came the quiet reply. He closed on her slowly, bringing his lips to hers. They kissed, for the millionth time perhaps, now, for the last time, but, oh, what a kiss! Lifting her carefully, Marcus put his arms around her and held her fragile body close to his. The old woman began to feel waves of warmth and euphoria all throughout her body, much more powerful in effect than morphine. In the ecstasy she drew in a deep breath of air. Her arms reached around Marcus and held him tightly. Finally, convinced that she would feel no pain, but only immeasurable pleasure, the vampire carefully bit into the inside of her lower lip and sucked. Maria continued to kiss him as he slowly sucked the life blood out of her. As they lay in their lovers’ embrace, hearts beating against each other, Maria’s life flashed in summary in her mind – her fine childhood, her excellent teenage years, her fairy-book wedding and marriage to the handsome Warren, the birth of their daughter Leslie, and then the heartbreaking news of Warren’s death at Normandy. She had been a young widow mourning over her husband’s grave in the waning light of dusk fifty-nine years before, and now her mind filled with the image of Marcus approaching her from the shadows. He had fed on her there, and it had been life-alteringly intimate for her. Maria had had a good life, due largely to her deep love for this strange, passionate man that seemed infinitely old but never aged, and also due to the love that he reciprocated. Marcus and Maria had continued their love affair unbeknownst to anyone, even after she re-married in 1955. Occasionally they had sex, but mostly she just allowed him to feed on her, an experience that she preferred to sex, though she would have to come up with some interesting stories to give her husband about the bite wounds. Marcus had always been there for her during the most difficult times in her life. His wisdom and support had helped her to overcome any problem that presented itself in her life. All but one – the problem of aging and dying. Maria had been very considerate of Marcus’s vampirism. After he had told her that he had never created another vampire, and never intended to, she never asked him to make her immortal, though she would have let him do it in an instant. He had been somewhat secretive about his past, but what he had told of it sounded amazing. She could remember the time that he had said to her, “Maria, my sweet. My time with you has been like a bright, happy holiday amidst a dark, smelly swamp of years.” It was a slow death, but for Maria it didn’t feel like death at all. She was feeling more pleasure and ecstasy than she had ever felt before in all of her long life. The puncture wounds in her mouth couldn’t bleed very fast, so the lovers’ last kiss lasted for several minutes. With each passing minute Marcus expected her to come to her senses and stop him from killing her, but she only held more tightly, as with each passing second she felt more and more wonderful pleasure. Maria gave everything she had left to the vampire, every bit of life. It was her wish. Finally, Maria’s heartbeat weakened. Her embrace relaxed. Weakly, she brought her right hand up to Marcus’s lips, and their Kiss of Death came to an end. “I love you,” she breathed, looking deep into Marcus’s eyes. Purple eyelids closed over her dark, beautiful eyes. She did not inhale. Marcus kissed her on each of her eyes, and then her forehead. “I love you, Maria, my sweet Maria.” And he broke into sobs holding her one last time. He was at a complete loss to conceive how he was going to continue with his eternal condemnation. At last he stood up, and composed himself. He inspected Maria’s lower lip and was satisfied to find that the puncture wounds were not conspicuous. Sure, there would be a little wonder when they rolled the body of Maria Carver over and didn’t see the usual purple, blotchy signs of blood settling down, but Marcus was not worried that the mortician might discover that the body had been exsanguinated. To the ‘authorities’ it would look as if she had died peacefully in her sleep. The vampire stole out of the room and the nursing home without another look.

CHAPTER IV

“Whoa! WHOA!! Stop the tractor!” yelled Chuck Gillespie, the sight foreman. The back-hoe had just uncovered what appeared to be human bones. “Damn!” yelled the operator from his seat on the back-hoe. “Call the cops. And you’d better call Bechard.” “I know my job,” growled Gillespie, but this was a real pisser. As is so often the case with contractors, Gillespie and his crew were behind schedule and Bechard didn’t accept excuses. Gillespie was tempted to instruct Matt on the tractor to roll right on over the old remains. “Take five, everybody!” Minutes later, police were on the scene, and only a few minutes after them Detective Darrel Henderson arrived. Just at about the time they had determined that the bones were most probably human Jimmy Bechard, a square-shouldered man, came driving up to the construction sight in a shiny, certified pre-owned Lexus. He was quite old, but he hid it well by the unbent manner in which he carried himself. Gillespie got close to Bechard and tried to explain without groveling too much. After listening to Gillespie’s fretful song and dance about all of the delays that were beyond the foreman’s control Bechard said about the discovery of the bones simply, “That’ll slow you down.” Detective Henderson was of medium height and medium build. His track record as a homicide detective was very impressive. He attributed his success to an uncannily acute sixth sense. His hunch’s had never yet steered him wrong. Right now, it was just too damn early in the morning for him. His dark hair was freshly slicked back but he was not yet functioning at 100 percent. The construction sight was on Pacific Street, just down the street from Lloyd Center; there had to be a Starbucks nearby, and if there wasn’t, there should be! Henderson was grilling Matt Corbin, the back-hoe operator. The two men stood directly over the jumbled pile of scattered bones as two other police officers spread the yellow ‘police line’ tape. Henderson asked, “How long had you been digging in this area before you noticed the bones?” “No time at all,” answered Matt. “And I froze the tractor the second we spotted ‘em.” Bechard charged up. “Hold it! You’re not turning this into a crime scene.” “Please, sir,” said Henderson, as politely as he could. “Don’t get in the way of my investigation.” The old man was several inches taller than the detective, and Bechard looked down at the shorter man as he pulled a cell phone out of his pocket and dialed. “You don’t have an investigation,” he said, hitting the CALL button. The other two street cops looked on with mild amusement. They had heard some pretty wild stuff about this rich and eccentric Jimmy Bechard and they wanted to see how the hotshot detective was going to handle the old man. Henderson gazed down at the pile of bones in frustration as if the answer to this entire problem might be found in their random arrangement. “This is Jimmy Bechard speaking. Mister Fritz Lemmon will take my call.” At the mention of the police chief’s name Detective Henderson and the uniformed cops blanched. Normally they would consider any civilian’s effort to call the chief and complain to be futile, but this was Jimmy Bechard. They were pretty sure that the eccentric real estate developer was not on the Chief’s Christmas card list, but it might be possible that Bechard had other political contacts that could lean on the chief. They listened to Bechard’s side of the conversation as it continued. “Hey! I just wanted to let you know before it went any further that one of your boys is on my sight and is about to step in some shit.” He held out the phone toward Henderson. “He wants to talk to you.” “Yeah,” said Henderson into the tiny device. It was Bechard’s turn to listen to half of the conversation. Henderson continued, “Aw, hell, they dug up some human bones on a construction sight…..Old!.....No, all mixed up, I see a skull…..” His eyes suddenly grew wide and his brow threatened to touch the fabulously low line on his slicked-back hair. “What? But....OK, whatever you say.” He turned to the two patrolmen. “I can’t for the life of me figure out why but we’ve been instructed to leave.” The two cops hesitated, but Henderson just nodded at them. Shrugging, they turned toward their cruiser. “Ahem!” Bechard scowled and gestured at the yellow tape. “Don’t leave your goddam crap on my construction sight.” They did not protest. Henderson turned to Bechard and handed him back the phone. He said, “Will you at least allow me to collect the remains?” “You’ve got five minutes,” Bechard said shortly. Henderson only wanted to do the right thing, but this asshole was going to make it difficult for him. He tried one last ditch effort to appeal to Bechard’s sympathies. “Honestly, Mr. Bechard, how can you just do this? These remains may constitute a past disappearance. They are the remains of someone’s son or daughter, maybe even someone’s parent. Don’t we owe it to those still living victims to identify the remains and possibly determine the cause of death? Don’t they deserve some closure?” Henderson was quite proud of his extemporaneous little monologue. However, Bechard was unimpressed. “That’s why I gave you five minutes to pick them up. Seriously, detective,” (and he said ‘detective’ with palpable contempt) “they’re dead. Whoever might still be mourning their loss will someday be dead. Life goes on! You and I will be dead someday, and I’ve got a lot of shit to accomplish before that day so hurry it up so my men can get back to work! Furthermore, I just gotta tell ya’, it really burns my ass that tax dollars go to pay for investigations such as this. I think that if the family and friends of this dead person here really wanted to know what the hell happened to their fallen loved one, they could hire whatever professional help they needed to do the ‘investigation’ themselves. Course, then guys like you would have to find legitimate work!” The skin on the back of Henderson’s neck and ears burned red. He spat, “Well, not everyone has all the money in the world!” There! He had won, hadn’t he? He ran to his car and grabbed the only thing that he had to put the bones in – a garbage bag. Then he appropriated a nearby shovel and hurriedly began to put the bones and some of the dirt into the bag. For a second he thought that it was kind of sad that someone’s remains were being transported like garbage, but then he snapped right out of it. He knew that he really didn’t give a shit. Like Bechard, he didn’t personally care at all about anything of the homicides he was supposed to be solving. It was just his job – a job that he liked, true! But still just a job. On the other hand, he did not like Bechard at all for being such a smug, rich old bastard! Henderson would do his job, by God! And he would do it on Bechard, regardless of the rumors of his political connections. He would start by trying to identify the remains, then he would have his useless partner search the county records for the history of the title on this property that Bechard was so avidly developing. He could approximate a time of death, and find out who owned the property at that time. Along the way, he would dig up as much dirt on Bechard as he could. It would be easy. His mind started whizzing on the ‘What If’ game. He wouldn’t need that coffee to wake up after all.

CHAPTER V

There is a reason why people bring flowers and balloons to their sick and injured loved ones while they’re in the hospital – because without them, there would be no color at all. Just various shades of gray and white, stainless steel, and the occasional pastel. No, hospitals are no place to get well in. Germs and viruses aren’t the only things unable to live in this sterile environment. Everyone was dying; just some a little slower than others, and some, frighteningly fast. Janet actually suffered from a deep depression from all of the death and sickness around her, but she was in total denial about it. When she was 22 she had become an RN because she wanted to help other people. She had done precious little to help herself. Her depression manifested itself to her in the form of chronic fatigue. Sleep did nothing for her, and she just thought it was the long hours that she worked at the hospital. To compensate, her doctor had given her a prescription for some long-named amphetamine, which she took faithfully to get her through bouts of fatigue, but it did nothing to help her sleep, and of course, it did absolutely nothing for her depression. Nurse Janet didn’t have what could be considered an eating disorder, but her eating habits were less than conducive to maintaining a trim figure. She was lucky if she ingested 700 calories a day, and she commonly ate upon getting home from her shift, immediately going to bed after the meal. This habit contributed to her restless sleep, and complicated the fatigue. She had gained 40 pounds since starting at the hospital two years ago, and even though her 5’ 4” frame carried the weight well, (proportioned nicely over her bust, butt and legs) she had had to get new nurse uniforms twice now to adjust for her growing size. Even now, as she pushed her stainless steel cart down the hospital corridor, she looked like she was going to bust right out of her white uniform. Her dark, shoulder length hair was actually quite pretty, and she didn’t carry any of her weight in her face. But, with her self-esteem in the basement, she was utterly unaware of her own sex appeal. Nurse Janet was simply the result of too much negative inner communication. Notwithstanding her repressed problem, Janet kept a pretty cheerful demeanor, at least while she was at the hospital. Besides, she rationalized, her pathetic life wasn’t nearly as sad as the patients that she provided care for. Janet stopped her cart outside of an open doorway leading into a hospital room. She picked up a tray of hospital breakfast and entered the room. The colorful flowers and balloons grabbed her attention immediately, as without them the room would still have been simply gray and white. Even the morning sunlight shining in through the window was somehow devoid of color. But the bouquets of flowers….. they were not devoid of any color, and their scent! Where the hallway had carried that sterile, rubbing alcohol smell of a hospital, this room had become affected by the floral fragrance. Janet inhaled deeply through her nose and felt instantly better. “How are you feeling this morning, Mrs. Schmidt?” asked Janet, trying to sound just the right amount of cheerful. Dina Schmidt was recuperating from a hysterectomy. Sadly, she was only 25 years old. A malignant growth on her one of her ovaries had already caused her to miscarry twice, and now had been removed along with the rest of all her reproductive organs less than 12 hours before. She was visibly upset, hence, Janet’s tactful greeting. To be too bubbly was certainly in bad taste. The cheery sights and lovely smells of the flowers and balloons left by Dina’s husband and family were not what the woman was focusing on this morning. Her thoughts orbited loosely around one giant black hole of a fact – she was never going to give birth to a child. What was the point of going on? Her emotional pain far outweighed any physical discomfort she was in. “Please, have a little something to eat,” said Nurse Janet, setting the tray of food on the bed table. “Thank you,” Dina said weakly. She wasn’t feeling that bad, but she didn’t want to let on that she had any strength, though she really didn’t have an appetite. Still, she did not have the emotional energy to argue with the nurse, so, “just have a bite or two to make her happy and wait until she leaves,” Dina thought. Nurse Janet set about the room doing her nursely duties. Dina Schmidt was not a particularly attractive looking woman, especially right now. The dishwater blonde looked as if she had missed dinner once too often. Indeed she had often wondered how she had come to be married to such a good man like Douglas. He wasn’t the most handsome man himself, but he was caring, attentive, and very hardworking. Their relationship was perhaps lacking in passion, but neither of them seemed to miss it. Prior to her medical problems, however, they had concertly endeavored to have children. The love she felt from her husband was not enough to comfort her now. You see, she never realized the fundamental truth about love – you can feel no love from another person any stronger than the love you feel for yourself. Dina’s self-love was floundering before her cancer, and now after the operation had diminished completely. She felt no love from Douglas, even though he was giving all the love he had. He would have died for her in a heartbeat. Dina simply wanted to die. She watched Nurse Janet out of the corner of her eye, sincerely wishing that they could trade places. Doubtless that young girl was as fertile as a mink. Such womanly curves! The pain was blotted only for a moment by the carefully concealed envy. Janet certainly felt bad for Dina, but as she bent down to reach into a floor cupboard for some supplies, all she could think about were the rolls of fat around her middle, billowing together. She could remember when she didn’t have quite such a hard time bending over. “Oh, to be that skinny,” she thought, eyeing Dina. “Do you think you’d be strong enough for me to wash your hair?” she asked. “We could get you all nice and clean and pretty for when your family comes to visit you today.” Physically, Dina was certainly strong enough, but she didn’t even want to see her family, especially Douglas and especially his parents! Her lack of emotional and spiritual energy was being translated into a lack of physical energy and motivation as well. “I’m not really feeling up to it just now,” she said, sounding even weaker than before. “That’s fine,” said Janet. “If you change your mind, or if you need anything else, you have your ‘CALL’ button.” And Janet walked out of the colorful, sweet-smelling pit of sorrow, back to her stainless steel cart in the gray hallway, glad to be out of there. Down the corridor with her cart, to the next room on her little route. The door to this room was closed. Janet opened the door and walked into a much less cheery scene than the previous room. No flowers, no balloons, and the brown-haired girl in the bed lay like the dead, no visible breathing movement from the girl’s enormous chest. Janet calmly took the wrist of the girl in her fingers and knew right away that she was OK. The touch made the girl stir. It wasn’t the first time that Mitzi had woke up in a hospital, so there was no initial shock as far as that was concerned. She just couldn’t immediately remember….. “Good Morning,” said Janet, hoping that saying it would make it true. “Whu-what happened?” breathed Mitzi. “You’re at Mount Sanai General Hospital,” Janet answered. “I’m told that you were found unconscious at the north end of PSU campus. Police called an ambulance when they were unable to wake you up. They thought maybe you had ‘O.D.ed’, but when doctors checked you earlier this morning, they didn’t detect a huge amount of drugs in your system. The only thing they could tell was that you seemed to be in shock. What do you remember?” Mitzi retraced her steps from arriving at the Bare Cage the night before. She had been sniffing little bits of coke all night long and she could remember dancing four or five sets. Then what? She and Tina were going to a party at the Bismarck, and then Rodney, and suddenly it came flooding back to her. The blood drained from her face as she recalled the unearthly tone of the voice that had sent her running headlong. It had been immeasurably harrowing, but she wrote it off immediately. “What a trip,” she muttered. “I must have got my hands on some bad shit.” “What was that?” asked Janet, as she put down the breakfast tray, but Mitzi didn’t repeat herself. “I’m ready to go,” said Mitzi, sitting up. “That is not really advisable,” Nurse Janet replied habitually. If it had been a male nurse or doctor, Mitzi might have decided to be rude. But since it was a girl, and one that Mitzi just realized she was kind of attracted to, she was sweet. She got up from the bed and put her chest out. “Really, Janet” she said warmly, after glancing at her name tag. “I’m fine.” Janet was not in control of the situation. What did she normally do in situation like this? She had never been in a situation exactly like this. She would call for the doctor, that’s what she would do. She fingered the PTT button of the intercom on the wall next to the door and looked at her patient for an objection. “Please, call the doctor,” Mitzi smiled. “I don’t suppose I can get released outa here without his little permission slip.” She stepped past Janet, brushing her lightly and walked over to the free-standing closet where her tube skirt was hanging, undoing the tie on the back of her light hospital robe as she went. “Dr. Evans, please report to Room 318 for a patient release authorizashsh…..” Janet trailed off, her mouth gaping slightly. Mitzi had slipped out of the hospital robe, and, standing completely naked in front of the closet, had turned to face Janet briefly before donning her tube skirt. The stunned nurse had never seen breasts so large. The girl’s bold exhibition of sexuality made Janet’s crotch warm. She couldn’t take her eyes off of the other girl. The overweight girl had never even fantasized about being with another woman, until now. She had always been the care giver, the mother, in every relationship. Suddenly, something deep inside her… a child wanted – no! Needed care! She wondered if she would be able to curl up on that bosom, be held close to that bosom, suckle from that bosom. Mitzi could see that she was having an effect on the other girl, but she had no idea of the true depth of it. She just thought that Janet found her sexy, which was just fine with her. She loved being sexy to women. Janet forgot where she was, who she was. She was engulfed in a state of utter confusion. That child deep inside her screamed at her sub-conscious mind the need for care and affection, and a momentary wave of erotic exhilaration nearly carried Janet across the small room to Mitzi’s hot body! But then, from another place in Janet’s sub-conscious, the deep-seated sexual taboos came bubbling up, and a quiet but firm voice, probably her mother’s voice, said, “This isn’t right!” Finally the large-breasted amazon turned and reached for her tube skirt, and Janet realized that her eyes were moist and that she was nearly needing to hold back a sob. She turned away quickly and tried to compose herself. “What is with me?” she thought. “Why am I feeling so emotional?” She wasn’t on her period, so she discounted that as a possibility. Besides, she didn’t have difficult menstruation cycles like some women. Still, she couldn’t remember the last time that she had had a good ‘soul- cleansing’ cry. Mitzi put the smoky smelling tube skirt over her head, pulled it down, past her enormous breasts and smoothed it into place. “Excuse me, but where are my heels?” she asked. “I don’t –” Janet had to clear her throat. “Excuse me. I don’t think you had any shoes when they brought you in.” She was still reeling from confusion. “Oh,” said Mitzi flatly. “Damn.” And again she remembered the frightening night before. She must have kicked the high- heeled shoes off in a frantic attempt to run faster. Luckily, her purse was sitting on the floor of the little closet. Somehow, in spite of last night’s panic, she had managed to hold onto it. She groused, “Well, now what am I gonna do?” She started going over in her mind the list of people that she could call to come get her. She could take the bus back to the Bare Cage where her car was still parked; even though Rodney had taken all of her paper cash, she still had enough coinage to come up with bus fare. But without shoes, the whole affair was quickly turning into more of a pain in the ass than she wanted to deal with just now. “No, better to call up someone and bum a ride,” she thought. “Hmm, guess I can’t call Rodney.” Mitzi mused at her dark humor. “I should be able to get you a pair of slippers,” said Nurse Janet, finally feeling a little more together, slipping back into her comfortable role as problem-solver and provider. Janet bit her lip and debated hotly with herself as Mitzi sauntered over to the phone beside the hospital bed. In a rushed moment of spontaneity, the shy, insecure, sexy nurse decided to seize the day. “And I could give you a ride home!” she blurted out, and then added, “If you want.” Mitzi looked at the plump care-giver with an amused smile. After a second she said, “Thank you. That’s very nice of you, but don’t you have to work?” Janet flushed. “Well,” she stammered, “I want to go home anyway.” “Then, I accept,” Mitzi said, and she could see that Janet was breaking from her normal boring mode of operation. Just then a doctor entered the room. A man in his late thirties, Dr. Evans looked to be in his late forties. He was known in medical social circles to be obsessed with the idea of professional objectivity of doctors. But there was a reason that he always preached it – because he, himself, rarely practiced it. And, not surprisingly, he had been enamored with Mitzi Titzi’s bosom when she had been brought in earlier that morning. Dr. Evans had taken it upon himself to get the unconscious girl out of her tube skirt and into the hospital robe. “You can’t trust the orderlies on a job like this,” he had rationalized. But then, when he was alone with the unconscious girl, he had hefted the enormous breasts. “Jesus!” He had exclaimed to himself. “I need to specialize!” “Well, Ms. Hudson, you must be feeling better this morning,” said Dr. Evans. “Yes, I am,” Mitzi smiled flirtatiously. “I’m ready to get the heck outta here.” Dr. Evans returned her flirtatious tone. “Don’t you think that I should be the one to determine that? I’ll need to check you out.” Mitzi turned on all the magic of her charm. Leading with her chest, she approached the horny doctor. “Well, Doctor, you can ‘check me out’ all you want – tonight at the Bare Cage.” Dr. Evans stammered, and was speechless. He was pussy-whipped, and unable to hide it from Nurse Janet or Mitzi. He was suddenly aware of the discomfort in his crotch as his growing erection pulled his pubic hair. Dr. Evans would have loved to have ‘checked out’ Mitzi at the Bare Cage, but there were pretenses to uphold! The voluptuous nurse stood off to the side, trying to take this all in. She regarded Mitzi. Here was a girl who seemed to be able to totally control people. “Men, especially,” she thought, denying her own subjection to the amazon. She could see Dr. Evans flushing, and she imagined him hooking a finger on his collar and releasing gouts of steam from inside his shirt. Mitzi took Dr. Evan’s arm as if he had offered it to her, and said, “Shall we, Doctor?” She then carefully turned him around and half led him out of the room, being sure in the movement to rub the back of his arm past her perpetually hard nipple, which he could feel distinctly all the way through the fabric layers of his white coat and shirt. His brain was virtually mush. Mitzi turned to Janet on their way out the door and said in a question, “Meet me at the front entrance?” Janet smiled and nodded, and after Mitzi and the mushy doctor had exited the room, she briefly touched herself through her uniform. She was very wet. Nurse Janet left the room in search of her shift supervisor. She would ask to be allowed to go home sick, and she was sure that at that moment, she could pass for feverish.

CHAPTER VI

The head nurse and the shift supervisor both assured Janet that everything would be fine if she needed to go home early. Neither of them could even remember the last time that she had made such a request. And so it was that the head nurse, a thirty year veteran of the R.N. profession named Terry, continued with Nurse Janet’s mid-morning duties. After thirty years of working in hospitals, Nurse Terry was feeling pretty old and very experienced, and had reached a point where she thought she had seen just about everything, a few times! But the next stop on her itinerary was a young man with a situation; a very sad situation, unlike anything she had ever seen. She had seen plenty of times where illness or accident had cut down some young person in their prime. Indeed, she had seen a lot of sickness and death, in both old and young people. For some reason, it seemed to her like she had seen more sad death than happy cures, but she was unaware that that was mostly because she dwelt on the sadness. Like Janet, she suffered from a lot of negative self-speak. The young man stirred as she walked in. He had been dozing. “Where’s Janet?” he asked flatly, sounding like death. He also looked like death. He was deathly ill. The hair on his head had been shaved off to allow for easier treatment of the lesions that erupted there. The skin on his face looked like recycled paper. “Nurse Janet left early,” answered the older nurse returning the young man’s flat tone. She didn’t wish to engage him too deeply in conversation. For some reason, his case was just too hard on her. “That’s just peachy!” said the sick man sarcastically. “Who’s gonna take me out?” he asked, admitting again to himself that he really preferred Nurse Janet. That line of thinking inevitably got him wishing that things could be different, the way they had been before. “Aren’t any of your family coming to visit you today?” asked Terry. The young man took Nurse Terry’s question as rhetorical, and also as an admission that she did not want to have to take him outside for his daily dose of sun and fresh air. No matter. Nothing mattered any more. Rather than respond to the query, he said indignantly, “It’s OK Terry. I know the last thing on this earth you want to do is take a dying AIDS victim out for a walk!” A real and cutting pain stabbed at the old nurse, and she couldn’t help the look of guilt that contorted her face. The sick young man saw it, and closed his eyes with a half-smile. The young man was going to die. And probably very soon. The virus that infected him had reproduced abnormally quickly. The doctors had tried all of the usual treatments, zidovudine, didanosine, zalcitabine, and stavudine, in an effort to forestall the reproduction of the virus, but the young man hadn’t responded, and within less than a year of becoming infected with HIV, Chad Reeves was deep in the throws of AIDS. He didn’t really want to die, but the apparent hopelessness of his situation overwhelmed him to the point that he wished for death. Chad had never asked for this situation, had never done anything to deserve it. It’s not like he was a fag, after all, or a hemophiliac, he had never done any of the drugs that require injection, and he wasn’t even promiscuous, damn it! He had been careful, and what happened to him could have happened to anyone. “It should have happened to someone else,” thought Chad, and as Nurse Terry putted around the room checking intravenous fluid levels and tending to other nursely duties, the VCR tape of the memory replayed in his mind for the millionth and first time. So many seemingly unrelated factors had led up to the fateful event of his infection. If he had just decided to stay in and eat the food that he had had at the house that night, he wouldn’t have been stopped by the ignorant cop who cited him for driving without proper illumination on his tags. If he had only decided to just pay the stupid ticket by mail rather than show up for his court date to show how he had corrected the ‘malfunction,’ he wouldn’t have been at the court house. If the judge hadn’t been such a sanctimonious shit-head, Chad probably would have been more inclined to take the slow elevator instead of the quicker stairs back down from the upstairs court rooms to the lower front lobby of the court house, and he wouldn’t have raked his hand painfully over the hypodermic needle that someone had taped underneath the handrail, breaking the skin and drawing blood. Chad had feared the worst the second that it happened, and his fears were confirmed when the hypodermic needle was tested and found to be infected with the Human Immunodeficiency Virus. Less than three months later, he tested positive himself, and now, in just less than a year, he was suffering from all of the worst symptoms of the diseases that can plague one whose body is unable to fight them. The AIDS was complicated by hepatitis, which Chad had also contracted from the tip of the needle. Naturally, the infection completely changed his life. All that transpired in his life before the infection seemed like a dream. Reality was the AIDS. He continued school until his health prevented it. Every one of the girls that he had been dating before the infection disappeared. The disease made short work of his health and strength, as if his body had actually been fashioned solely to be sick. As a last ditch effort, doctors had tried to confine him to a germ free environment, a plastic ‘bubble,’ but Chad gave up after an onslaught of various diseases weakened him and caused him indescribable discomfort. Now, the doctors and nurses did only what they could to make Chad Reeves last weeks of life as pleasant and comfortable as possible. His parents visited daily, along with his two younger sisters. None of his family was coping well with the situation. Chad had been their golden boy. So much promise! Brilliant, handsome, and athletic, he would have graduated from college in the top ninety-five percent of his class, if he had been able to continue. Chad would have gone on to become a doctor himself, and no one doubted that he would have been the best at whatever he had endeavored to do. Now, thanks to some dark-hearted value destroyer, Chad was dying, weak, his body covered with no less than fifty-eight boils and lesions, himself dark-hearted, with brilliant and ingenious ideas the farthest things from his mind. He didn’t deserve this. The circumstances of his infection were known by the hospital staff, and Nurse Terry for one couldn’t cope with, let alone fathom, the idea that some social malcontent out there could do such a heinous thing as tape a hypodermic needle infected with the AIDS virus under a stairway handrail. After Chad’s infection, no less than sixty-seven other needles turned up in the downtown area, attached to door handles, gasoline pump handles, bus ticket vending machines, and bus stop benches. Eight other woeful people had been pricked, not withstanding the anonymous tips the police had received disclosing the locations of each needle. Every needle had been infected with HIV. Every person pricked had eventually tested positive. Chad brooded in his hospital bed as Terry finished her chores and exited the room with a half-smile. He wished death upon the cop who had stopped him. He wished death upon the judge who helped perpetuate the scam that cops and judges all across the nation have going. He wished death upon their families, and he would have gladly executed all of them himself if he had the strength. And he would have wished death upon the sorry son of a bitch that had planted the needle, but Chad was certain that that person’s death was already scheduled to be slow and painful, if it hadn’t already happened. Chad knew that their deaths would not cure him, but as far as he was concerned, they were all accomplices in his murder. His heart grew darker still.

CHAPTER VII

Nurse Janet and Mitzi Titzi walked easily through the automatic doors of the hospital and out into a colorfully lit autumn day. The girls engaged in small talk as they walked through the parking lot to where Janet’s car was parked. Mitzi was at ease with talking to the other girl, and indeed, was actually quite comfortable with the situation. She was pretty open to what life brought her way, as long as it was mostly pleasant, and in fact she loved to meet new people. Even though she had been through a scare the night before, it wasn’t the first time she had had a bad trip, and she fancied that this day was something she could look back on a year from now, and have a nice laugh about. Here she was wearing a pair of hospital slippers, and getting into a car with a girl she had just met. Mitzi was accustomed to having little odd-ball adventures like this. Janet, on the other hand, was not so spontaneous. She was more accustomed to playing it safe; leaving the ‘spontaneous adventures’ for others. Even now, she was not sure what had possessed her to offer a ride to the uninhibited Mitzi, and it was probably going to require some quiet time alone for her to sort out her feelings. But any awkwardness or discomfort of the moment was over-powered by feelings of excitement – the excitement mingled with fear that one feels when they are getting onto a roller coaster that they have never before been on; only for Janet, it was also sexual. She did not understand this at all, and even tried again to deny it to herself, though her clitoris tingled when she saw how Mitzi’s breasts bounced as she drove the car over the speed bumps exiting the parking lot. “So, where shall I take you, Miriam,” asked Janet, addressing her with the name that she had gotten from the medical records for Miriam Hudson. “Oh, please,” said the large breasted girl, “My good friends call me Mimi.” “Sure,” said Janet. She liked that name better, too. She did not yet know about the dancer’s stage name. “How long have you lived in Portland, Janet?” “Forever.” “Really? Me too!” chattered Mimi. “What high school did you go to?” “Benson,” answered Janet. “I should have known,” Mimi said, smiling slyly. “I went to Franklin.” (Benson Polytechnic was known throughout the metro for its brainy student body, while Franklin High School was infamous for all of its discipline cases). “I should have known,” thought Janet, and then the thought was chased out of her head by another intriguing fancy – What did Mimi look like in high school? Did she always have those amazing boobs? Somehow Mimi read her thoughts. “No, I didn't have these puppies in high-school, if that's what you're wondering,” she said. “They were big, but not this big. I started developing at about ten, and by the time I was thirteen they were ‘Double D’. Naturally, I was teased by all of the boys. Unfortunately, they started sagging really bad so I figured ‘what the heck’ and I had them done when I was eighteen. Most people think they're way too big, but what do you think?” Janet blushed, and in trying to give the question due consideration could not help but to look at the enormous breasts. Yesterday she would have agreed that they were way too big, outlandish, maybe even grotesque, but not now. Right now amidst all of her confusion and feelings that she did not understand, she couldn't get over her notion that they were the most beautiful breasts she had ever seen. In a flush Janet surrendered to her confusion by answering honestly. “I – I think they're beautiful.” Mimi's sly smile broadened a little. “By the way, we’re going down town. Would you like to do lunch? ” “Sure,” said Janet, feeling suddenly relieved and more at ease. There! She had been honest and Mimi was OK with it. “So, how long have you been bi-curious?” asked Mimi. Apparently along with talking about her breasts she enjoyed toying with people and being provocative. Hearing Mimi use the term bi-curious almost shocked Janet back into her normal ultra-conservative mode of operation. She had never been called bi-curious, and the term held some negative connotations for her. But when she looked at Mimi and realized for the one hundredth time that day that she was sexually attracted to the large breasted amazon, her honesty took over again, and another wave of relief flooded over her as she said, “Since I first saw you.” It seemed like the kind of line that she would say to a cute guy, but she did not blush or try to retract the statement. She was feeling more at ease now, and did not care about the confusion she had felt. Little Nurse Janet was coming out of her shell and it felt good. “I'm bi-curious!” she thought, and she looked and smiled at Mimi, and liked it. “I think you're beautiful, too,” said Mimi, smiling, and Janet had a sudden urge to stop the car and give the beautiful amazon a passionate kiss. Alas, such an urge was so new to Janet that she quelled it even before she had had the chance to be shocked by it, but not before she had been able to enjoy it. The girls ate lunch at Maya’s Tacqueria. For Janet, it felt like a first date. She paid for both of them, though Mimi insisted on paying her back, inviting the nurse out to the Bare Cage for that night’s show. “Just watch out for the perverts,” she warned, laughing. Janet drove to the Bare Cage where Mimi's Toyota Celica still sat parked. “Thanks, Janet,” said Mimi, “for everything.” And she leaned over and kissed the speechless nurse lightly on the cheek. “I hope I see you again soon.” “Me, too.” Janet's voice cracked, and she felt that wave of emotion again. She knew it wasn't rational, but she felt the need to cry for a second time that day. The girls hadn’t even exchanged phone numbers, and Janet couldn’t decide if that was a bad thing or good! Janet couldn't take her eyes off of Miriam, aka Mimi, aka Mitzi Titzi, as the busty dancer got into her own car. But as she drove her car out of the parking lot of the Bare Cage, and began to make her way home through downtown, Janet’s old pessimistic, ‘rational,’ inner voice began to shout out like before, and push the exciting and romantic thoughts that she had been entertaining for the last hour out of her head. She couldn't rationally explain the feelings that she had had in the presence of Mimi, and she began to write them off. “It was just a strange fluke,” she thought. “I probably just need some rest. And I won't be going out there to that Bare Cage anytime soon.” But something deep down inside of her rejected the thought of that, and she knew that she had to go to the Bare Cage. The thought of never seeing Mimi again seemed somehow absurdly out of the question.

CHAPTER VIII

“All rise!” bellowed the bailiff after standing silently for more than a minute waiting for the people in the buzzing crowd to give him their collective attention, like the dean before a school assembly. There was the rustling of bodies as everyone obeyed the directive. “This court is now in session; the Honorable Travis Noonan presiding!” The hulking, black-robed form of Travis Noonan entered into the front of the courtroom through that special door that leads from the recesses of the Judge’s chambers. He stepped up to the tall dais that is a podium, a pulpit, and a pedestal, and that is so reverently referred to in law as the ‘bench.’ With a quick motion he signaled the bailiff to issue the ‘please be seated’ command. There was nothing overly particular about this courtroom except, perhaps, for its size. There was the grand American flag, sporting its ornate gold fringe signifying wartime, standing behind and just to the right of the judge on his platform. To the left of the judge stood the dark blue flag of the Great State of Oregon, hiding within its folds an elaborately embroidered beaver, the official state animal. Windows along one wall helped the room’s occupants stay abreast of the passing time of the day outside. A long table sat on the floor in front of and perpendicular to the judge’s bench. Sitting on one side of the table, and encumbering it with a mountain of files and papers was the prosecutor, Doug Sutton. Next to him, and helping with the avalanche was the court clerk, Bonnie Smith. Across from the pair sat F. Gregory Peterson, still fresh from law school and ready to act as legal counsel for anyone who wished it; he was the public defender. At the far end of the table, in lieu of a stenographer, sat a decrepit, old cassette tape recorder; one of those old flat, black jobs from the days before boom-boxes. Two bailiffs stood ready to execute the judge’s every order. The courtroom was over-sized so that it could accommodate large crowds, and today it was filled to capacity. Not for any drama-filled, high-profile court case mind you – nothing that exciting. This afternoon was docketed for arraignments. So the courtroom was filled to overflowing with an eclectic selection of Portlanders from many, but not all, walks of life. None of the people appeared to be upper-middle class or rich. But then, the well-off never attend arraignments – their lawyers do. For that reason, in addition to the scores of average Americans seated nervously in the cramped pews, there were, sitting toward the front as if privileged, two rows of attorneys. They would all be taken care of first so as not to keep them from their busy work-a-day schedules and their billable time. Judge Noonan got right down to business. After dispensing with all of the cases being handled by representation, he then launched into his standard spiel to all of the laymen present about “how the arraignment process works. I’m gonna go down the list alphabetically and bring each of you before the court one at a time. I will read the charges against you and then you will enter a plea. This is not a trial, only an arraignment, so the only thing you need to say at this time is ‘guilty’ or ‘not guilty.’ If you enter a plea of guilty then I will proceed with sentencing. If you enter a plea of not guilty then we will schedule a future court date for you. Greg Peterson, the court appointed defense attorney, is available to act as counsel for those of you who require it, but who can not afford legal representation.” After coming off as a hard ass, Noonan stopped. His stern face softened and he smiled benevolently over the crowd, putting them at ease. These people were, after all, the blood of America – the voting public! They had put him on the bench, or at least so they thought. The big man’s gaze fell on a particular man with short dark hair and hip, angular sideburns cutting to points across his cheekbones seated among the crowd. Noonan examined the docket for a moment and then announced with a smile, “Today, for kicks, we’re going to do the alphabet backwards starting with the Z’s. I will call out several names; please form a line and be ready so we can proceed with dispatch. This court will adjourn at seven and anyone left will have to go down the hall to Judge Wright’s court to be arraigned. I would like to get as many of you done as I can before that time. OK?” he added cheerfully, as if all of those waiting middle-class Americans were just so glad to be there. “OK!” he said again, and he began to rattle off names. Before long, Noonan had the arraignments flowing through the court system like a well-oiled machine on an assembly line. One right after another…. “Gary Worth? You’ve been charged with driving 65 miles per hour in a 55 mile an hour speed zone; how do you plead?” “Guilty, your honor.” “Well, Mr. Worth, since its only 10 over, I’m gonna reduce it from speeding to a faulty equipment charge, a non-moving violation. Watch that speedometer next time!” “Thank you, your honor.” “Pay your fine and court costs to the clerk.” “Thank you, your honor!” Rap! with the gavel. Cha-Ching! “Mister Ron Wilson, you are charged with reckless driving; how do you plead?” “N-not guilty, sir.” “Court date’s set for June 3. Do you need counsel?” “Yessir.” “Please leave your information with Mr. Peterson.” He’d never beat the rap. Future Cha-Ching! “Glenda Williamson?” “That’s me, your honor,” said the next person in line, an elderly lady. “You’ve been charged with not coming to a full and complete stop at a stop sign; how do you plead?” “Well, your honor, I could see around – ” “Never mind,” interrupted Noonan, not out of rudeness. “Mr. Sutton, the file here shows that Ms. Williamson has a clean driving record, no accidents. I think we’d be fine to toss this one out, don’t you think?” Sutton cleared his throat, “I think the county can overlook it this time.” “Very good!” said Noonan. “Ms. Williamson, you can pay court costs and then you will be free to go.” Rap! again with the gavel. Cha-Ching! “Sam Wallace?” “Yes, your honor.” “You’re charged with driving 60 miles per hour in a 45 mile an hour speed zone. How do you plead?” The respondent cleared his throat. “Ahem. Your honor, I have to throw myself upon the mercy of the court.” Noonan stared down at the young long-haired man with a look of incredulity. “What? Are you guilty?” “No, sir, but I’m from out of town. I’m just a poor musician on the road. I’m just passing through town. There is no way I can attend a court date in June. I don’t care about the fine; I just can’t afford increased insurance premiums.” “So you’re pleading a hardship case?” It was more of a statement. “Yeah, I guess so,” responded the respondent. “Normally, in such a case you would retain counsel to appear on your behalf, and if you couldn’t afford counsel we’d put Mr. Greg Peterson on the case. But if Mr. Sutton has no argument, I’ll reduce it a faulty equipment charge so there won’t be any points on your driving record and let you outa here with fine and court costs.” “Fine with me,” growled Sutton resignedly. “OK then,” said the judge and he added confidentially, “You’ll have to plead guilty to the charge of operating a motor vehicle with faulty equipment.” “Oh! Yeah! Guilty, your honor.” “Pay fine and court costs.” Rap! went the gavel. Cha-Ching! Cha-Ching! “Ms. Jennifer Von?” “Yes, your honor.” “You’re charged with driving 22 miles per hour in a 15 mile an hour school zone; how do you plead?” “Guilty, your honor.” “Fine is set at the max legal limit plus court costs. Ms. Von, you should know better – don’t let it happen again!” Rap! Cha-Ching! Cha-Ching!! And so it went, person after person; Noonan popped ‘em out like ‘Donalds burgers. Doug Sutton and Bonnie Smith could hardly keep up. Cha-Ching! At one point a very young kid stood for arraignment escorted by two juvenile detention officers. “Robert Verrier, this says here that you are being charged with operating a motor vehicle without a license,” Noonan said sternly. “These are some very serious charges for a young man like yourself. How do you plead, young man?” “Guilty, your honor.” The kid looked as if he might burst into tears. Noonan couldn’t help but notice the middle-aged couple sitting near the front that had leaned forward to the edge of their seats when he had first called the teenager’s name. He said, “You must be the parents?” The father said respectfully, “Yes, your honor.” Noonan continued back at the young man, “And it looks as though you’ve already spent some time in juvenile lock-up.” “Yessir,” came the timid reply. “I don’t think I need to tell you that your decision to break the laws of this state could affect your driving status for many years to come.” Noonan then turned to the prosecutor. “Mr. Sutton, this young man doesn’t seem to have the look of a hardened criminal. I think he’s paid his debt to society. I think if we throw this one out, we won’t have to worry about seeing him in here again.” “That’s fine,” muttered Sutton. He was still finishing the paperwork from two cases back. Noonan could dismiss the rest of them for all he cared at the moment. “Case dismissed,” said Noonan grandly and added, “and, pay court costs.” Rap! Cha-Ching! Finishing the rest of the V’s, and then plowing through the U’s, the T’s, and into the S’s, the arraignments were whipping along like a whirlwind. It had only been thirty minutes! Cha-Ching! Cha-Ching!! Cha! Ching!!! Presently, the man with the cool sideburns was standing before the judge. He was handcuffed and escorted by a female cop. “Mr. Manuel Stanley? You’ve been charged with possession of narcotics with the intent to sell. How do you plead?” “Not guilty, your honor,” said Stanley. Noonan frowned as he appeared to be looking over some documents. Finally he said, “Mr. Stanley, this is your second arrest on charges of this nature, so I’m inclined to let the system run its course over you. I’m tough on drug pushers, and if you are found guilty of these charges I would sanction the maximum penalty allowable by law. Would you care to change you plea?” Stanley looked sufficiently scared and humbled. “You honor, its true that I was carrying some heroin, but it really wasn’t that much. I don’t sell; I just use – occasionally! I’m trying to get help, your honor.” Noonan’s familiar benevolent smile softened his stern face. “Well, it has been over a year since your prior arrest, and there is no evidence to support the allegations that you have been selling drugs. Perhaps I can convince Mr. Sutton to reduce your charges to from this minor felony to a misdemeanor, then we can get back to spending our time prosecuting the real criminals.” “That might depend on how much heroin the defendant was carrying,” said Sutton. “Being an opiate, I think that we would –” Noonan interrupted, “My docket is too full to be splitting hairs over this.” The prosecutor was a little surprised, but he had learned a long time ago to go along with whatever the judge said. “The state is willing to drop charges of intent to sell, but maintains the charges of possession.” The female cop acting as custodian over Stanley coughed in shock and made a small noise that communicated her displeasure. She had waited all this time for nothing! “Mister Stanley, you are willing to plead guilty to the charge of possession?” “Yes, your honor.” “Fine! Fine set at two thousand dollars,” said the magnanimous judge and he gave the gavel an effectual rap. “Uh, Mr. Stanley! Don’t let me see you in this court again. Pay fine and court costs and get outa here.” Cha-Ching!! CHA-CHING!!! When seven o’clock finally rolled around, there were only thirty-some people left to be arraigned. Noonan directed them down the hall to the courtroom where the Honorable Perry Wright still presided. Wright hid his displeasure at having to take on Noonan’s leftovers. There was no love lost between the two judges. But Noonan couldn’t be bothered with any of that right now. He had a very important and potentially profitable dinner meeting with the rich and eccentric Jimmy Bechard. Noonan practically tiptoed back down the ambient marble-floored hallway and poked his head into the office of F. Gregory Peterson. “You ready to rock-n-roll, counselor?” Travis Noonan was a big man who thought of himself as a big man. He had a large middle and an oversized head with a thick mat of beautiful black hair that fairly invaded his forehead. Notwithstanding his fabulous hair line, he looked quite a bit older than he was. Physically he was heavy, and politically he loved to throw his weight around whenever he could. Law school, a stint as a public defender, then prosecutor, then District Attorney, then circuit court judge, and now, while still serving on the bench, Judge Noonan had received an appointment to a city council position. At thirty-seven years old he had a lot of friends, even more enemies, and just enough power to feel like he could be considered a big fish in the Portland metro pond. Little F. Gregory Peterson was an upstart public defender with less than one year out of law school and big political ambitions. He was fit and waspy, for now, and probably a little more fine-looking than he fancied himself. F. Gregory looked up to Noonan and was obviously feeling stoked beyond his comprehension to have been invited to a dinner meeting with such powerful company. He knew that if he played his cards right, tonight could be a turning point in his career. The two men exited the side door of the courthouse. Spread before them next to the curb was a sparkling white stretch-limo. The chauffer opened the rear door and the men entered the spacious rear compartment. Noonan enjoyed riding in limos; it was something that powerful people did. Unfortunately, this limo wasn’t his. The limousine belonged to Jimmy Bechard, the wise, old, and sometimes cantankerous gentleman that owned large chunks of real estate all around the metro area and beyond. Jimmy was a Portland native and had worked his way up from nothing; a real self- made man. Noonan didn’t like to admit it, but the support he had received from Jimmy Bechard was largely the reason he had been given his appointments. Bechard had fueled the rocket boosters that had propelled Noonan up in his political career so high in such a short time. In return, Noonan had been compelled to use the power of his positions to help the rich old dude achieve some of his own ends. So the politician and the wannabe politician were meeting this night with the rich real estate developer. Noonan had had plenty of meetings like this in his illustrious career. This was Peterson’s first. And old Jimmy…. Well, who knows what kind of shifty stunts he had pulled in his lifetime. Noonan, an avid cigar smoker, was feeling jovial and generous. He pulled out a couple of the long hog-legs and offered one to Peterson. He knew better than to offer one to Bechard, or to light up in the limo. He just wanted to put it in his mouth. Peterson looked hesitantly at the offering. “It’s OK. Take it,” said Noonan. “These are Davidoff Grand Cru #2’s. They’re made in the Dominican Republic. They’re perfectly legal.” Peterson didn’t particularly like cigars, but he was a faithful follower and he worked hard to stay ‘in’ with the crowd. He deposited the cigar in his suit pocket. The white limo pulled up outside of the US Bancorp Tower. Because of the coolness of the autumn evening Jimmy Bechard opened the door himself and held it for his two guests, allowing his driver to stay seated. Ungracefully, Noonan emerged from the back of the limo and moved his bulk towards the east entrance of one of Portland’s tallest buildings. Tonight, Bechard would be treating the other two men to dinner at Noonan’s favorite restaurant – Dino’s Bistro, located high above downtown on the top floor of the ‘Big Pink’ Tower. You just can’t beat the view of the river and the metro from up there. It is breathtaking! Noonan was quite anxious to get up there, and he was also quite anxious to order and eat. He very much enjoyed eating – the more expensive the food, the better it tasted to him, and at fifty plus dollars a plate, Dino’s was clearly the best, whether it really tasted better or not! Noonan walked ahead of the other two men and nodded arrogantly at the security guard behind the desk. He turned to see the how his dinner companions were progressing, and suddenly saw someone that he hadn’t noticed before. The person appeared to Travis Noonan to be some kind young homeless street punk and he seemed to be leaning against the wall for support. His long brown hair appeared greasy, matted, and mussed, and it covered his face. His disheveled clothing was filthy but showed few signs of wear. Noonan wondered how he had missed the young street kid walking into the building. The large judge turned to the security guard and gestured back down the vestibule. “You may want to do something about that,” he said. The security guard, a young red-neck whose name badge read Troy Bennett looked up and peered in the direction of Noonan’s gesture. He saw only Bechard and Peterson as they entered the building. “What is it, sir?” he asked with genuine concern. Noonan turned back around and stared at where the homeless kid had been just a second before. “You didn’t see him?” asked the politician. “It was some street urchin junkie right over there.” Noonan gestured. “He must have ducked into an elevator.” The security guard stood up and walked around from behind his station. “I’ll take care of this.” Certainly, he was probably dying for a little action. But Troy the Security Guard didn’t find anything in the vicinity, or anywhere else – no sign of any bums. He walked back to his station looking slightly disappointed. “I’ll signal the other stations to be on the alert,” he said to Noonan, as if the fat man cared. Undoubtedly, he had become a security guard just so that he would be able to someday say such a line. Noonan walked back to Bechard and Peterson, and the three men stepped into one of the waiting elevator cars that went to the upper floors. The twelve elevators at the US Bancorp Tower, like many other tall buildings, were separated into three groups. One of three went to floors two through seventeen, and the other two groups skipped the first seventeen floors, and provided access to all of the levels above. Dino’s Bistro was located on a mezzanine above the forty-first floor. The elevator car accelerated, and then zipped very quickly by the first twenty floors. This was the only part about going to Dino’s that Noonan didn’t like. He loved the view from the top of Big Pink, sure, but this elevator ride was not easy on his stomach. The deceleration felt even worse! Peterson was still young enough to love this. He hadn’t yet become used to the paths and habits of the powerful and affluent. Noonan spied the young attorney shifting the weight on his feet just like a little kid as the car slowed to a stop. And Bechard just stood there casually taking in all of the experience. He seemed to be open to whatever happened. But for a man so laid back, he certainly had done well for himself. Noonan wondered which the old man had come by first – his devil- may-care attitude or his financial success. Actually, to call Bechard old wasn’t exactly right. Sure, he was somewhere around seventy or so, but Noonan had to admit that the older man was in better physical condition than he was. Bechard stood tall, straight, solid, broad-shouldered, and his well-built chest still stuck out further than his gut. He seemed to be in fairly perfect health and his face exuded vitality. The old man was a bit of a radical with his longish, thinning grey hair. Hell, he obviously did whatever the hell he wanted, and answered to no one. Noonan couldn’t help but be envious. But the judge had something that he preferred to freedom. He had power! When he barked, someone jumped. He could make or break careers. A word from him, support for or against a particular issue, and he could help or hinder men like Bechard to the tune of millions! And Noonan always got his cut. He who has the gold….. The elevator doors opened, letting the men out into a lavish foyer. Beautiful paintings hung on the wall. At the end of the room was a wide staircase, from which the men could hear light jazz piano music. Bechard climbed the stairs easily, followed by the only slightly winded Noonan. Peterson knew his place in the rear. The maitre d’ recognized Noonan and Bechard, “Good evening, Mr. Bechard, Judge Noonan. How are you gentlemen this evening?” “Just great, Sam,” said Jimmy, extending his hand. “How are y’all doin’?” “Very well, thank you for asking,” said Sam, smiling genuinely as he shook Jimmy’s hand “We have your usual table ready.” “Great, Sam. Let’s get to it!” said the older man. “That’s so like Bechard,” thought Noonan as he spied the old man’s trademark burn scar that snaked down his fore-arm and formed a band of gnarled flesh around his wrist. “He glad-hands more than any politician.” Indeed, Noonan had often seen the old man schmoozing with people so far below him in social status that the politician had wondered where the gain in it had been for the shrewd investor. It’s not as if the old real estate mogul had ambitions of public service after all. What Noonan did not know was that Bechard would gladly shake hands with anyone whose hands were clean. The old man had a mild germ phobia and disliked soiled hands. The story of Jimmy Bechard’s rise to and fall from and rise again to wealth wasn’t as well known among the general society as was his meager origins. Orphaned at a young age, Bechard had actually run away from the orphanage when he was only twelve. He had probably been one of Portland’s first street kids. Not being conventionally educated, his success had come from lots of hard work and learning from mistakes made the hard way. Dino’s Bistro was decorated mostly in cream colors with gold trim. The lighting was very soft so that there would be little reflective glare off the big windows after dark. And through those big windows could be seen the splendid lights of downtown Portland, the Willamette River and its amazing bridges. A white grand piano sat in the corner, where a beautiful woman played, filling the room with various light piano musical numbers. The three men chatted only a little as they were seated. Sam the Maitre D’ proceeded to fuss about preparing the table to perfection. Noonan and Peterson both ordered wine while Bechard was brought his customary orange juice and water. “He’s rich. He’s entitled to be eccentric,” thought F. Gregory Peterson. Presently, they were served dinner. The two younger men looked on curiously as Bechard, after having eaten only a few bites of his food, retrieved two capsules from a flat container inside his suit pocket, and swallowed them with a gulp of his watered down orange juice. No doubt, it was important medication that was extremely necessary for the old man to take. Bechard noticed them watching and said, “Food enzyme supplements. I highly recommend ‘em.” “Eccentric old coot,” thought Noonan. The judge wolfed his dinner down as if it might be the last meal he would ever enjoy. It was so-o-o-o-o good! Bechard ate his meal very slowly, enjoying it. Poor Peterson ate, but mostly just sat there in awe of the two other men, and his wondrous affluent surroundings. Finally, Bechard said, “Well, gentlemen, let’s talk business.” Bechard then quietly outlined to the politician and the wannabe his plans to develop ten small acres of land that he had acquired. The land was just south of downtown, near the river, and Bechard had pieced it together from acquisitions of several defunct or moved industrial businesses. “Industry is moving away from that area,” said the conniving old man. “As you both know, it’s expanding up the river from Swan Island to the north. However, I still anticipate some resistance getting the zoning on my development changed.” Peterson cringed. He had only heard of this sort of thing, and the thought of it made him very nervous. His eyes shifted around the restaurant. “Relax, junior,” said Jimmy. “We ain’t breakin’ any laws…yet!” He smiled and chuckled and Noonan joined him in his little joke. Bechard then went on to explain that in addition to changing the zoning from industrial to a complex combination of multi- family residential and commercial, he would also need exemption from a particular city ordinance that restricted the heights of certain structures in the area. Without going into detail, he described the end result being the development of a beautiful upper- class neighborhood centered around luxurious high-rise condominiums and a shopping plaza with a supermarket and a department store. Noonan shook his head. “There must be a good reason for that structure height restriction ordinance to be on the books.” Jimmy nodded. “You both know Councilman Freeman?” The other two men nodded and Noonan said, “Of course. He’s been the longest running member on the city council. He’s been on board for over twenty years.” “Twenty-four to be exact,” Bechard stated. “And his Daddy was a council stiff before him, back in the sixties when I didn’t even have a pot to piss in. His Dad built that big house just off of Corbett Avenue where Freeman Junior lives now. It was Freeman Senior that pushed for the structure height ordinance in the seventies. He was pissed enough that he had to look down on an industrial area. He’d be damned if there was going to be anything tall enough to block his view of the river. It was his hope that the ordinance would stifle industrial growth in that zone, and that the city would eventually re-zone. So Freeman will be in favor of re-zoning and he’ll probably work with me on that measure. But I’m sure that he’ll be my biggest opposition to getting that ordinance repealed. Actually, I don’t care if the ordinance is repealed or not – I just want my property properly exempted from it. To blazes with Freeman’s view of the river.” The old man smiled a charming, but cold smile. “Why do you want to go to the trouble of developing residential?” asked Noonan. “Migration from California to the area has slowed and they’re not predicting a lot of growth for the next few years.” “Judge, you just stick to playing ball and leave the real estate analyzing to me,” said Bechard. Noonan didn’t like being snubbed, but he held his tongue. One of these days, however, he was going to have to get something on the old man. Actually, he did have a lot of shit on Jimmy Bechard, but it was also shit on himself. In truth, the politician was just pissed because for all of his local power, he still held no sway over Bechard. He didn’t really care for the old man, but Bechard’s deals had done more to make Noonan rich and powerful than any of his other ventures. Even now, Noonan had to admit that he owed his position to Bechard’s influence. It wasn’t being called upon to help out with reforming certain city ordinances that bothered Noonan; it was constantly being beholden to Bechard that so chafed the politician’s ass. Soon, though, Noonan would rise beyond the old man in political power. Noonan had his eye on the Governor’s Mansion. He wanted that power so bad he could just about feel it stroking his genitals. Bechard could help his campaign all he wanted; the old man’s help would be of little consequence on this one. The politician had learned from years of experience what it took to win over the public, and he had a plan – a diabolical plan, maybe, but, if you want to make an omelet….. Bechard finished up by explaining how all three of them could get what they each wanted if the other two men would only use a bit of their influence to get a few small things changed down at city hall. The old man described how he would use his own influence and money to get little F. Gregory his position on the city council, something that the young attorney wanted very badly, but was hesitant to acquire in this fashion. Bechard also promised both men healthy financial bonuses, and there was no doubt in either man that the old real estate developer could deliver. Peterson stilled looked wary. He had known upon receiving the invitation to dinner that the opportunity would be something big, but he hadn’t anticipated something so sleazy. “You’re talking about graft!” he said. “Straight up graft. I just don’t know about this….” “I thought you wanted to be a politician,” said Bechard. “Well, how do you think politicians survive in this world? Let me tell you something, junior. It’s a dog-eat-dog world out there. Darwin’s theory that the strong survive and the weak are digested is as true today as it ever was, it’s just being interfered with by silly laws made by politicians. Peterson, politicians are the weak, and the only reason they’re not dead is because they’ve passed laws making it illegal for the strong to kill them! Politicians don’t do anything for society. They don’t produce or create anything of value for the world. Politicians are all a bunch of greedy, power-hungry, blood-sucking parasites on society, and quite frankly, we’d all be better off without ‘em. But as long as John Q. Public keeps on buying the line of shit that we need ‘em, then they’re going to be around, and that’s the system that men like myself have to work with. So, do you still want to be a politician? Welcome to public office, junior. I’ve looked at your credentials. I know you have what it takes to go far.” F. Gregory Peterson’s seventy dollar dinner threatened to reappear on the table. He was a conscientious man who had attended law school with lofty ideals and splendid aspirations of acquiring and using his law degree to be a champion of justice and defend the weak and poor, etcetera, etcetera. As much as the money appealed to his greed, Bechard had with his tirade forever tarnished young Peterson’s perception of the ‘most benevolent’ political system. Of course, Peterson had always been aware of the existence of corruption in politics, but this was the first time that it had reached up with its slimy, gnarled hand and touched him. Noonan, of course, had heard Bechard’s rantings many times before. It was just another reason for him to not like the old man. But it just didn’t matter. Playing ball and putting up with the old man was always profitable. And it was common for Bechard to invite Noonan on these recruitment dinners. The politician knew what his exact function on a dinner like this was. He would not say anything contrary to Bechard. He would let the crooked old man carry on and blow this deal on his own. The young public defender finally spoke. “I’m sorry Mr. Bechard, but I really can’t have any part of this. Not only is it totally illegal, it’s also completely unethical. I see the development of such real estate into high-cost, luxury housing as furthering the distance in the rift between the rich and the poor. With so many people in the city already barely able to afford rent, I think it would be more beneficial for the city to develop low-cost housing close to downtown and –” Bechard held up two fingers in a gesture to stop the young attorney. “Whoa there, sonny, you’ve got it ass-backward. And I don’t have time to re-school you about real estate, politics, and a free market economy. Let me just put it this way – you want the value of your own home to go up, right?” “Sure I do,” answered the young Peterson. “Sure you do,” echoed Bechard. “So would you be in support of government assisted housing in your neighborhood?” Peterson understood immediately the old man’s point, but he wasn’t yet convinced, nor was he ready to concede; not by a long shot! “But we’ve got to have low-cost housing somewhere.” Bechard scowled. “We do? Have you been through any low-income neighborhoods? Any that you would be willing to live in?” Peterson took the questions as rhetorical. He didn’t know how to answer anyway. Noonan, wanting no part of this little side conversation, looked deeply into his glass of wine. Bechard continued, “And just what do the low-income and especially the government subsidized neighborhoods look like?” Again Peterson let the question hang in the air as rhetorical, letting the old man continue to rant. “There all trashed, right?” Bechard posed. “And do you know why?” Peterson decided to jump on that one. “Because the government isn’t budgeting enough money to keep them up.” Bechard smiled to calm himself. “What the hell did they teach you in law school, junior? Those neighborhoods are trashed and sporting low property values because the people that are living in them rent free do not appreciate them. Government subsidized housing has shown us time and again that the welfare program only serves to worsen the problem for the people that it is supposedly trying to help, while increasing the tax burden on the rest of us, not to mention flushing property values straight down the crapper! At the same time, the reclamation of North Portland is a great example of what can happen to a rundown neighborhood when you stop government subsidized housing.” “Yes, but that reclamation also displaced a lot of people who can’t afford to live there anymore,” Peterson shot back. “They’ve been forced to move further out of town. Now they have longer distances to commute to work.” “Maybe,” said Bechard. “But they’ve got MAX and one of the finest public transportation systems anywhere to help with the commute, also government subsidized I might add.” “So, are you suggesting that we just forget about the poor and let them go homeless if they can’t afford housing?” Peterson retorted hotly. The old man’s lack of compassion for the plight of the poor caused the young attorney to shudder. “The cure for this problem is education, something you obviously need more of properly! But that’s an entirely different pie.” Bechard said. “Listen, Peterson, here is the bottom line – my plan is take a chunk of land, make it beautiful, increase its value, and then sell it. I’ll make a profit doing that, but then, that is what I do. The amount of money that I make on the deal will be commensurate with the amount of work that I do and the risk that I take – no more, no less. Meanwhile, you get launched into your political career, Noonan becomes Governor, and we all make a small fortune.” Bechard then slipped Peterson a folded slip of paper. The young attorney opened it as if he was looking at a poker hand. The amount of money written on it stunned him. It was exactly double the amount of his gross annual income. For a moment, Peterson weighed the possibilities. He could pay cash for a new car for Laura, his wife. Send their future children to private school. Pay down the mortgage on the house and the student loans. The possibilities listed on and on in little F. Gregory’s head. Surely, he could put the extra money to good use helping the poor. And if he went along with this he would be in with the great Jimmy Bechard. That thought was suddenly very comforting, especially as Peterson had to admit that everything Bechard had said sounded logical; cold maybe, blunt, even harsh, but logical. Sensing an abrupt change of heart in Peterson, Noonan thought, “Well, I’ll be damned. Bechard’s going to pull it off after all.” Bechard might have been a cantankerous old coot, but you couldn’t argue with his bottom line. “I’d like to think about it,” said the young attorney, his voice cracking with excitement. “You do that,” said Bechard. “I’m gonna go to the washroom.” After Jimmy was out of sight Noonan said, “Quite a piece of work, huh Peterson?” “Yeah,” the younger man breathed, overwhelmed. “Why me? Is he going to ruin my career if I don’t take the deal?” “Bechard doesn’t really have the power to ruin you career,” said Noonan. “But you will want to keep this all to yourself if choose not to deal.” “I just don’t understand where he comes off pulling stuff like this,” said a very confused Peterson. “Oh, he’s not really a bad guy,” said Noonan. “He was orphaned at a young age. You kind of have to excuse him.” Presently Bechard returned and Noonan excused himself to go to the bathroom. The old man gestured at the left over filet mignon and marsala sauce on Peterson’s plate. “You gonna eat that?” Surprised at Bechard’s casual air, Peterson paused a second before shaking his head. “Uh, no. Help yourself.” “Thanks,” said Bechard reaching for the plate. “Let me get that for you.” The young man suddenly had an image of a very young Jimmy Bechard, growing up in an orphanage or a foster home, living with one of life’s ultimate losses – the death and absence of loved ones. Perhaps the old man knew a little more about being poor than Peterson had originally thought. He decided that he had to know. He cleared his throat, “Uh, Noonan tells me that you lost your parents at young age?” Bechard nodded. “Yeah. Died in a hotel fire. I was barely old enough to remember them. I would have died in the fire myself but I was rescued. Do you remember the name Edward Parker? He was a real estate developer here in Portland in the thirties. A great man! He died to save me from the fire.” Bechard frowned involuntarily, to mask his emotion. “And that’s why I’ve dedicated my life to making Portland a more beautiful city in which to live.” Peterson was awestruck. He suddenly saw the cantankerous old real estate mogul in a different light – could it be….respect? “Uh, Mr. Bechard, if you ever do get the time, I would like to – um, that is, I would appreciate being properly educated about real estate and the free market economy.” Jimmy Bechard smiled broadly and laughed softly. “Sure, Greg. I’d be glad to.” Noonan returned and saw Bechard munching on the leftovers. “You can always count on Jimmy Bechard – the human garbage disposal.” “I’m just trying to get big, like Travis.” Bechard gave Peterson a sly wink. “But actually I just hate waste. It wasn’t that long ago that I wasn’t even able to afford ketchup to put on my beans. I never forget the lean times.” The large politician again let the jab slide. There was no damage to his image in Peterson’s eyes with that statement. Still, he would love to watch Bechard fall. Again! It was only a matter of time. A fool and his money….. “That’s amazing, sir, if I may say so,” said the young attorney. “It’s hard to imagine you without – uh, with – uh, you know, living in lack.” “Call me Jimmy,” said Bechard. “And yes, I’ve been up and down, and up again, and down again. And when I say down, I’m not talking ‘Donald Trump’ down. I mean really down. Unlike most people, I don’t have a line of unsecured credit. So if I don’t have property, I can’t get a bank loan. Even with property, it’s tough for me to get conventional lending.” Peterson was dumbstruck! He would have thought that a man like Bechard would have a five star credit rating. He asked, “How can that be? Banks will lend to just about anyone nowadays.” Noonan cut in to answer, his words dripping with disdain. “The infamous Jimmy Bechard has no social security number.” “What?” Peterson gasped. “Really? How can that be?” “I know this may surprise you, Greg,” began Bechard, “but I was born in 1930. I wasn’t paying much attention to country affairs when I was five and the Social Security bill was enacted, but even by the time I was going to work as a teenager, most small businesses were still paying ‘under the table’ so to speak. It wasn’t until the end of the big war that banks were requiring social security numbers for accounts. But if you look around, you’ll find a few of us older folks around that can still remember what life was like in this country before all that crap! And we just never fell for it.” “Yep! That’s right,” Noonan put in with noticeable sarcasm. “Our benevolent Mister Bechard has never paid a lick of taxes.” “Hah!” Bechard snorted with indignation. “That is not at all correct!” Peterson was curious. “How do you pay taxes without a Social Security number?” “You own a house, doncha son? What do you think would happen if you didn’t pay your property taxes? Last year I paid out more in property taxes than you and everyone in your entire office were paid in gross salary. Yeah, here’s a little nugget of wisdom from your Uncle Jimmy – you never really own property, you can only lease control of it. “But that’s not all. The lion’s share of the tax burden is bourn by corporate America; the very same outfits that provide you with your home, your car, your electricity, all the goods and services you buy every day. They pay huge sums of money to the government and pass their expenses right on to you. Why do you think that the best way to ‘jump start’ the economy has always been to lower taxes? The closer we get to a free-market economy the better life gets for everyone, poor and rich alike. Could you imagine what life would be like without taxes? The economy would soar through the stratosphere. Goods and services would be available to everyone at a fraction of the current cost. Everyone would live like millionaires!” Bechard was clearly passionate about the idea. “But how would the government operate?” asked the overwhelmed Peterson. “Not my problem! Peterson, Social Security and taxes are the government’s ways of legally stealing from you. Still want to be a political bureaucrat? They’re a contemptible lot, a blight, a scourge! And they should all be strung up right along with religious leaders.” Noonan snapped, “The feeling’s mutual, asshole!” “That’s King Asshole to you!” Bechard bantered, then continued, “Seriously, Greg, think about it hard before you sell your soul to public service. And if you believe nothing else that I’ve said tonight, believe this: There is no other way!! Son, the masses of society may be sheep, it’s true, but even as much as they may bleat for one, they don’t need a shepherd. What they need is proper education and strong business leaders, not political leaders.” “I don’t understand,” said the young, perplexed attorney. “I thought you wanted my help to push your development through.” Bechard smiled. “Tough choice, isn’t it son? It’s true that if you decided not to help for whatever reason, I’d find some other political puppet to use, and they’d get that fat bonus.” Noonan snapped again, “Go to hell, Bechard!” The big elected official was starting to feel his wine. “But,” the old man continued, “If you should decide to go to work in the private sector, working hard, producing, well then, you would never have wont for the paltry amount written on that little slip of paper.” Peterson sat and gazed out at the city lights for a long moment. Paltry amount?! Finally, he said, “Well, I guess I have some thinking to do. If you gentlemen will excuse me, I shall be going.” “That’s fine, Greg,” said Jimmy, extending his hand. “Thanks for your time. My driver will take you home or anywhere you want to go.” “Thanks,” said Peterson. “And thanks for dinner.” Shaking hands with Noonan, he said, “And thank you, Judge.” “Have a nice night….Councilman,” said the judge. “Think about it, but don’t discuss it with your wife.” Peterson exited Dino’s Bistro and walked back down the staircase to the elevators. He pushed the elevator call button and waited. All of the cars must have been on the ground floor. His brain was buzzing with thoughts after the meeting he had just had. His life would be forever changed by this evening, he thought. Peterson suddenly felt very in need of a cigarette. Reaching into his pocket another idea occurred to him. He pulled out the Davidoff. Yes, this occasion called for something a little more sophisticated and decadent than a mere cigarette. Of course, there was the Indoor Clean Air Act prohibiting smoking in a public place, but Peterson was feeling high and excited, confused and overwhelmed. He needed this badly. No one would say anything. He lit the cigar and puffed grandly. Peterson finally felt like he, his wife, and their future family would be taken care of after tonight. Jimmy Bechard believed in him and that was enough to make the young attorney feel empowered. He would take the city council position and the money. He would follow in Travis Noonan’s footsteps. An elevator door opened with a ‘ding’ and Peterson hesitated. He was holding a lit cigar between his teeth! “Oh well, fuck it!” he thought. “There won’t be anyone else using the elevator this time of night.” He stepped inside and pressed the button for the ground floor. It wasn’t until he stepped back from the control panel that he noticed that there was someone else on the elevator. Why hadn’t he seen the man when he had first stepped on? The other passenger was leaning against the other front corner of the elevator car. He was turned away from Peterson, his head lowered. He was absolutely filthy and seemed to be shaking. Peterson immediately assumed that the other person was a homeless man, probably a junkie on a really bad trip. The derelict’s attire showed no signs of wear and tear, but the clothing and its wearer were completely soiled, literally covered in dirt. The young attorney went to put out his cigar, but then thought again. It was just a low-life street punk. He shouldn’t care if someone as far above him as F. Gregory Peterson should be smoking a cigar on an elevator. Peterson preached compassion for the disadvantaged but his sympathies ended abruptly prior to any personal inconvenience. The long-haired street punk raised his head enough to let one dark eye peak through his greasy hair. Peterson began to feel a little apprehensive. It was going to be a long ride back to the ground floor like this. Outwardly he tried to show his nonchalance. He puffed on his Grand Cru. Suddenly, without warning and with heart-stopping speed, like an animal the derelict sprung on the shocked attorney. It happened so fast that Peterson, even if he had had quick reflexes, still would have had no defense. Startled beyond comprehension, he didn’t even cry out. The attacker bit fiercely into the victim’s neck, ripping out a large chuck of flesh and tendon with his mouth while sucking ravenously at the gouts of blood that poured from the wound. Peterson scarcely even knew what happened, fell back against the rear of the elevator, then to the floor with the filthy, wild attacker still on him, and within seconds was dead. The crazed assailant continued to claw and ravage the body as he ate and drank from the lifeless form that had been F. Gregory Peterson. Somewhere around the sixteenth floor, the street punk stopped, and calmed, as if suddenly coming to himself. “Oh shit!” was all that he said. This one was going to be a bitch to clean up!

CHAPTER IX

Dan Jensen was the swing-shift security supervisor for the US Bancorp Tower. He sat at a monitor station inside security headquarters on the second floor. Before him were monitors for each of the one hundred and ninety-two surveillance cameras fixed at various locations throughout the big pink skyscraper. Even though it would have been impossible to monitor all of the cameras at once, the images cycled every three seconds on one of the twenty-four monitor screens. Every single camera was being recorded. The recording apparatus was a complex array of eight multi-track digital video recorders. Very state of the art! Suddenly Dan Jensen was overwhelmed with the desire and urgent need to masturbate. “That’s funny,” he thought. “I haven’t felt this in years!” Working on his third hopeless marriage and his fifth hopeless year of using some kind of hair restorer, Dan was going on thirty-nine years old. He was mostly fit, but he worried that the loss of his sandy, brown hair had ruined whatever looks he had once had. It had been common for him at eighteen, as it is for any normal young man, to suddenly get the urge to jack off. He might have been at work, or class, or even church when the feeling struck. And he, like most other normal boys, would have it handled post haste. But that had stopped sometime around twenty-one. He still masturbated commonly, but it was a lot less spontaneous. However this was beginning to feel like an emergency! “What the fuck!” he thought, and got up from his station feeling quite excellent, and ran to the bathroom. No sooner had he shut the door when his station phone began ringing. Whatever it was, it could wait. Presently, the ringing stopped as Dan wanked furiously. “Must not have been that important,” Dan thought with an air of gratification. He was getting close now. The phone started ringing again. “Shit!” yelled Dan. He didn’t need these distractions. It stopped after four rings, just about the time Dan could be heard exclaiming “Oooh Shit! OH! GOD!!” Dan bolted from the bathroom relieved and fastening his fly, as the phone started ringing for a third set. “What is it?” he barked into the receiver.

On the ground floor security station, Troy Bennett sat diligently at his post. He took his job at the US Bancorp Tower very seriously, maybe too seriously. He was always hoping for a little more action than the average night offered. But his boss believed that too much was better than too little, so Troy was considered a valuable employee. From his station he had a clear view into the corridors for each of the three banks of elevators. At night, all of the cars returned automatically to the ground floor, so it wasn’t unusual for an elevator to ding open and have no one exit from it. And that was just what the third express car had just done. Troy paid it no mind. He thought nothing of it until several minutes later. A man entering the building and walking up the hall to get an elevator stopped and said sickly, “Oh my dear god in heaven!” Troy the Security Guard bolted to see what was so alarming. Inside the elevator car was a horrific mess of bloody limbs and body parts, and even a head! The pieces appeared to have been sawed off right through the clothes. The cuts were mangled and the limbs and pieces were still sporting their respective clothing, sleeves and pants! They had been strewn about in no apparent order and gore was smeared all over the car. “Holy Shit!” whispered Troy, and he felt the gorge rising in his throat. He stood there for only a second before remembering his duty, then he dashed over to his station and hit a 911 police dispatch button. Next he picked up his phone and pressed a hot button to the security office. It rang six times and then cut off. “’The fuck?” exclaimed Troy almost frantically. He jiggled the hang-up switch in the phone’s cradle and pushed the hot button again. This time it cut off after four rings. There was nothing else to do. He had to try again. At last, on the third try, the phone answered. “What is it?!” “Dan! Where the hell have you been? This is Troy on the first floor. I’ve got a dead body!” “What?! Shit! Have you hit the 911?” “Of course,” said Troy the Security Guard. “I followed standard procedure.” “All right. Good job, Troy. I’ll be right down.” Dan was dismayed – his dick sure had bad timing! And it was worse! The surveillance recording system was down somehow!! Heads were going to roll…..

CHAPTER X

“Let me see if I got the facts straight,” said Homicide Detective Darrel Henderson. He was already grumpy from having had another one of his sleepless nights interrupted by this call to investigate a seriously dead body. Carved like a Christmas turkey, the poor bastard. Now he was dealing with typical incompetence from security guards. Actually, it wasn’t really late enough for it to be considered a sleepless night. It was only about 9:30. But he knew already that it was going to be an insomnia-fest anyway. And he was missing ‘Buffy’ damn it! Henderson was a neat man and he kept his short brown hair slicked back, not unattractively. He might have looked a little like Don Johnson and he fancied himself a really cool cop like Crocket. He stood with the group by the lobby security station, Troy Bennett’s post. The detective looked sidelong at a pair of medics carrying out the horribly misshapen body-bag as he continued, “You,” (pointing to Bechard and Noonan) “last saw the victim, one Gregory Peterson at approximately 8:45, when he left Dino’s upstairs. Then you,” (pointing to Troy) “found the body at 8:55, set off the alarm to the police, and called,” (pointing to Dan) “you. Then you, (still pointing at Dan) came down here to the lobby to be present when the authorities arrived. And now,” (still talking at Dan) “in the midst of all the confusion, you realize that there was some kind of malfunction in the surveillance recording system, and now we don’t have a video of the killer. I gotta tell ya’ fellas, that really stinks! It smells very bad!!” Troy was feeling like the hero of the day for reacting so efficiently. Poor Dan looked like he’d just had an accident in his shorts. Travis Noonan could hardly hide his glee over the situation. He had snuck a cell phone call to a contact at KOIN and the press would be arriving any minute. Money couldn’t buy this kind of publicity. And Jimmy Bechard looked highly concerned, and at the moment quite indignant. Bechard hated cops, and authorities in general for that matter. He was only staying there so that he could do what he could to keep things under control. Bechard had a strange fancy that he was the only rational person on the earth, and he certainly didn’t trust the ‘authorities’ to handle things justly, or rationally. He didn’t know about Noonan’s secret phone call, and he had even told the politician not to do anything like that when they had first come down and seen Peterson in pieces. The ‘authorities’ hadn’t yet arrived at that point, and Bechard had taken it upon himself to be the one level head on the scene. Down the hall from them the vestibule was bustling with ‘police’ activity. One investigator was snapping pictures; another was grabbing samples of blood, hair, clothing, dirt and anything else he could find. Cops stood guard at the doors and throughout the lobby. Several cops were just standing and chatting. They really had nothing better to do. Henderson’s boss, a Captain Von Rahal, had already, (and very discretely), warned his underlings to keep their distance from Bechard if they valued their jobs. Gene Miller, Henderson’s faux-partner, looked inside the gore-covered elevator car, his face a mask of revulsion. Bending with a pair of tongs, he plucked up the red-smeared Grand Cru and dropped it into a zip-lock bag. Without trying to hide the fact that he was giving Bechard a wide berth, Miller approached Henderson with the item. “It’s been lit at some point,” said Miller. “But not smoked very far.” “I gave that to Greg before dinner,” Noonan said with reverence. “He couldn’t have been smoking that in the elevator.” Henderson could only hope that his face revealed nothing of what was going on in his mind. He respected Noonan for his power, and liked him for his policy, but it was just like a politician to say something so immaterial and air-headed. So Henderson had a body chopped into pieces, two clueless security guards, one man that he wanted to suspect, one judge that he would never suspect, and a sabotaged surveillance system. The detective had found only one real clue so far, and it had been obvious – not meant to be hidden. The ceiling hatch in the elevator had been pried open. By the smears of blood on and around the hatch it was presumed that the killer had exited through it. There were bloody prints without a single discernable compare! Cops were searching the elevator shafts. It did not escape Henderson that this was basically the second body that he had found this week in this condition; and with Jimmy Bechard somewhere nearby. Henderson now had more information about the bones that had been uncovered on Bechard’s construction sight. Through a miracle, dental records had identified the victim as Harvey Madison, a man that had gone missing in 1985. He had never been an official missing person, though. It had been believed that he had run away on a whim with his mistress. Certain evidence had supported this story, even though Madison had at the time of his disappearance been a rising star as a prosecutor in the county attorney’s office. Had Madison been another dismemberment victim? The detective’s hunch said ‘yes.’ Henderson turned to the two older men. “May I ask what was the nature of your meeting here tonight?” he asked, not in question form. “No, you may not!” thought Bechard as he stepped forward to prevent Noonan from interjecting a statement. The old man looked sternly down at the slightly shorter detective. “Look, officer…” and he said ‘officer’ with great disdain. “Lieutenant Henderson,” said the detective. He would not be disrespected. “Whatever,” Bechard continued. “I’m not inclined to tell you anything about our dinner or my business. None of that is pertinent to solving this murder. And if you think that it is, then the killer can take it easy, because you will never catch them.” Henderson had done some checking on Jimmy Bechard. The old real estate investor was infamous among law enforcement officers for being flippant and uncooperative. He’d been busted for everything from driving without a license to building without a permit. There were stories that years ago Bechard had done jail time for selling steroids. There were also the stories that the cops that had busted Bechard had found themselves looking for new careers shortly thereafter. It wouldn’t work to try to scare or harass a man like Jimmy Bechard. “Please, Mr. Bechard,” Henderson made a Herculean effort to sound rational and calm, while inside he was seething. “I’m going to ask you nicely to please cooperate with me as I investigate this crime.” Jimmy Bechard was actually surprised by the cop’s humble beseeching. But he softened only slightly. “I’ll cooperate with you just as soon as you get a real job in the private sector. I trust these security guards here more than you or any cop!” It was really that simple to the old man. The detective turned away from Bechard and the others just long enough to swear fiercely under his breath. To be esteemed below a security guard went up his ass like bolt of lightning. Then he turned around and asked of Noonan, “Can I count on you, judge, to fill me on some simple facts?” Just then the large doors of the US Bancorp Towers burst open with Ned Lowe, a news reporter for KOIN, leading a cameraman, a field producer and couple other support personnel. Ignoring the detective, Noonan started toward them while Bechard groaned. The circus was getting underway. Bechard turned back to the dejected Henderson. “Looks like you won’t be able to count on the judge for anything right now. He’s busy harvesting votes.” Frustrated, Henderson turned back to the two security guards, who were now quite distracted by the whole scene. “Take me to your security office. I want a look at your surveillance equipment.” He beckoned for one of his junior officers to accompany them. But Dan Jensen did not move right away. He turned nervously to Jimmy Bechard and said in a low voice, “Sir, did you mean what you said about trusting us more than the cops?” Bechard didn’t reply, but cocked his head to listen to Jensen’s quiet words. Jensen continued, “Because after this is all over, I’ll probably be looking for a new job. I promise you, I’m trustworthy and hardworking –” “I believe you, Dan,” said Bechard reaching into his inside suit pocket. “Take my card. I always have something available for a good productive person.” “Thanks,” said Jensen, confidentially. Henderson witnessed the exchange with suspicion. He hadn’t been able to hear what they were discussing. “Let’s go!” he barked. “I’d like to finish with this investigation sometime this year!” And the group consisting of the two security guards and Henderson with his uniformed flunky left for the security office. Noonan stood by impatiently while the cameraman tried to get footage of the inside of the elevator where poor Peterson had been cut to pieces. Police prevented the cameraman from getting too close or too clear a shot. Ned Lowe was quizzing some cops about what had happened, and got the basic facts but no more. The cops had been instructed to say nothing about the condition of the corpse. Presently, Ned turned nonchalantly to Noonan. “Well, Judge, heck of a night, eh?” “Yep,” answered Noonan. “Say, Judge, off the record, who was it and what happened?” “It was Greg Peterson, an attorney for the county, and he was found cut up into little pieces.” “Oh my god,” whispered Lowe. “Did you see the body? I mean…. did you see –” “Yes,” the politician said solemnly. “Wow.” Lowe stopped for a moment looked thoughtfully at the floor. Then he asked, “Can I get a statement from you on camera?” “Shoot-a-mile, yes!” thought the fat politician, but he frowned, sniffed, seemed to mull it over for just a second, and then answered, “I suppose so.” “Good, I’m going to prepare some copy, tape a segment, and then we’ll turn the camera on you, OK?” “Fine,” said Noonan, successfully hiding his triumph. Lowe turned to consult with his crew. Bechard walked up behind him and whispered in his ear, “You rat-bastard!” Noonan didn’t even try to deny what he had done. From the side of his mouth, all he said was, “Now Jimmy, freedom of press. It is a fundamental freedom that this country was founded on. You would prefer to keep the public in the dark about this?” “I would prefer that you not use Peterson’s murder as a platform from which to grab voter support.” “The public wants to know what is being done to keep the streets safe to walk on at night,” Noonan replied. Ned Lowe came scurrying back up to the men. “Hey, Mr. Bechard. Can we get a comment from you, too?” “Why?” said the old man tiredly. “I’m not running for governor.” And with that, Bechard walked out the door and got into his white limo, suddenly feeling the soreness of his feet with every step. Presently, Henderson, Jensen, Bennett, and the uniform returned from the security office on the second floor. They had dusted everything for fingerprints, and had found several compares that looked to be Jensen’s, and another set of prints that probably belonged to Seth Grant, the day-time security supervisor. A third set of prints was quickly identified as belonging to John Greeley, the night-time head of security. No other recent prints were found. The surveillance recording apparatus had passed a routine diagnostics check at 7:00 p.m. earlier that evening, and then nothing. It looked like it hadn’t been re-initialized after the diagnostics. Jensen swore up and down that he had restarted it, and indeed, a log entry at 7:03 indicated that he had. “Is there any way that someone could have snuck in there and erased the recording?” asked Henderson. “I really doubt it,” said Dan. “I sit at that desk all night long.” “What about bathroom breaks?” “Oh yeah,” said Dan sheepishly, and a look of guilt leaked onto his face. “I guess I could have been in the bathroom sometime around 8:55.” “When did you first notice that the system was down?” asked the detective. “Right after Bennett called the office to tell me that he had found a body,” answered Dan. Troy Bennett then explained to Henderson about the difficulty he had had in raising Jensen on the phone. It was surmised by the three men that someone might have been in the security office, picking up and hanging up the phone while erasing the surveillance recording, all while Jensen was busy, ‘using’ the bathroom. But how that someone got into the security office in the first place was anyone’s guess. How did they pull this off? “That is bit far-fetched,” Henderson admitted. “Whatever the case, we have a very clever killer on our hands.” Then he remembered who he was talking to and shut up. The police detective, still shadowed by the two tag-along security guards, sidled up to Noonan as the large man stood checking his excellent hair in a one the many highly reflective surfaces that was such an integral part of the décor on the main floor of Big Pink. “Judge, I know you’re busy getting ready for your interview and all, and I hate to bother you, but did you see anything out of ordinary tonight? Anything at all?” Noonan frowned and shook his huge, jowly head. “Sorry, detective. I wish I could be more help to you.” “Thanks, Mr. Noonan,” said Henderson, and he meandered away. Troy had been about to remind the big man about his earlier sighting of the homeless person, but decided not to. There must have been a reason that Noonan hadn’t bothered to mention it. Probably because it was totally insignificant…..

The hospital room of Chad Reeves was as dark as hospital regulation allowed, which wasn’t very dark at all. It was light enough that the television didn’t cast any strange light around the room as it would have in a darker setting. Chad wished now for that strange light as he sat up in bed, hardly coherent of the ten o’clock news that happened to be playing just now. From the TV set came a woman’s voice, “We take you now live to Ned Lowe, on the scene at the US Bancorp Tower.” Then a man’s voice, “Thanks Portia, I’m here at the US Bancorp Tower where a little over an hour ago a man was found dead in an elevator. Police are withholding the name of the victim for the sake of the family, but I am told that he was a very prominent attorney here in the Portland area. No details of the death have been disclosed at this time, but you can see here if you look behind me there is a lot of blood in the elevator –” Interrupted by another man’s voice; “Hey! Get that thing outa here!” Then came the first man again, “As you can see, the police are keeping a rather tight lid on things down here. I had the chance to interview one of the investigators.” Another voice, “I can’t really say anything else about this right now, only that we do suspect foul play.” Ned again; “Is there any indication that this is the work of the serial killer still at large?” The cop; “What serial killer?” Then Ned; “So, the police, being very tight-lipped about the situation. Also on the scene, City Councilman Travis Noonan.” And from the television set came the calming authoritative voice of Travis Noonan, “And this is exactly why I pushed for more police funding last year. Quite frankly, our police force doesn’t have the resources necessary to keep the streets of Portland as safe as they need to be right now. They’re good men, and women, and they’re bustin’ their butts for us. Portland City needs to come through for them. We’ve had a rash of violent crimes here lately. Murders, missing persons, and don’t forget that hypodermic needle scare that started last year.” Chad said weakly to no one in particular (since no one was there), “Yes. Let’s not forget the scary hypodermic needles.” A tear streaked down the chalky skin of his cheek. He fingered the television remote. Why was he even watching the news anyway?” Buffy was over now, and Baywatch was on somewhere…..

CHAPTER XI

As big cities go, Portland was very middle-of-the-road in a lot of respects. It was big, but not too big, and it could certainly be considered pretty clean and free of crime at least on a per capita basis. The downtown buildings created a beautiful skyline that towered right up to the edge of the wide, but not too wide, Willamette River. Spanned by many different bridges, the river allowed for the docking of ocean-going ships from all manner of home-ports, bringing into her fair city amazing treasures from abroad. Yes, the reason for the name of this town seemed pretty obvious, even though it just a quirk of fate and a coin toss that had prevented the town’s name from being Boston. The overall quality of life shared by the people living in Portland, and even the entire state of Oregon was definitely on an upward trend. It hadn’t always been so fine, but for at least for the last twenty years, things had been pretty swell. The Willamette River, once declared to be “dead,” was now cleaned up and supporting life again. The homeless problem of the eighties was a memory. Neighborhoods that had been crime and drug infested only a decade before were improving in quality. Unemployment was low. Most people credited strong governmental leadership for the boom, but a certain young looking, sharp dressed man knew the real reason. It was private business, both big and small that was the true reason for the prosperity. As for strong governmental leadership, well, this young man was also aware of an undocumented statistic – more politicians went missing in Oregon than in any other state or country. Sure, there was a killer on the loose. More than one depending on which cop you asked. But it didn’t really matter. One still had a better chance of getting cancer or struck by a bus than being a victim. And there are always precautions that can be taken to decrease the chances of any undesired end. Like most metropolitan downtown areas Portland attracted a wide assortment of people on the weekend nights, when it wasn't raining. Traffic on Broadway was its usual bumper to bumper with people cruising. The well-lit red brick sidewalks were occupied mostly with homeless people, but also with young couples, young singles, and various groups of men and women, some beautiful, many not, all out for a night on the town. Perhaps not all of them were young by normal standards, but when compared to the young looking sharp dressed man, they were children. He strolled along Fifth Avenue by the Meier & Frank department store building. He walked across Morrison Avenue, stepping over the light rail tracks, and cut across Pioneer Courthouse Square. No one took notice of him; that was his desire. “Faith without works is dead!” exclaimed a street preacher. The religious fanatic held a captive audience in the people waiting for MAX, the light rail train. “If you faith as a grain of mustard seed, then you can move mountains.” The young man realized that this street preacher was getting on his last nerve. “Just keep walking, Marcus,” he thought. “This would be a bad place to lose it.” But he wasn’t seriously worried about that. He continued to cut across pioneer square stepping up the brick steps that also acted as makeshift seating for the occasional outdoor concert on the square. On the opposite side of Pioneer Square was a group of gothic teenagers, vampire wannabes. They were mingling with another group of ragged youth, probably runaways. None of them noticed him either. But as he crossed Broadway someone did notice him. It was a young ‘Jesus Christ’ sitting outside of the Nordstrom department store and wearing thin blankets tied with a rope around his waist to resemble robes. “My child, why art thou crestfallen?” asked the young, homeless, delusional man. For a second the sharp dressed, young looking man named Marcus was overcome by confusion and hunger. Not only was he not feeling well, but he was dimly aware that his mental faculties were not anywhere near normal functioning level. The reason for his present lack of sanity was as simple one – he needed to feed. Of course, his real problem was much deeper; a much more complex situation. He couldn't help but eye the young Jesus Christ hungrily, and his predacious nature won out. “Oh my savior, I am a sinner,” said Marcus. “I am a slave to the flesh.” The young Jesus looked up at Marcus with clear blue eyes that still bore signs of a recent hit of heroin. “Be of good cheer and praise my father which is in heaven,” said Jesus. “I have atoned for your sins. Now come and be one with Jesus Christ.” The homeless man continued to look up at Marcus from his place on the sidewalk with eyes that were unassuming and portrayed genuine love. Marcus’s eyes filmed over slightly and turned red, as if in the attitude of crying, perhaps with remorse of all his vast sins. However, notwithstanding his lack of cognizance, he was aware that he was talking to a junkie. “Take me in thy bosom, oh my Savior,” Marcus said. “I have for thee an offering.” The young man stood, moving quicker than the Jesus Christ of Nazareth would have. He opened his arms to take Marcus into an embrace. Marcus moved in and buried his face on the shoulder of the Jesus Christ wannabe. Yes, this one would do nicely. The Jesus said, “We should step away from before the fall of the great and spacious building, to a holy place of solitude.” “Wither thou goest, wherefore shall I follow,” said Marcus, feigning humility. The delusional man led Marcus further up Yamhill Street. As much as he truly believed that he was the Only Begotten Son of the Father, the wannabe Jesus knew exactly what he had to do to survive. He depended on rich fags like this young guy for his meager source of income. Actually, this was a lucky one. Never had he been propositioned by anyone so handsome – his ‘johns’ were usually disgusting middle-aged men. But what really made this particular guy so special was that he had recognized the homeless man’s ‘divinity.’ And so the hunter followed as his prey led him to the killing ground. After about two blocks, the Jesus Christ and Marcus stole into a secluded alley, very similar to the dark alley where Rodney, the two-bit drug dealer, had lost his life just a few nights before. Incidentally, Rodney’s disappearance hadn’t even been reported to the authorities, yet. He had been a very good victim. “Now, my child,” said the Jesus. “You have but to tell me where thou needst healing. I shall make thee whole.” “My Savior,” said Marcus, moving slowly closer to the delusional man as he spoke, “I am amazed at the love thou hast for me; that ye should suffer to bleed and die for me.” And with that, the vampire sank its fangs deep into Jesus Christ’s neck, and drank of the life in his veins. The Jesus made no sound, save for a sharp intake of breath, until the vampire stopped sucking briefly to savor a deep slow intake of his own breath. With an incredible effort, the Jesus managed to lift a rather large crucifix that hung around his neck on a chain. “Get thee behind me, Satan,” rasped the Jesus, weakly. The vampire shrank back with a ghastly hiss! He writhed and moaned until he could no longer keep a straight face, then he broke into a laugh. Silly Jesus! Abruptly the vampire stopped laughing and looked darkly into the blue eyes of the Jesus. “There is no Satan, or God!” he growled. “What devil would ever be able to do this to you? And what God would ever do this to me?!” And the vampire sucked the rest of the life out of Jesus Christ. It was a good kill.

CHAPTER XII

Nurse Janet parked her Mustang in the parking lot at the Bare Cage. Quite understandably, she was a little nervous. It had been two weeks since the day she had met Mimi, and she was just now getting up the courage to see Mimi again, in the club where she danced. Janet was wearing a pair of designer jeans. They used to be a bit big on her, but now they were extremely tight, restricting her short stride even more and giving her a dainty gait. Covering her upper half was a bulky sweater. She looked good, but she did not know it, and she never would have acknowledged it. The plump care-giver didn't get out much and when she did go out it was usually to the theater to watch a movie. The last time she had been out to a nightclub was over six weeks ago and she couldn’t recall the time before that. The last time that she been to a strip joint was never. Janet really had planned to never take steps to see Mimi again. But as the days since their initial encounter had worn on, she had become convinced that it was imperative that she find out if it had been real. Had she only imagined those strange feelings she felt while in the presence of Mimi? Would Mimi be the same way that Janet remembered her? Her heart flipped just a little as she recognized Mimi’s car. The charismatic girl was somewhere inside that club, and Janet knew that she had to feel those strange feelings again if she could, to know for sure whether they had been real or not. The sound of the music from inside the club filtered out of the building, adding to the downtown night noise, and getting louder as she approached the entrance. Janet identified that old mid-eighties hit ‘You Spin Me’ by Dead or Alive as the selection currently playing. She pulled open the door of the club and was immediately hit with the funk of 21 million cigarettes. “Hi there,” said the bouncer. “Do you have your ID, Miss?” “Sure,” said Janet, yelling over the din of DOA, as she reached into her purse. The two of them participated in the ID check ritual and then the bouncer said “Have a good time, Miss,” and Janet turned her head to take in the club to which she had just been admitted. There was a dancer on stage. A beautiful blond by any man's standards, but she wasn't the girl that Janet was looking for, so she quickly looked elsewhere. There was the bar with its full compliment of alcoholic beverages (none of which interested Janet) and then there was the DJ, slightly elevated in a little booth. Next, she caught sight of a cocktail waitress, hardened by year's of hard times, making her way through tables where hordes of men (all undesirable) sat drinking, eating, and gawking at the naked female dancer. Several girls (that all looked sleazy to Janet) were making flirtatious conversation with some of the men. The nurse did not realize that they were just dancers hustling between sets. Janet found a table that was about as far away from the stage as she could get and sat down. Sixty seconds had not even elapsed before two men ambled over to where she sat and began to move in on her. The first man was actually just a young kid, who didn't even look as if he was old enough to be in the club. He was wearing a dirty white dress shirt tucked into even dirtier jeans. He should have been handsome, but was not. He looked dim. The second man was older, in his late 30's. He was cleaner but not any sharper. He had short curly hair and Janet realized that he should have been cute too, but he simply wasn't. He only gave her the creeps. “Can I buy you a drink?” asked Dim. The other man took a slightly more direct approach. “Are you looking for some company tonight, Baby?” Creepy asked. Janet flushed. She was not experienced in dealing with horny inebriants. Mimi’s warning of ‘watch out for the perverts’ replayed in her mind. She truly was at a loss. The last thing she wanted to do was tell two drunk, creepy strangers that she was in a strip joint to meet up with one of the female dancers. “I’m just –” She was saved by the cocktail waitress. “Can I get something for you, honey?” Janet looked up at the hardened woman from her seat with a look of distress. Before she could answer she was cut off by Dim. “Her drink will be on me, Donna.” “It sure will be if you keep pesterin’ the poor girl,” quipped the waitress. From her years of experience Donna, the hardened cocktail waitress, could tell that the younger girl was completely out of her element. “Aren’t you boys missing the show? Get back over to your table and stop botherin’ this poor girl. You’re missing out on Savannah!” Dim and Creepy wordlessly turned their attention back to the stage and wandered back in the direction of their table. They might have been as stupid as toilet seats, but they knew that it simply did not pay to argue with Donna. Sixty seconds had not even elapsed before they had forgotten all about the plump girl. Relieved, Janet breathed. “Thank you.” “Don’t mention it, sweetheart,” said Donna. She thought about adding “and just come to me if you need any more help with the local wildlife,” but she just didn’t have the energy tonight. Still, Donna vowed to herself that she would keep an eye on the poor girl and help her again if she needed it. Instead, she asked, “Now, can I get you something?” Janet rarely drank, and hadn’t been planning to tonight, but she felt now like she should let this nice cocktail waitress do her job, and besides, a little alcohol might help to loosen her up a little bit – maybe get rid of her nervousness. That would be good. “Do you have any wine?” she asked. “What kind?” Donna asked back. “Oh, anything red,” answered Janet in more of a question. “You got it, sweetie,” said Donna, and off she went. The chubby girl sat back and tried to put off a ‘don’t talk to me’ vibe. She continued to look around the room for amusement, and Mimi. The dancer on stage was finishing up now, picking up her clothes, and the last of her tips. The DJ was puking, “And now, give a big Bare Cage welcome to Kitty Licorice!” The nasty guitar lick of Janet Jackson’s ‘Black Cat’ ripped out through the P.A. Janet watched as a beautiful black girl sauntered onto the stage. Kitty had on black leather bra and panties, cat ears, whiskers, and tail, and she moved very catlike. The male audience went crazy, whistling and yelling ‘cat’ calls. Ever since that day two weeks ago, when Janet had first thought to herself “I’m bi-curious” she had been opening her imagination to fancies of herself with other women, seeing if she could feel for any woman the same attraction that she had felt for Mimi, or even any attraction at all. She had allowed herself to fantasize quite erotically about women she saw on the street, some women that she worked with at the hospital, and certain TV celebrities, but they didn’t excite her at all. Indeed, this acid testing only served to dilute the memory of the feelings that she had felt in the presence of Mimi. Now, looking back on the other day, Janet could only vaguely remember the sexual nature of her attraction to Mimi, and the thought of it was starting to turn her off. Her attention meandered back over to the dancer, who was now in the process of removing her top. Why was she not attracted to the feline-like girl? “Because you are a girl yourself” was the obvious answer, and nothing else made sense. Maybe she should go. This was not her element; none of this made sense to her. She suddenly felt embarrassed to be there and half stood to go. And then the DJ rolled the next song of Kitty’s routine – ‘What’s up, Pussy Cat?’ by Burt Bacharach. Janet raised her eyebrows in surprise. “I Love Burt Bacharach,” she said aloud to herself. She inspected the dancer with new interest. What an interesting choice of music! And the dance she did, though obviously erotic to the men (and intended to be), seemed to Janet to be quite artistic and tasteful. It didn’t arouse her, but still, she enjoyed it. She decided to stay until the end of it. Half-way through the song she realized that her empty wine glass had been replaced by a full one. “God, that waitress is stealthy!” And so it was that Janet forgot to leave. She was feeling better now. She watched amused as Kitty Licorice ended her routine – shaking everything she had (which was quite a lot, incidentally) to ‘The Stray Cat Strut.’ The voice of the DJ once again issued from the P.A. speakers. “Kitty Licorice, ladies and gentlemen! Show her some love!” The dancer scampered around collecting the last of her tips amidst yells of “Here, kitty kitty!” from the male audience. “And now,” the DJ continued, “The Bare Cage is proud present” (pause for effect) “Mitzi Titzi!” And out stepped Mitzi, aka Mimi, onto the stage. She was dressed in a beautiful light pink genie costume, with see-through silk harem pants, and a scarf of the same material attached just above her nose that caused her sensuous eyes to stand out. Her gigantic breasts were covered (at least for the time being) by a silken halter top, and she was also wearing a tiny vest, although it really didn't cover anything. As always, the men in the club went absolutely ape-shit. The DJ hit the button for his next song, ‘Last Night in Arabia’ by H-n-O Tecno, and Mitzi Titzi began doing a talented belly dance. And in the back of the room, Nurse Janet was overwhelmed by a flood of emotion. All at the same time, her eyes watered and a feverish wave rippled through her body that made her crotch wet. Again with the feeling that she was in need of nurturing from the voluptuous amazon and immediately she knew that the feelings had been real and that she still felt the same. Following close behind the wave of emotion was the confusion. Virtually everything that she felt while looking at Mimi was in conflict with her upbringing, and again she heard the voice of her mother saying, “This is not right!” Mitzi Titzi danced, Dim and Creepy and all of the other men gawked and hollered, Nurse Janet tried vainly to collect her thoughts while watching the dancer, and Marcus walked in the door. The bouncer was pretty sure that he’d never seen this young man in the club before, and asked to see his I.D. Marcus patiently obliged. “O.K., enjoy yourself, Mr. Nyman,” said the bouncer, after inspecting the I.D. and he handed it back to the sharp-dressed young man. It was a few minutes before the bouncer recovered his focus after the vampire walked by. Marcus, the vampire, sat and turned his attention to Mimi. She had such a strong power over men that he had wondered the first time that he had seen her if she might be a vampire. But she was not a vampire, and she was only vaguely aware of her power. All she knew was that she could have her way with most people, and she chalked it up to being ‘pretty damn good looking’ (and, of course, having huge knockers). Of all of the people in the seedy strip club, the vampire could see that one person was noticeably more affected by the dancer than anyone else – a sad looking overweight girl just to his left. “What an easy victim she would be,” he mused, but that really wasn’t his way. Then he realized that this obviously heterosexual girl was profoundly affected by the busty dancer. It was more than just sexual, he observed. He had seen women deeply in love with other women many times, but there was definitely something even more here. He could sense it, almost see it, but couldn’t put his finger on it. “Well, for one thing, they haven’t been making them like that but for the last thirty years or so,” he mused, thinking of Mimi’s breasts. Indeed, he had noted over the centuries how technology had improved the quality in all the areas of life, and he, himself, had had a hand in some of its development. But he knew that it couldn’t be the breasts that affected the girl so intensely. Whatever it was, this developing scene promised to be good for some entertainment – the old vampire’s other craving. Call it a necessity for sanity. Mimi, aka Mitzi Titzi, was now at that part of her show where she seductively undressed. She was very happy being a woman, and she was proud of her body, and she loved to dance naked. She made eye contact with Janet and smiled. The chunky girl would liked to have smiled back but she was not altogether in control of her feelings. Again, the timid girl was affected by Mimi’s exhibition of boldness, her free-ness, her sexual-ness. In the solitude of her dark corner, Janet cried quietly like a little girl. The heavy caregiver was still trying to sort out her feelings, but she did know one thing for certain – she had to at least talk to the other girl again. Presently, Mitzi Titzi ended her show with a big finish, hurriedly picked up the last of everyone’s money, and skipped offstage, bouncing all the way. Another night at the Bare Cage was coming to a close. As the sexual degenerates finished their drinks, and began ambling drunkenly toward the exit, Janet was suddenly scared that they would all try to talk to her on their way out, in a last ditch effort to get a piece of ass for the night. But, surprisingly (and thankfully), no one took notice of her. She had no idea that the young man across the room from her was orchestrating all of it. Backstage, in the dressing room, Mimi excitedly put her street clothes back on. She donned a pair of tight jeans and a tight stretch T-shirt with no bra. She was anxious to go talk to Janet again. There was something sweet and innocent and sexy about the chubby girl that Mimi liked. She didn’t know what it was, but she was certainly open to finding out. Around her, the dressing room was a maelstrom of a dozen or so other female dancers all engaging in dressing, primping, talking, flirting, kissing, drinking, smoking, shooting up, snorting and other debauchulant activities. The only light in the room came from lit vanity mirrors that ran along two adjacent walls. The other two walls were encumbered by clothing and costumes hanging on long metal rods that had once probably been plumbing. There was a trashed, but comfortable sofa and love seat where a few of the girls carried on, and several short stools served other girls as they readied themselves for after-work activities. Mimi caught sight of Tina sauntering toward her and remembered that she had made plans with the gothic dancer to go to another one of her ‘parties.’ The thought of getting fucked up with Tina was not as exciting as the idea of spending time with Janet, but something was dragging her focus toward the first idea, and for the first time in the seven years that she had been doing drugs she caught a glimpse of what her addiction could actually cost her. She knew she was an addict; she was not in denial over that issue. But she had never really seen specifically what she might be sacrificing for her habit, until now. Of course, she had given up plenty, and paid a huge price everyday for her addiction, but she didn’t acknowledge that loss. Now, suddenly, she actually found herself wishing, for the first time, that she didn’t have that craving – the desire to escape reality and be high. Still, the craving was there, and normally it would have been more powerful than the desire to be with Janet, or anyone, but she had been tweaking little bits of coke all night, and her hunger for the drug wasn’t too strong just now. Tina approached her, smiling slyly. “Are you ready to party, lover?” she asked. She was dressed in black – a mini-skirt and halter top. Her breasts were too small to require the support of a brassiere. She had been tempting Mimi with little samples of coke all night. It was a common practice that usually resulted in Mimi going with Tina back to her room at the Bismarck, getting high on whatever the gothic girl happened to have, and then indulging in random varieties of lesbian sex. Of course, the skinny girl didn’t really love the busty amazon, but she did think that Mimi was extremely beautiful, and she enjoyed owning her for a night. Tina could afford this because she had an unusually high tolerance for the addictive effects of drugs. She was fucking three different small time drug dealers (one of which was a cop, who acquired his stuff from the ‘evidence locker’). They all paid her in drugs, which she preferred to sell or trade rather than consume. Oh, she enjoyed getting high, but she could take it or leave it, and so, to Tina, a few grams of coke was a small price to pay for the best sex she’d ever had in all of her four long years of sexual activity. Mimi masked her uncertainty very well, with her own sly smile and bedroom eyes, while her mind searched for the right words. She wanted out of this date, but no way was she going to piss Tina off and blow this drug connection. For a second, she entertained the idea of inviting Janet to the party. She knew Tina wouldn’t mind. But she quickly discarded the idea. Janet was too pure and innocent to expose to such an environment. Just the fact that she was here in this club was bad enough, and furthermore, Mimi realized that she didn’t want Janet to ever see her like that – all tweaked on coke, and being compelled to do whatever Tina said ‘do!’ “Tina, Baby,” she began, tactfully, “You know I love partyin’ with y’all, and I love you dearly, but is there any way I can get with you next time? I need to catch up on my sleep!” This was actually true, and for dramatic effect, Mimi pulled the skin below her eyes down with her fingers, briefly distorting her beautiful face. “I’ve got to get rid of these horrible bags under my eyes!” In fact, the ‘bags’ under Mimi’s eyes were not bad at all, certainly nothing compared to Tina’s, who actually looked strung out even when she was not. The skinny gothic could not hide her disappointment, but she knew what to do. She reached into her black leather studded purse and pulled out a small decorated box. “Come on, Baby,” she said, trying to sound tempting without overdoing it, “Just do one little line with me right now, and sleep will be the last thing on your mind.” Mimi eyed the little jewel box. The sight of it held many positive connotations. Many times, the contents of that little box had made her feel good! But she just didn’t need it right now. Oh, she’d need it later, no doubt about that, but right now she wanted to be with Janet. And she wanted away from Tina! So, as if to console her, Mimi embraced the smaller girl, holding her tenderly against her enormous bosom. “No, I’m gonna need to catch up with you next time.” “You’re not blowin’ me off for Rodney again, are you?” asked Tina. “Definitely not!” said Mimi, once again wondering briefly why Rodney hadn’t been around for a while. “OK” said Tina, in a tone that also said ‘if you’re sure.’ And then Mitzi Titzi picked up her own normal looking purse and exited the dressing room, leaving Tina to ponder on the question of who else might want to spend the night with her. Marcus nursed the last of his Bloody Mary. No doubt the bouncer would be asking him to leave soon, and the vampire doubted that he could confuse the big man enough to make him forget that part of his job. The vampire was well aware of his limits. Across the way, Janet also sipped at the last of her third glass of red wine. Her eyes were still recovering from her quiet crying, and she could not for the life of her discern why she had been so emotional. She didn’t look bad from her crying, though she didn’t know it and certainly thought otherwise. She had the look of a little girl who had lost her mommy. Mimi would have to be coming out soon or they would make her leave and the girls would be unable to connect. There were still a few stragglers in the bar, though, and it was only 1:15, so there was still time. The vampire eyed the overweight girl, musing. God, she would be delicious. Naturally, he enjoyed slightly overweight people – more blood. But if they were grossly obese, the blood had a tendency to taste bad; greasy would have been the best way to describe it. He was sure that her blood was sweet and pure, like fresh fruit juice. The night walker also had a propensity for the blood of smokers, especially cigar smokers, even though he hated the smell of the smoke. Most of his victims were smokers, and he jokingly thought of himself as the ultimate ‘quit smoking’ aid. Their blood had a rich flavor that reminded him of mesquite. However, Marcus had noticed over the years subtle differences in the effects that the blood of his victims had on him. Victims of overall good health were generally more satisfying somehow, even though their blood was often less tasty. For some reason, victims of poor health were like a vampire’s junk food. And the blood of another vampire was most satisfying. But there was more to the pleasure of sucking blood than just the flavor or the nourishment. In addition to satisfying the uncontrollable, insatiable hunger that was part of being a vampire, there was the thrill – the thrill of the hunt, the thrill of the seduction, the thrill of power. It was a thrill that you would have to embrace as a vampire, or be driven mad with guilt, remorse, and regret. There was no thrill, however, in the destruction of conscious life. Marcus hated doing it. The old vampire had lived long enough to learn this very important lesson – there is nothing more precious than conscious life. Not just intelligent life, but self- aware, ‘I-think-therefore-I-am’ life. Individual conscious life is the most valuable of all things in the universe; above government, special interest groups, and even a hypothetical god. Being that Marcus lived off of the life of others, regardless of whether he killed them or not, he was the ultimate destroyer. This realization, along with the knowledge that he was powerless to control his predacious nature, made him see how his own existence jeopardized the balance of the universe. That was why he knew he had to find a way to kill himself. Alas, suicide seemed to be impossible. Seconds before the amazing amazon entered the bar room from the backstage door, Marcus sensed her pheromones like an announcement. She made a bee-line for Janet. The overweight girl caught sight of her immediately and was both relieved and excited. The look on her face communicated her happiness and even some of her confusion to the understanding Mimi. Marcus caught it, too. “Hi!” said Mimi. “You came!” She took both of Janet’s hands in hers and looked smiling into the girl’s eyes. “Yeah, hi,” Janet said, habitually shyly, but not averting her eyes from Mimi’s. Donna stepped over and presented a bill for Janet’s drinks. Quick as a wink, Mimi whipped out a five dollar bill for the tip and dropped it on the table. “Could you put her drinks on my tab?” she asked. “Sure,” said Donna. “You girls have a nice night.” The oily DJ was just walking out the door. “Now I’ve seen everything,” he thought. “Now the entertainment begins,” thought Marcus. “I’m so happy to see you again,” said the busty girl. “How have you been?” “I’ve been good,” said Janet, standing. “I’m glad to see you, too.” “I know,” said Mimi. “So what do you want to do?” “Can we go somewhere and talk?” asked the shy girl. “I’d like that very much,” answered the dancer. Just then Tina appeared at the back stage door with another girl, but when she caught sight of Mimi and Janet she stormed over to them like an angry ghost. “What the hell is this?!” she demanded. “I let you lick the spoon out of my candy box all night long and then you blow me off for Miss Congeniality?” “Damn! This ratty bitch could ruin everything,” thought the eavesdropping vampire, though he was taking measures to prevent that very thing. The dancer and the nurse constituted an interesting human experiment, and he would have his data, damn it! He knew the score between Mimi and Tina, but he was still capable of much manipulation. Mimi was cold busted, but stayed cool. She would do damage control with Tina later. Janet, on the other hand, was visibly upset. The timid care-giver hated confrontations, especially with people that she didn’t know. What was this girl talking about? Had she just been insulted? Suddenly, she felt even more confused! Who was that young man sitting over there? Tina continued ranting. “Whatever! It just doesn’t matter because Wendy is going to be my companion tonight.” Indeed, Wendy, who had not flown across the room in a rage, was just now sidling alongside Tina. Wendy was one of the newest and along with Tina one of the youngest dancers at the Bare Cage. She was very pretty – 5’8” with shoulder-length, dark, wavy hair, and light eyes. Her D cup breasts were well formed and still natural; she was too new at this to have yet considered a boob job. Yes, she was beautiful, but not amazing. Perhaps with time she would become more like Mitzi, and she was well on her way. She was taking more and more speed, to help get her through her busy college schedule, and to give her the ‘courage’ at night to take her clothes off in front of complete strangers and dance. Originally, she had gotten into dancing to pay for school, but her life was quickly turning into a downward spiral, and she was mostly in denial over it. Mimi was unaffected by Tina’s jealousy head-game tactic. She didn’t care who Tina was with tonight, just as long as she could score on some coke from the little skank later. She almost considered saying something like ‘relax, this isn’t what it looks like,’ but she didn’t want to upset Janet any further. She found herself suddenly having trouble concentrating. Then she noticed the young man standing up. All four girls were now looking at Marcus, their situation temporarily forgotten. The vampire’s gaze fell on Tina, and he smiled warmly and winked. He would have to move carefully on this seduction, and fast; too many witnesses. And because the chubby girl was so dramatically affected, she would be the first to realize that she was being affected, which is, of course, the first step to consciously building a tolerance and overcoming his powers. Yes, this was a tricky situation, all right, but the vampire had negotiated much more difficult scenarios successfully. Holding a hand out to Tina, he spoke, “Excuse me, but I am in need of an escort to my next engagement this evening. Are you available?” Wordlessly, she walked toward him. Next, the night walker gestured in the direction of Wendy and spoke directly to the bouncer, “You should make sure that this lovely young girl gets safely home. The streets are very dangerous for a girl alone. She needs your help.” “You’re right,” said Quince the bouncer, and without another word, Quince and Wendy exited the club. Seemingly from nowhere the vampire produced a slightly damp twenty dollar bill and put it on the table next to his Bloody Mary glass. “Thank you for your splendid service,” he said to the chewed up cocktail waitress named Donna. She would forget him as soon as she picked up the bill. Marcus then took Tina’s hand, and they walked out the front door together. As they exited he turned to the chunky girl named Janet, and the enormous breasted amazon named Mimi and said, “You girls have fun.” And the door closed. Of course, by doing all this, Marcus knew he would miss all of the ‘fun,’ but the girls were together now and the experiment could proceed unimpeded. He could catch up with them later to see how things came out. He didn’t plan on taking too much time with Tina, and he was quite confident that he could track down Mimi and Janet later. He had a few tricks up his sleeve for just that sort of thing. It was what he did. He hunted. It was one of his only joys. Mimi and Janet stood silent for a few moments as they collected their thoughts, and then Mimi asked, “Who was that guy?” “I don’t know,” said Janet, and to herself she continued as she realized “But he made me feel kind of the same way that Mimi does!” The busty dancer quickly regained her focus and asked, “Shall we be going, then?” “I’d like that very much,” answered Janet, repeating Mimi’s line from a few minutes earlier. The incident was quickly forgotten.

CHAPTER XIII

The girls decided to go to Janet’s apartment, which was actually not far from the Bare Cage. Mimi’s Celica followed Janet’s Mustang up Morrison Street, across Burnside and up Northwest 23rd. Alone in her car, Janet realized that her heart was racing with excitement, and the effects of three glasses of wine were not highly apparent. They entered the parking garage of Pine Hills apartments, parked, and exited their vehicles. Janet was excited. She wanted to savor this moment of her life and that desire aided her in coming out of her shell even more. She held out her hand for Mimi, who took it, and together they walked up the stairs from the garage, to the third floor. Janet was trembling now. “Are you nervous?” asked Mimi. Again with the honesty, Janet answered breathlessly, “Yes, um, not really. I’m just very excited.” “Me too,” said Mimi. “Why aren’t you shaking, then?” asked Janet. “Are you kidding? I’m not allowed to shake. If I do, they feel it in Japan!” Mimi joked. Both girls laughed, and the plump nurse felt a little more at ease. Janet fumbled with her keys, and finally let them both into apartment 31. “Nice place,” said the amazon. The nurses apartment was nice, but far from rich. It was moderately furnished without much thought given to décor; free of clutter, but perhaps a little dusty. The stereo was on and a CD was playing soft jazz. Janet was in the habit of leaving it on while she was out. “Make yourself comfortable,” said Janet, and she plopped herself down on the soft couch. The thought of offering Mimi a drink never crossed her mind. Mimi considered making herself comfortable on Janet, but thought better of it. It would be better to chat for a bit, she thought. She liked Janet, and she wanted to believe that the shy girl would be more than just a lay. Mimi never had to work for physical affection or sex. Things like that always just found her and tonight would be no exception. She sat on the couch and faced Janet. “So,” she said. Janet wasted no time. She had questions and she was going to ask them. But they weren’t really questions so much as they were things that she wanted to get off her chest. Her defenses were coming down. She would be ‘no holds barred’ honest. She asked, (sounding almost frustrated), “Mimi, what is this effect that you have on me?” Mimi was pleased. “I don’t know. Can you tell me about it?” “Well, for one thing,” Janet began, “I thought I was straight ‘til I met you. But I can’t remember ever wanting a guy as much as I want you.” “Well!” Mimi said laughing. “There’s more,” Janet continued. “For some reason, I feel totally emotional when I see you. I feel like I’m on the verge of tears right now.” Indeed, as Janet spoke her eyes watered. Mimi became serious. “Janet, what is the matter?” “I don’t know!” the overweight girl sobbed. “I just can’t help myself. I feel like I need you. I’m so confused!” “If this is a ‘come on’ it’s the most convincing ‘come on’ I’ve ever heard,” Mimi said, softly joking, as she reached out to put her arms around the shuddering Janet. Once inside Mimi’s arms, Janet began to cry uncontrollably. She buried her face in the amazon’s enormous bosom and cried. Mimi said nothing, and just held the sobbing care-giver. For Janet, it was heaven, and she suddenly realized that she was partially crying out of relief. Somewhere deep inside her, a terrible pain had finally let up after an eternity of tormenting her. The absence of that pain was amazingly wonderful. Janet couldn’t remember ever feeling this good. In addition to that, the pain seemed to have been a huge plug that had been keeping a torrent of emotions bottled up deep inside Janet. With the plug gone, the emotions poured out like Niagara Falls. She let out as many as she could. Memories flashed in her mind; abuses she had taken; stresses she had endured; love that she had given without reciprocation. Now, here in Mimi’s arms, they were remembered once, and then forgotten, forgiven. It was all OK now. Those incidents no longer mattered. Only this moment mattered. After a few minutes she raised her head and looked into Mimi’s eyes. She saw care there – care and perhaps the genesis of love. Janet closed her eyes and moved her head forward. The girls’ lips met, and Janet was sure that she had never enjoyed a kiss more. It was long and sensuous, yet simple, perfect. Janet un-tucked the tight spandex T-shirt from Mimi’s jeans and pealed it up, revealing her gigantic breasts. And then the insecure little nurse began to suckle from one of the amazing nipples. The tears came again, milder this time, and she continued her psycho-therapy by kissing and sucking on the other breast. This was a new role for Miriam. She had played the sex slave, the dominatrix, the slut, the little girl, and even the man, and it had always just been play – sex. Now she was the mother, the nurturer, the care-giver, and this was more than just play or sex. They hadn’t even really gotten to the sex part and it was already more passionate for her than anything she had ever experienced. Janet suddenly stopped short. Her Christian mother was making one last effort to ‘stop these shenanigans before they went too far!’ Janet could hear her mother’s voice screaming in her head saying, “THIS IS NOT RIGHT!” The pain from deep inside her came back full force. The depression settled on her like an obese man on her shoulders. “What is it, Janet?” asked Mimi, concerned. “I don’t know,” Janet cried softly. “I don’t know if this is right.” “How does it feel to you,” asked Mimi. “It feels good, but…” “But what?” asked Mimi. “It’s just not how I was raised,” said Janet, still being honest. It was easier being honest with Mimi than it was being honest with herself. “I was brought up to be a good girl, a hetero –” “I think I might have an idea about how you were raised,” Mimi interrupted carefully, as she lowered her shirt. “You were brought up with all kinds of sexual taboos – masturbation is bad, very bad; no sex until marriage; same gender relations are unnatural, right?” Janet was amazed. Mimi had nailed them almost verbatim. “Yes,” she said quietly. “Janet, I don’t want to tell you that this is right or wrong. I’m not even going to tell you what I think about it right now. I just want to ask you one question. Are you happy being a woman?” Janet contemplated this question for a moment. She never had pondered it before in her life. It was a good question. It changed her current state of mind by distracting her from the memory of her mother. “I guess I am,” she finally answered. “Show me,” said Mimi. “How?” asked the voluptuous girl. “Do what comes natural,” answered the amazing amazon. “While you’re at it, let me ask you another question. Do you love your body?” Janet already knew the answer to that. Maybe she had almost liked it at one time, but not right now. Not this soft and overweight, fat body. She started sobbing again. “No. I can’t stand my body.” “Because you think you’re overweight, right?” said Mimi. “Look at me,” said Janet standing up. She stood before the amazon with her arms wide. “I’m fat! You’re beautiful! I don’t even know what you’re doing here with me.” Mimi just smiled at her, and stood. She very much like Janet’s body and found her quite sexy. “I would love to explain to you why I am here with you, but I doubt you’d believe me, so let’s play a little game, OK?” Janet made no reply, so Mimi continued. “Let’s pretend that we’re both psychics and can read each other’s minds. I’ll tell you what you think of me, and you tell me if I’m right I’ll go until I miss one and then it will be your turn.” Janet grudgingly played along. Mimi continued, “You think I’m beautiful.” “Yes,” said Janet, still sounding upset. “You think I have great tits,” said Mimi. “I already told you that,” said Janet, sounding a little annoyed. “I’m getting on your nerves with this game,” said Mimi. Janet thought about her annoyed state and realized that it was not at all Mimi’s fault. She softened immediately. “No, you’re not,” she said, “I’m just feeling –” “Feeling sorry for yourself?’ Mimi finished, smiling slyly. “Yeah,” Janet conceded. “You’re good at this.” “That’s all right,” said Mimi. “I missed one so it’s your turn. Do you want to keep on playing this game?” “I suppose,” Janet surrendered, and then stopped and thought for a moment. “You think I’m fat,” she said, almost falling back into her former state. “Wrong,” said Mimi. “My turn. You’re fishing for positive reinforcement in contrast to how you really feel about yourself, aren’t you?” Mimi’s blunt honesty snapped Janet back from her state of self-pity. The confused girl’s mouth opened in surprise. She hadn’t expected the dancer to be so intuitive, savvy, intelligent. Mimi had hit the nail on the head. “Y-yes,” Janet’s voice broke. “You think I am a good person,” continued Mimi. “True,” said Janet. “But you think I am a slut for dancing,” Mimi went on. “That’s not true,” said Janet, smiling. “Really?” asked Mimi, honestly surprised. “I would have thought otherwise.” “Maybe I’m just naive,” said Janet. “My turn, right?” “Yep,” answered the busty dancer. Janet decided to get serious about the game, and see if she could get any ‘readings’ correct. “You think I’m a sweet girl,” she said, grabbing at an easy one. “Very good,” said Mimi. “That couldn’t be more true.” “You think I’m beautiful,” Janet almost said it like a question. Then, the purpose of this exercise began to come into focus for her as the words she had just said seemed to echo in her mind. Again her eyes misted over. “I already told you that.” Mimi mimicked Janet’s words from the previous moment, smiling tenderly. The overweight girl then decided to go out on a limb. “You… like my body?” Mimi smiled and nodded. “Yes, very much.” “You think I’m sexy,” Janet said, sobbing softly. She had always wanted to hear those words from a man, but when they came from Mimi, she was surprised to find that the reality of the moment was sweeter than any fantasy she had ever had. “Yes, I find you very sexy,” said Mimi. “Why? How?” asked Janet. “The answer to those questions will only be clear to you as soon as you can show me how you love being a woman, how you love your own womanly body,” said the amazing amazon. “Can you help to do that?” Janet asked. “Yes!” said Miriam, and she opened her arms to Janet. The timid nurse stepped into them and held tightly to the voluptuous dancer. Again the pain dissipated, the depression evaporated. And this time, the voice of Janet’s mother was silent. The girls made love, sweet, and beautiful.

CHAPTER XIV

“My name is Marcus,” said the vampire, “And you are Tina, right?” “Where are we going?” asked Tina, still recovering from her fog. “I would like to spend some time alone with you. Would that be all right?” asked Marcus, tenderly. “That would be totally cool,” said Tina. She had nothing to fear from any man, stranger or otherwise. Marcus put the tiny dancer into the passenger seat of her small, aging car and sped off, up the big hill that makes up the west wall of the downtown area. Within minutes the car was chugging down the tree lined street that led to the Rose Gardens in Washington Park. Marcus parked, got out, and opened the door for his companion. Of course, it was way past the time that people were allowed to walk through the park, but no one would have noticed them if any one had been there. Curfews never stopped the night walker. The couple was alone. The night temperature was comfortable. They walked to one edge of the hill where a splendid view of Portland laid out before them. The downtown buildings and bridges were all lit up magnificently. Across the river the metropolis blanketed the rolling landscape. Bright lights could be seen marking all of the major boulevards like the rows of an electric garden. It was beautiful. Tina knew that she should have been scared, but she wasn’t for some reason. She drank it all in. This was the best looking man that had ever given her attention. The situation was surreally lovely – like a very pleasant dream. Marcus sat down on the soft, dry grass. “Come,” he said. “Sit with me.” Tina smoothed her mini-skirt and sat down beside him, closely because his body heat felt nice. She leaned back on her arms slightly. “This is so beautiful,” she said. “Yes, it is,” he said, and after a moment he turned to her. It was obvious to Marcus that the girl was very young. Why should she be trying so hard to appear older? But he couldn’t be troubled with it. The hunger was upon him; it was just her bad fortune. She looked at him with ‘come hither’ eyes. “Don’t you want to kiss me?” she asked. “Oh yes; very much,” said the vampire. And he did. He kissed her lips, long, and then moved over and kissed her cheek, her jaw, and then her delicious neck. He moved down, kissing her chest, and each breast as he exposed them pulling tenderly at her top. He moved past her top and kissed her exposed, pierced navel, and stomach. Tina stiffened and arched her back, lying back on her elbows. Each kiss seemed to penetrate her. She had never felt erotica such as this. Mimi was now the farthest thing from her mind. Tina would give herself to this man, willingly, completely. The earth seemed to fall away from her now and she fancied that they were floating over the city. Tina had been high many times before, but this erotic euphoria was light-years beyond anything that any drug had ever made her feel. Marcus continued kissing, moving down just past her skirt to her thigh. He kissed, carefully moving the skirt up until he was just a few inches from her right hip. He lifted her leg, and with his cheek against her hot, wet vagina, the vampire bit into her leg and began sucking from her femoral artery. Tina cried a high, erotic moan. She was totally aware of what was happening, and was powerless to stop it. It was so amazingly pleasureful, that she didn’t want it to stop, even though she knew that she was going to die. Tina had actually fantasized about this very thing, though she had never fully believed in vampires. She knew that if it was the vampire’s will, she would die a pleasurable death. This was a million times better than sex. Time stopped for the gothic dancer as she lay back and threw her arms over her head. She was aware of nothing except the feelings of pleasure that radiated throughout her. If there was a sting to the bite, she enjoyed it, but then she did have a taste for pain. Yes, pain was real. Was this pleasure real? Weakly, she grabbed each of her nipple rings and pulled. Yes, there was the pain, but it felt so good! It felt better and better the harder she pulled. Tina was suddenly aware of a growing sound, a swelling symphony rising passionate and beautiful, music unlike anything that had ever been heard by human ears. Exhilarated by the crescendo, she pulled harder on her nipples rings, until they both pulled out through the swollen flesh of her rock hard nipples. Marcus stopped sucking very shortly. The small girl didn’t have that much blood, and he could not bring himself to kill her. Ah, but how delicious! She was a smoker. It was over. Tina lay back, numb, the memory of pleasure still pulsating through her, the echoes of the ethereal symphony reverberating, quieter, quieter, dying. “You’re a real vampire,” said Tina weakly, now back on the hill crest from her flight over the city. “Yes, dear girl, I am,” Marcus stated in a low, quiet voice. “You can’t die?” she asked flatly. “There are things that can kill me,” he answered slowly. “But you can live forever,” she said, still weak. Marcus took in a deep breath through his nostrils; he knew what was coming. “If I am unfortunate.” “Please, give me your gift of immortality,” Tina pleaded weakly. “You don’t know what you’re wishing for,” said Marcus. “Please, I beg you, make me beautiful,” Tina cried again. “My dear girl,” Marcus said. “Beauty is inside you. Only you have the power to make yourself beautiful.” “I want to live forever!” cried Tina as loudly as her weak voice could. “And you would be willing to kill innocent people everyday for such a gift?” hissed Marcus, cynically. “You would give up your sunrise and sunset? You would trade your days for an eternity of nights?” “An eternity of nights with you would be heaven for me,” she said, trying hard in her weakened state to sound seductive. “I know you must be very lonely. Please! Let me serve you, please you.” “No!” moaned Marcus, and the pain of his terminal loneliness, a pain for which there is no immediate receptor blocker or endorphin, now stabbed at his heart. For a moment, his thoughts turned to all of the women he had known in his long life. How many times had a woman pledged eternal servitude to him – great women, beautiful women, and here was this sad little girl putting in her bid. She had no idea that she was sorely out-competed. “Ah, Maria!” Marcus cried to himself. “I’ll do anything! I’ll be your slave! I’ll kill for you!” she cried. “Please!! Make me live forever!” “You have no concept of forever!” growled the vampire, and Tina fell silent. “I will not turn you! You have no idea what you ask for. You lack the maturity to make any educated decision on such matters as immortality and murder. Do not ask me again!” Tina whimpered, “Kill me then. Let me die for you. I want to die feeling the pleasure that I just felt.” Marcus inhaled another deep slow breath through his nose. “Do you have family in the area?” “Yes,” she answered weakly. She was starting to feel a little nauseous. The vampire kissed and licked the blood off of Tina’s nipples. They weren’t bleeding badly, but then, she didn’t have much blood left in her to bleed out. He moved down and licked the wound that he had just created in her leg, lapping up one last taste of blood. She would live. “Here is what I want you to do,” said Marcus. “Tomorrow, you will quit your job at the strip club. You will stop taking any drugs and you will quit smoking and drinking. Then you will be well on your way to living forever and becoming beautiful. You will move back home with your parents and you will stay with them until you hear from me again.” Suddenly the vampire sensed fear and sadness from the girl. Something at home scared her worse than he did. “There is a problem at home?” he asked. Tina nodded. She was sure now that the vampire could read her mind. “My step-father sexually abused me,” she stated without emotion. “And you’re afraid that if you go back, he will abuse you further,” said Marcus, sounding omniscient. Indeed, the vampire had vast knowledge and insight. After 500 years he had reality pretty much figured out, but the one issue that he had yet to make sense of was child abuse. Why would anyone (but a vampire) inflict damage on their defenseless young? “Tina, my sweet, I know that you can handle him. The streets have made you strong. You just tell him that he can’t –” “No, no, I can’t!” Tina interrupted the vampire, her voice beginning to sound more and more like the voice of a little girl. “I can’t do anything that might make my mom find out. It would break her heart!” And with that, the girl burst weakly into tears. “Shit!” thought Marcus. “So much for trying to sound all-knowing and wise.” The vampire was starting to have a bad night. Tina’s situation was now clear to the vampire, he hoped. Marcus dropped tenderly by her side, and whispered in her ear, “You believe she would blame you?” “Yes,” the girl softly sobbed. “Would she be right?” Tina smiled weakly through her tears as she got the point of Marcus’s question. “Do you think your mother would be better off without him?” His air of omniscience was mostly gone. “Oh yes,” Tina said. “Would you wish him dead?” asked Marcus. “He’s not my real father and I don’t feel anything for him, so I don’t really care,” she answered. Looking deeply into Marcus’s steel eyes she added, “I guess so.” “What is his name?” “Stephen Hiers.” One last question from the vampire. “What does he do for a living?” “He’s a captain in the army. He works at a recruiting office in Beaverton.” Ah yes! An employee of the ‘government’ and a soldier. If Tina had informed the vampire that the ‘illustrious’ Mister Hiers was an upstanding business owner or an innovative entrepreneur or even a hard working employee, the vampire might have considered another, less final solution. But, no! Captain Hiers was going to go AWOL. The vampire spoke again and the menace was back in his voice. “You will tell no one, absolutely no one, about me. Do you understand? If you do, I will kill you, and I will make sure you do not enjoy it. Do you believe my words?” Tina nodded, trembling. “You do want to see me again, do you not?” asked the vampire. She continued to nod her head . “You do wish for me to feed on you again if it is pleasurable, yes?” Still nodding. “Do as I command and I will do what you wish as well.” The vampire stood. “How will you find me?” asked Tina. The vampire smiled down at her. “My dear, sweet Tina, I am the hunter. There is no place you can hide.” And with that, the vampire turned and jumped off the edge of the hill.

CHAPTER XV

Chad noticed the difference in Janet the second she walked into his hospital room. Even in his dark mood, he could tell that she was positively glowing with happiness. Not only did she have the look of someone who was madly in love, but she also stood straighter, as if she had recently been alleviated of a heavy burden. Chad had been a freshman at Benson Polytechnic when Janet was a senior. He had been widely popular, and had stayed very busy with his advanced-placement studies, sports, extra-curricular activities, and scores of girls vying for what was left of his time. But he had, at that young age, also secretly taken notice of the very quiet Janet Campbell. Janet had had a very small circle of friends, and few suitors. It hadn’t been because she wasn’t pretty – she had been perfectly pretty. She had simply had no self-esteem. She had kept herself as busy with her studies as she had had time for, but her time had been mostly spent caring for her bed-ridden mother. And she had never even noticed the young Chad Reeves. It wasn’t until two weeks ago, when the sick hospital patient was moved to the convalescent ward to die, that the two young people finally spoke for the first time, and Janet learned that they had actually gone to high school together. Despite his heinously jaded attitude, Chad found himself sweet on the portly nurse, and he actually took comfort from that. They had had a few conversations that had been a little deeper than superficial, so each of them felt pretty familiar and friendly with the other. He felt better when she was around, and that was all there was to it. Now, as she walked into his space, he could feel his spirits lift. “Looks like somebody got laid last night,” said Chad, sounding better than he looked. Janet blushed. If he only knew. Maybe she would tell him. She kind of needed to tell someone. As she remembered the night before, her first night with Mimi, her crotch warmed and her nipples hardened involuntarily. The chubby girl was at a loss for words. “Uh-huh,” Chad continued, “There’s no hiding that look.” He was a little jealous, but his jealousy stemmed mostly from his situation and sickly condition, and he felt his dark mood falling upon him again, so he quickly discarded the dark emotion. Something about being around Janet just wouldn’t allow him feel too jaded. “Uh-hum,” Janet cleared her throat. “Are you ready for a little breakfast?” “Sure,” he answered, “But don’t try to change the subject. C’mon! Out with it. You have to share with the class.” Nurse Janet flushed hotly as she served the morning meal to the sick young man, and her smile seemed to glow as she answered softly, “I met someone.” Ever since Chad had learned that he was going to die, he had cared less and less about the feelings of others. When his illness had gotten really bad, and banished him to a bed, he became even more jaded. Consciously! Why be nice to anyone if you’re not gonna be around to reap the benefits, he figured. He just didn’t have the energy to be thoughtful, or tactful. He had developed the habit over the past few months of just doing and saying whatever he felt like. Death would catch him before any of the effects of his actions or words did. Of course, for the last six weeks he hadn’t had the strength to do much beyond getting out of bed, but that hadn’t stopped his mouth. To most people, he was just down right mean, and no one stood up to him. Who was going to say anything back to the living dead? The only people spared of Chad’s cutting sarcasm was his father, mother, sisters, and Janet. With these select individuals, he was careful because he wanted his last words to them to be words of love, and with death looming, any words he said could be his last. Of course, he hadn’t really gotten that far in his friendship with Janet, but he was working on it as fast as he could. He knew that they would never be anything more than friends, but he couldn’t deny that he wanted her, and he would willingly take anything that she could give. Chad could tell by the girl’s manner that whatever it was that she had done last night, it hadn’t been a fling to her. She was overjoyed, and taking it seriously. It killed him that it couldn’t have been him that she had been with last night, and again he caught himself wishing that things could be different. Damn this disease!! However, amidst this painful line of thinking, Chad decided that he would be happy for her. “Would you like to tell me about him?” he asked, flashing a sincere smile through cracked lips. “Who is he? Where did you meet him? What does he do?” Janet knew that the sick young man was genuinely interested, so she decided to take him into her confidence. “Well,” she started timidly, “It’s a girl.” Chad’s jaw dropped, and for a beat, he said nothing, while his brain processed this engaging chunk of data. It was the last thing he would have expected her to say. No, in fact, he would never have expected her to say that. Period! Then his shock slowly turned into amusement. His eyes and his cracked lips began to smile. “Janet! I didn’t know you went ‘that way’!” he said jokingly, but he was telling the truth. “Neither did I,” said Janet, blushing still. “But she is an amazing person!” “I know she must be,” said Chad. “Her name is Miriam,” continued the chubby girl. “I met her here at the hospital a few days ago.” “That’s amazing,” said Chad. “Really amazing! I mean, you gotta face it. You don’t exactly fit the lesbo profile. Now I know I have to die,” he added darkly, “because now I’ve seen everything!” But then suddenly he was wary. What kind of girl would dig a girl like Janet? Janet giggled, not taking offense to Chad’s lack of tact. “But she has this way of making me feel very sexy – very happy to be me!” Chad tried to remember anytime when someone had made him feel happy to be who he was. Before the infection he had been very happy to be who he was, but it had always been internal, automatic, self-evident. No one, except maybe his parents, had ever contributed to that feeling. He wondered what it was like for Janet to get that feeling from a lover. “I’d love to meet her,” he said, amiably. “Sure,” answered Janet. “I’ll invite her for you. Maybe she’d like to come with us on one of your afternoon walks.” Chad hoped that it would be soon. Simple pleasures like a visit from somebody, especially a female, were the only pleasures left in his miserable existence.

Thank god for the thick foliage. The ground around Marcus never saw any direct sunlight due to tall maple and oak trees, the shorter cypress trees and the bushes, and even the poison oak and stinging nettles. Amidst all the undergrowth Marcus lay covered with a thin layer of dirt, in what almost appeared to be a shallow grave. He was regenerating. Contrary to traditional vampire mythology, the dirt and ‘grave’ were not significant – the vampire had simply done what he must to stay out of the sunlight. And no matter how surely Marcus knew that he must die, nor how badly he wanted to, he could not make himself stay in the sunlight. Something involuntary or sub-conscious inside him always took control of his body, forcing him to take shelter, or in this case, compelling him to cover himself with earth. Anything to avoid the bloodfire. The vampire would have sought shelter before the dawn on this morning, except that both of his feet were broken from landing at the foot of the hill near the freeway. Marcus dearly enjoyed appearing powerful and mysterious to victims that were to be used for multiple feeds, hence, his jump off the hill at the edge of Washington Park. He had done it many times before, sometimes breaking a leg or a foot, or worse. The trick was to land as quietly as possible on the ground (not in a tree or a bush). It wouldn’t look good to jump and then sound like a boulder rolling down a hill. It’s amazing the stupid stunts one might pull when they can’t die or even be permanently damaged. Last night, after feeding on Tina the dancer, he had jumped farther out from the hill than ever before. It had been a good 400 foot drop, and he had been well out of Tina’s range of hearing, but he hadn’t landed on a slope. The impact had jarred the vampire severely and shattered the bones in both his feet and legs. However the vampire felt no pain. Seconds after his landing the vampire’s body temperature had begun to rise. Marcus had quickly pulled himself into the undergrowth where he had laid until just before dawn. As the sky had begun to lighten, his hands had involuntarily started clawing into the ground. Within minutes, he had covered himself with a thin layer of earth, just like a sleeping beetle. Now, in the brightness of the mid-morning sun, he lay as the dead, safe from the light, deep in a haunted, regenerative sleep. He would be virtually fine by night fall. I am both conscious man and mindless animal. I am a damned God. Having no will to live is not enough to kill me! He was immensely knowledgeable and wise, and above all that he knew, he knew he had to die. But how?!

CHAPTER XVI

Dan Jensen sat in the stainless steel arm chair in the tiny solid room. He looked only a little nervous. The detective had asked all of the same questions that he had already asked the other night. Jensen could not hide the look of guilt that plagued his face. Detective Henderson didn’t usually interrogate people in these rooms with the big one-way mirror/window. Generally, he was much more laid back, preferring to question people casually in his office, or somewhere outside and away from the police station if possible. But today he feeling especially frustrated, and he wanted to let off some steam. His gut feeling was telling him that Jensen was hiding something, and the detective was determined to get it out of him. Henderson said, “I hear you got fired from the Big Pink.” “Yeah,” said Dan. “I hear you somehow got yourself on Bechard’s payroll.” “Yeah.” “You know, I think that the Peterson job was carried off by a pro,” said Henderson. “Good,” said Dan. What else was he supposed to say? “So, I have a very pertinent question for you, Mr. Jensen. How did the surveillance system get KO’ed?” “I don’t know.” “What exactly did happen to the system?” “It was run through a unscheduled format diagnostics. It’s a process that is done three times a day, but the digital tapes are always archived.” “Except this time,” amended Henderson. “Right. This time the tape was just erased.” “How long would it take for someone to do that?” Jensen did not like where this questioning was going, but he answered truthfully. “It would take at least two minutes, probably longer.” “How long were you in the bathroom?” Tiny beads of sweat popped out of Jensen’s scalp, visible underneath the fine tuft of sandy hair that was all that was left on the top of his head. “I don’t know; not long.” “How long is ‘not long?’ Were you doin’ a number one or number two?” Dan hesitated on his answer just a little too long. Henderson started again before Dan could collect himself. “I know about the security protocols at the Bancorp Tower,” said the detective. “You were fired because you didn’t follow them. You were supposed to call in relief if you needed to leave your post for any amount of time over 30 seconds. If you needed to take a shit you shoulda got someone to relieve you from your post. Why didn’t you call for relief, Jensen? What were you doing?” Shame burned on Dan’s face; he couldn’t bring himself to answer. The beads of sweat had lent into tributaries of rivers that now threatened a flash flood over his hot face. Henderson continued, “I’ll tell what I think you were doing. I think you were taking money to look the other way and to let the pro do his job. I would love to credit you with having done the job yourself, but you just don’t strike me as being that good. On the other hand, if you were good enough to pull off that Peterson job, then you’d also be good enough to sit here and snow me right now!” Dan Jensen was shaking his head almost in a spasm. “That’s crazy, man. I would never do anything like that.” The detective did not let up. He was yelling now. “Who paid you to disable the system?! Was it Bechard?! How much did you get?! A few thousand and guaranteed job security?” “I’m telling you, I didn’t do that!” cried Jensen. “You didn’t do it,” mimicked Henderson. “Well, then, what were you doing while the mystery man sabotaged the system?! What were you doing, Jensen?! Why didn’t you follow protocol?! What were you doing?!!” Jensen exploded, “I was masturbating!!!” The detective froze, shocked for the moment. Words left him. His expression was utterly dumbfounded. Jensen said, “There! Are you happy?” Henderson could no longer suppress a chuckle. He wanted badly to believe that Jensen really had taken money to disable the surveillance system, and that he was part of a conspiracy with Bechard et al to murder Peterson, and that was no laughing matter. However, there was no denying the humor inherent in Jensen’s dramatic revelation. Henderson’s mirth escalated while Jensen sat there flushed, angry and ashamed. “You were jerkin’ off while someone was sabotaging the surveillance system?” Henderson said between chortles. “That’s just beautiful. That’s a new one! You’re free to go, wank boy. But, uh, don’t leave town.” And with that, Henderson fell into another stainless steel armchair with side-splitting laughter. Jensen hurriedly left. The big problem with solving mysterious crimes such as murder and disappearances in a metro like Portland is that there is a drastic lack of communication between divisions in the police department. There were at present, no less than nine different homicide detectives all investigating various murders. Each regarded the others as competition. That meant, of course, that there could be very little collaboration. There was supposed to be, naturally, and they certainly made a show of working together, but only the basics were ever exchanged. Any real information of value was traded, never given. Homicide Detective Darrel Henderson made his way from the interrogation room back to his office, still smirking. But once at his desk, he turned serious again, and his mood spiraled downward, back into frustration. Henderson was entertaining the notion that the Peterson case might be linked to another dismemberment murder from eight months ago. His mind wandered as he speculated. Henderson’s powers of concentration needed working out. And there was also that homicide from 1998. That one had been a cop for Christ’s sake! Decorated for valor on the job, a marksman, a black belt in Ju Jitsu, and Officer Clarence Chapman had been found in his patrol car; cut up just like Peterson, or, at least, so it had been rumored. The details of that murder had been kept very tightly under wraps, even inside the department. And besides, they had found the guy that had done that job…or had they? A known bad guy named Jamahl Shafer was currently serving a life sentence in prison for the job. But the investigation had been a witch-hunt, and all of the evidence used for Shafer’s conviction that hadn’t been circumstantial was rumored to have been fabricated. When the cops were out for blood, any bad guy would do. Then eight months ago there was that other unsolved dismemberment case. Henderson thought about getting up from his desk and retrieving and reviewing the file, but he decided to do it later. Instead, he went over the facts that he could remember. The victim in that one had been a middle-aged man, one Patrick Barnes. He had worked in the office of the City Building Inspector. The body parts had been found in a dumpster behind City Hall. Henderson was now pretty sure that Harvey Madison had also been the victim of dismemberment. And since the Peterson homicide, he had learned that Bechard Properties had purchased the land from another generic real estate developer. The owner of the property in 1985 had been a real estate investment company called the Ava Group. Henderson had been unsuccessful in finding further information about the Ava Group, but the one juicy tidbit that he had found was that Harvey Madison had been the prosecuting attorney in a suit concerning eminent domain that the State had filed against Jimmy Bechard in the early eighties. Harvey had won the suit and the subsequent judgment had cost Bechard several million dollars. The judgment had in fact ruined him at the time. Bechard had lost everything. Henderson was also aware of another little known and very scary bit of trivia. There had been several other incidents of dismemberment homicide that had occurred all over the metro. The first one that he knew of dated as far back as 1952, when Henderson wasn’t even yet a gleam in his daddy’s eye. Every few years another collection of body parts would be uncovered. Some were hidden, as if someone had been trying to cover up a mess, while others were found out in the open, almost like exhibitions. The one thing that they had all had in common was, like Peterson in the elevator, there was precious little forensic evidence, usable or otherwise. No fingerprints to match, no hair, no semen, no skin. The only established MO was the dismemberment; nothing to suggest that any of the murders had been carried out by the same guy. Nothing, really to connect the murders at all. So this is where Henderson ran into a brick wall. He couldn’t figure out a connection. The one similarity, that each victim had been cut into pieces, still led nowhere. The only thing that it served to do was give theorists ammo for making up urban legends of a serial killer on the loose in Portland, Oregon. Over the years, for political reasons, the authorities had taken steps to prevent the news of each of the killings from getting too widely known. They certainly didn’t need a mass hysteria, now did they? Henderson considered it his good fortune, and a miracle, that he should even know about them. And this brought Henderson back to his earlier dilemma. All of the earlier murders happened before his time. With the exception of Peterson, the more recent homicides weren’t his cases. The cop killing that had happened in North Portland had for some reason been classified by the chief of police. Henderson didn’t even have access to that file. The Barnes case had been assigned to Henderson’s predecessor and that was the only reason that he was in possession of the file now. How many other murders like this had happened in the metro area that he didn’t even know about? Murders really weren’t all that common in Portland, but then, not all of them made the news. And even if the media did publicize it, often the cops left pertinent information undisclosed, always for the sake of the investigation, of course. For instance, an investigator from another department would have no idea of the true nature of Peterson’s death from the news alone; only if they heard it through the grapevine. Of course, their reason for withholding certain information from the media was an extremely good reason. Sometimes a suspect could be trapped by showing that they knew more details of a particular crime than had been disclosed to the public. Darrel Henderson did have a partner – a useless goober named Gene Miller. Gene was far too stupid and loose-lipped for Henderson, his superior, to allow him to stray too far from his desk. Gene simply had not yet learned the value of information, so Henderson told him very little, and kept him busy working on only the most menial tasks from his desk. They were rarely seen working together. Henderson was too much of a cowboy to really operate with a partner anyway. It had been four days since the Peterson murder. Henderson was nowhere on it. He had interviewed the widow at length, getting victim background information. No known enemies that she knew of. He had talked to Peterson’s co-workers and boss. Too many possibilities to follow! Nothing was standing out of the ordinary, except….. The detective felt like he still needed to question Bechard. He knew that Peterson had arrived that night with Bechard and Noonan. He had learned from witnesses that they had eaten dinner together at Dino’s Bistro. The whole thing with the security guards and the lost surveillance recording stunk to high heaven and Henderson couldn’t help but feel like the murder had been planned, carried out, and then covered up. But then why make such a spectacle out of the corpse? It didn’t add up. And since Bechard was shaping up to be a suspect, (the only one so far), he would need to be questioned. He’d have to be compelled to cooperate. The detective fantasized about putting Jimmy Bechard under a bright light and grilling him until he cracked. Henderson knew that the only way to have Bechard picked up was to find a judge that wasn’t afraid to sign an order. It was within the detective’s power and discretion to just have the old man brought in for questioning, but he knew that the cantankerous old fart wouldn’t come in willingly, and if Henderson was to just send a couple of boys over to arrest him, Jimmy Bechard would end up owning all of their badges, or worse! “God! How hard does this have to be?” thought Henderson. “The guy ain’t that rich. He ain’t Bill freakin’ Gates!” No, the only thing that Detective Darrel Henderson could do was to try to catch Bechard while the old man was out and about, coming or going, and hope that the crusty old fart was in a reasonably good mood. He grabbed his suit jacket, and left the office. And the really funny thing is that just down the hall from Henderson’s office, another investigator was also hitting a brick wall. Detective Stanley Hale was getting nowhere on several different missing persons cases. His latest was a poor slob named Rodney Butler. Never in his wildest dreams would he conceive of a connection between his missing person case and that nasty homicide that he’d heard about yesterday. And across the hall from Detective Hale, Detective Mike Stone was dilemmatizing over his own lack of progress on his latest missing persons case; a probation officer named Bob Wilson, also wanted for questioning regarding the AIDS infected hypodermic needle that had been found attached to the side entrance of the Public Safety Building. He had been last seen on the night of August 28, getting into his car after work. Only his car was found the next morning, apparently unmoved, with Bob’s keys still stuck in the driver’s side door key slot. None of these investigators would have thought for one minute that they were really looking for the same perpetrator, nor would they have considered collaborating or sharing their most valuable information. Nor could they even imagine in their wildest nightmares the true nature of the ‘criminal’ that they were vainly trying to pursue. Henderson alone had perhaps the best idea of any of the investigators just what they were up against. But that was only because he had seen first hand some of the exploits of the killer. He was, of course, no closer to getting an identification on the killer than any of his compatriots. He had only small bits and pieces of the big picture. The problem was not lack of funding for the police, as so many people, including Henderson, were quick to believe. Other than the fact that they were up against an extremely intelligent individual who had over a lifetime of experience in covering up his own tracks, the problem lay in their own lack of communication. As luck would it, (and luck did indeed have it), Henderson managed to catch up with Jimmy Bechard as he was sitting down to lunch at a trendy Japanese place called Bush Garden. He was with a very elegant looking older woman (older than Henderson, but probably younger than Bechard). They were seated tatami style on little pads on the floor, and Henderson walked right up. He felt fortunate to catch the old man in such a compromised position and hoped that the elevation difference would help to psyche him out. No such luck. “Unless you’re here to tell me about you’re new job as a private something, then you had better just leave, or you will be looking for a new job,” said Bechard. “So much for psychin’ him out,” thought Henderson. He got down on his knees. “Look, Mr. Bechard. I’m trying to be reasonable here. I just want to get your statement about Thursday night and ask just a few questions. Please!” “Mr. Henderson, are you paid by the hour?” “No.” “Well, I am and I doubt if you can afford my rate,” said Bechard, and his female companion smiled a laughing smile. “Mr. Bechard, I think I should tell you that you are probably my lead suspect for this thing because you had the means and possibly the motive, and because you refuse to cooperate I can’t help but feel like you’ve got something to hide.” “If that’s what you think then you’re an even bigger waste of the taxpayers’ money,” said Bechard. “Mr. Bechard, I hope you have a good lawyer,” Henderson said, then immediately wished that he could take it back. He had heard that Bechard had on retainer the toughest, meanest, shrewdest lawyer anywhere in the northwest U.S., Philip Lambert. That mad-dog attorney had de-badged cops, de-benched judges, and ate IRS agents for breakfast. “As a matter of fact I do, and he actually told me not to talk to you, so I’m telling you only once to leave me alone and don’t bother me again without a warrant or a summons, and even then you’d better watch your ass,” said Bechard, sounding almost friendly, but patronizing. Henderson almost blurted out ‘Are you threatening me?’ but thankfully did not. Of course the old man was, and there wasn’t a damn thing Henderson could do about it. He left, and as he walked back to his publicly owned car, he looked around for a brick wall – to pound his head against.

“Did you hear about Tina?” asked Wendy as Mitzi walked into the dressing room. The younger girl was applying her lip liner. “No, what about her?” replied the large-bosomed girl. “She quit this morning,” answered Wendy. Mitzi remained quiet as this news sank in. “And she’s moved out of the Bismarck,” continued Wendy. “Do you know where she is?” Mitzi asked nonchalantly. Wendy thought about it and answered, “No idea.” “Well, Hell!” thought Mitzi. “That’s two connections in one week – up in smoke!” Maybe this was a sign for her to quit. Her romance with Janet was progressing beautifully and the amazing dancer was feeling for the first in a long time like she had found a partner that she could spend time with. Surely, Janet would take exception if she were to find out about the addiction. For a brief second, the idea of getting clean crossed her mind, but it fizzled quickly. She still had a couple other connections that took cash, and she just wasn’t ready to quit. One phone call is all that it would take. Maybe she could even get with that guy that had supplied Tina.

CHAPTER XVII

Marcus staggered weakly down the brick paved city street. He wasn’t sure of where he was exactly, and he wasn’t sure of what scared him worse – that he didn’t know how he had gotten there or that he didn’t care that he might be lost. There were people milling all about him and he tried not to look at any of them. He knew that eye contact would be terrifying for him. The night was hazy with a light fog. The air was lifeless and chilled, and smelled old. Lanterns lit the area, and there didn’t seem to be any traffic at the moment. Haunted sounds of human torment emanated from everywhere, drunken crowds, mass orgies, and chanting. Marcus finally came to the notion that he must somewhere in the French Quarter of New Orleans. Something was not at all ‘right’ here. Was this the ‘gray madness’ that he had heard other vampires speak of so long ago? He did not feel ‘mad’ with hunger, but he felt so disoriented…. Someone was stalking him! He could feel it! Eyes followed his graceless movements down the street. Marcus whipped around, sure to be confronting some silent sneak, but there was no one, and his abrupt movement served only to add to his dizziness. Slowly he turned back around to continue down the uneven cobblestone street. Suddenly someone was in his face. Marcus’s throat clenched shut with terror. The hideous face before him was vaguely familiar, but Marcus didn’t want to remember. Great pain was associated with that memory – great pain that Marcus wanted desperately to suppress. But the tortured form before him wouldn’t have it. “Here you are!” said a gravelly, hoarse female voice as she thrust something in his arms. “You wanted it so badly! Take it!!” Marcus looked down horrified at the headless infant in his arms. It was wrapped in a blood soaked rag, a bloody stump of spinal bone, blood vessels, tendons, and esophageal and windpipe tissues protruded from between the shoulders, and no head was where there should have been one! His own scream was choked off. The ghastly woman walked away, but turned her head slightly with a hideous toothy laugh and said, “Tarino kept the prettiest parts!” Choking, Marcus pulled one side of the blood soaked cloth covering away and saw where the infant’s reproductive organs had been savagely cut out. The vampire heaved, but nothing came up from his stomach. His head swam, and he felt that he needed to get out of this street. He ran lurching, still carrying the infant corpse, noticing that the weight and balance of it was disconcertingly wrong – most unlike a normal healthy baby! There was a chapel! That would be a safe haven, yes! Get himself and the baby to safety, away from all of these haunted forms milling about him. Up three steps and then to the tall, arched double doors, the vampire moved without grace. He opened the right door noticing how heavy it was and passed through it. Inside the candle lit chapel a service of sorts was going on. The fifteen rows of pews were full nearly to capacity by more faceless forms, and the face of the black-robed minister was also dark. The minister spoke. “The evil one is among us. Too long have we lived as servants to his dark bidding. Too long! No more will we sacrifice our free will according to his whim!! Rise up! This is the end of his reign of destruction!!” In a flash, the minister was directly in front of Marcus, having moved at great speed down the aisle between the pews. He snatched the dead infant from the vampire’s arms. Holding the corpse over his own head with two hands he paraded back up the pulpit. As he did so, the rest of the congregation rose together, chanting the 23rd Psalm, and surrounded Marcus. The faceless forms all began to tear at him, to stab at him, hit him with hymnals and bibles, spit on him, and burn him with candles and hot oil. And somehow, he was powerless to defend himself. The pain was excruciating, and Marcus found himself blinded by it for a time. “Mercy! Mercy!! Please! Have mercy on me – kill me! Please! Kill me!!” Presently, his sight returned and he looked about and saw that he had been dismembered, literally torn to shreds! He could see body parts that he knew were his own scattered about. There was a hand, and just to the left of it a bloody femur that was still half covered with flesh. Internal organs and entrails had been strewn about leaving smears of blood on the grotesque décor and furnishings of the chapel. Marcus looked and saw a lumpy crimson blob that was his own mangled heart. Yet somehow he was still alive, with the pain still worsening! A bent figure was approaching him carrying a large silver mirror with hideous demonic carvings on its terrible black frame. It was John, his friend from so long ago, but he was old now, withered beyond even a corpse; blotched, wrinkled skin covering gnarled bones. He positioned the mirror so that Marcus was forced to gaze upon his own reflection, and in the dim candle light Marcus could see only a long pole upon which his own disembodied head had been stuck. His eyelids had been ripped away, leaving his bulging eyes helpless in their sockets. Trickles of blood ran down the pole, and gory tendrils reached down from his head, groping for a body that was not there. Marcus became acutely aware of the fantastic pain that filled his head – it was the obscene pole stabbing through his brain, its bloody tip protruding from the top of his head! He could not suppress a scream, but his vocal chords hung loosely from the bottom of his severed head, unaccommodating. “You must live!” cried John, and he skulked away with the terrible mirror. Marcus could not divert his gaze now from the abominable minister as he opened his black robes revealing a naked, vascular, beastly, pale-skinned body. The minister looked down at the infant corpse with a sort of hungry erotica as it lay upon a grotesque alter. Marcus knew that something just was not right with this situation. He had seen this sort of thing before, what had he done then? What could he do? It suddenly came to him in a wave of lucidity – he was dreaming. But a nightmare for a regenerating vampire isn’t so much dreaming as it is an alternate reality. Time slows to a near halt and the pain is real. Really real! No pain blockers in a vampire’s nightmares! What a hell – to know that you’re dreaming, and everything that is happening is only in your head, but to still be unable to wake up or to control what is going on! Marcus’s regeneration nightmares never made any rational sense, though they were often distorted memories of his hellish life. They could not be interpreted in any way so Marcus could have an ‘insight into his psychoses.’ They were simply his subconscious mind emptying its garbage receptacle. Even after Marcus realized that he was really just dreaming, he had no more control than before. The pain continued to increase. And now the forms of people all about him had faces! They were all of his many thousands of victims over all of the many long years, contorted, mangled, disfigured, and all accusing. Five hundred years of guilt swept over Marcus, multiplying his physical pain tenfold! The victims said nothing discernible, but moaned noisily as they continued to torture the vampire and rip at his remains, and eat them! The minister was doing unspeakable things with the headless infant corpse, and somehow Marcus was unable to stop any of it, or to even turn his own gaze away from the sick minister and the hordes of tormented victims. It went on for eons! Presently Marcus was aware of a strange figure standing off to the side. This being had been in every one of Marcus’s nightmares since he had first become a vampire. The beautiful figure had shimmering blue skin, was also robed in blue, and it looked masculine. Its eyes were white and blue and it had a shock of white hair. It stood (always), looking straight at Marcus, not appearing to notice the maelstrom. With a sudden flash it was over! Marcus found himself in quiet darkness. He became aware of damp earth all around him, covering him. The vampire sat up, rising slowly in the dark dusk. He shook his hair and brushed off the loose dirt. He stood up, with only a memory of the pain.

CHAPTER XVIII

It was a splendid evening for the front porch swing. “The only thing missing is some good female company,” mused Gerald Harper. Old Jerry mentally reviewed his list of ‘girls’ to call, something that he did with more and more futility as his senility slowly worsened. He gave up on the idea after a few seconds, or perhaps the idea gave up on him, as his focus, or perhaps lack of focus, gently meandered from thought to thought. Well now, who could I call? I wonder where one might go to meet more girls? There’s no way I can dance like I used to… Some of this music today! Good God Almighty!! Lord! Some of these kids today! Who raised these hooligans? I wonder if I need a haircut? Maybe I should try a different style… (Old Jerry had posed this idea to himself daily for the last 30 years, but had never considered it beyond the point of fancy) I should go out sometime. Shopping…Is there anything I need to buy? I don’t get out much lately. I just don’t feel like it. None of these damn drugs works worth a darn. Getting old is the pits! I feel shitty! Should I try something new? I’m bored. I should go get put in the deep freeze now. I wonder what that will feel like? Cryo-genic…Cryo…genic…Cry…yo…jen…nic… I wonder what old Jenny Mahew is up to these days? I should give her a call! Where is that damn phone? I don’t want to get up just yet… God, getting old sucks! At least it’s a nice night. OK! Let’s get up!! Damn! Is that hornets under the eave, there? I’ll have to get the spray. Now, was I looking for something else just a minute ago? The spray should be in the garage. The old man ambled off the wooden porch and walked a tired old man’s walk around the side of the house, down the driveway, past the new silver Cadillac. At the end of the driveway was the garage, door open, back of the SUV just visible in the growing darkness. Suddenly a shadowy figure stole from out of the backyard and onto the end of the driveway just in front of the garage! Gerald froze. He could not yet get a make on who it was. “Who’s there?!” cried Gerald. The vampire advanced non-threateningly on the old man. “Relax, Jerry, it’s just me.” Relief flooded over Gerald. “Whew! Damn it, Marcus, you damn near put me in my grave!” “Sorry, old chum, I really did not mean to sneak up on you.” “Aw, that’s OK, Mark. Keeps me on my toes! Keeps me feeling young!” said Gerald heartily. “Good God, man, but you’re a mess! Spent the day buried, I see!” “Yeah, I broke both my legs last night.” Gerald had given up a long time ago on even feigning worry for the old vampire. He knew that Marcus could take care of himself and Gerald never worried if he didn’t come home in the morning. If fact, it was common for Marcus to stay gone for days or even weeks on end, especially of late. The two old friends had not openly discussed Marcus’s gray madness, or Gerald’s worsening senility. But each was well aware of the other’s problem. Time seemed, in a way, to be running out for both of them. Marcus, of course, had been living with severe depression for about the last thirty years. And it was worsening by the day. He would go days without feeding, the guilt associated with ending an innocent life able to temporarily overpower his insatiable hunger for blood. Indeed, at times, the thought of killing someone, even someone despicable, would make him psychosomatically nauseous. Inevitably, however, the hunger would eventually drive the vampire mad. Rational, conscious thought would abandon him, and he would be powerless to stop himself from taking the first suitable victim – and in the throws of the gray madness, anyone was a suitable victim. Of course, upon feeding, the vampire would, in due course, regain his wits. For Marcus it was again like waking up from a nightmare, something that you might think he was by now well acquainted with. But no! Would that he could wake up from the nightmare that was his existence! Gray madness was dangerous because the predator became sloppy. He might leave an easy trail to follow, and the ‘authorities’ were always so eager to follow a trail if they could find one. Gerald had met Marcus at medical school in the late sixties. He had been the type of nerd that was way too distracted to be affected by the vampire’s indirect influence, and he had quickly observed that there was something very odd about the young looking sharp dressed man in his night classes that nobody ever seemed to pay attention to. Marcus had become fond of Gerald because he was nice, inoffensive, and unassuming, and little Gerald Harper was no respecter of persons. Gerald was also one of the most intelligent men that Marcus had ever encountered. But old Jerry had one major failing – he had lived his short 63 years never really being in touch with how his physical body felt. He was in touch with how he felt only so far as to determine at what point he would take something for the pain or discomfort. Early on in medical school, his brain had been assaulted with the knowledge of all of the countless diseases and ailments that a human body can have. At first, like so many of his student colleagues, he had worried that he may be coming down with many of the sicknesses he had learned of. But then, again like so many other med students, he realized that even as a student he was way too damn busy to worry about getting sick, and by the time he finished his residency, like so many other doctors, he was an expert at using ‘medicine’ to mask symptoms, primarily his own. By the time Gerald was forty he felt great, and he was dying. He had never abused pharmaceuticals, but he was absolutely dependant upon them to function. Now, at sixty- three, his body had nearly fallen apart. The only reason he had lived this long was due to his fine genetics. “Broke your legs, eh?” echoed Gerald. “Jumping off the hill again?” Marcus didn’t reply. “Silly boy,” Gerald said in grand-fatherly tone. “Now what was I doing back here before you scared me to death? Oh yeah! Lookin’ for the phone.” Marcus frowned as he was once again reminded that another long-time friend would be soon leaving him. Gerald was getting worse. They had already discussed a plan for when the time came that Gerald could no longer function, and thankfully, it didn’t involve Marcus feeding on and killing his old friend. They would put Gerald into cryogenic freeze with the thin hope that someday science would be able to thaw him out for some good purpose. Marcus said, “Let’s get indoors, Jerry.”

It was about 10:00 p.m. when Marcus finished cleaning up. Gerald was again seated on the front porch swing as the vampire walked out the front door of the house. “Off again, eh?” Gerald asked. “I have a special errand tonight,” Marcus replied. Gerald looked earnestly at his old friend. “How are ya’ feeling?” he asked, concerned. Marcus looked sadly at the old man and slowly shook his head. “Better than you,” he said warmly, but soberly. “I will see you soon.” And Marcus left the old man sitting there on the front porch swing. The vampire was extremely hungry this night. Odd that he had fed so much lately and still had no relief. His recent victims had been flavorful, but un-nourishing. Normally, he could get by on only three or four feedings a week, but Tina had been small; he hadn’t bled her that much. And, quite frankly, it didn’t help that he had broke his legs. Regenerating from an injury always increased his usual appetite. He estimated that he had only a couple of hours before his wits would leave him. He walked quickly to catch the last bus over the hill to Beaverton. Traveling around the metro by bus wasn’t sexy, but it was inconspicuous and sometimes even fruitful. Tonight would be a bad night to have a car sitting somewhere. Once in Beaverton, it didn’t take him long to find the plaza wherein was located the Army Recruiting office. It had long since been closed for the day, and no one was in sight, so Marcus let himself in. He had had a lifetime of practice at picking locks. The vampire looked around the office, which consisted of several desks in the main room, Captain Hiers’ office to the rear, a small break-room/kitchen, and a unisex bathroom. Most of the lights had been left on, along with computers and other small devices around the office. The walls and windows were plastered with signs and posters, splashed with red, white, blue and green, flags and helicopters, all depicting the basic messages of honor, discipline, and patriotism; suggesting that joining the Army could make any young person happy and fulfilled. “Bleed all that you can bleed,” said Marcus dryly. He had seen armies and whole countries come and go. To the vampire it was simple – there would be no war if every one in the world did something other than join an army, not to mention the fact that ‘world leaders’ and governments would be utterly powerless without armies. “I am an army of one,” read the vampire sarcastically. “That’s just great.” Ironically, in the case of Marcus the vampire, it was true, and his mind drifted briefly to thoughts of Humayun. Marcus picked the lock to Captain Hiers’ office and entered the little room. In no time he had located what he looking for – an in-office personnel directory, complete with home addresses. The good captain was listed as living in Beaverton, only ten minutes away. The vampire probably could have found his victim’s address in the phone book, or even asked Tina, but that would have been way too easy or impossible if it wasn’t listed, and he didn’t want Tina’s hands to be any dirtier in this affair than they already were. Besides, where was the challenge in that? Marcus felt that if he was going to kill on purpose, he had at least better earn it. It had to be elegant! He picked up the phone and dialed the phone number listed for Captain Stephen Hiers.

CHAPTER XIX

It was a comfortable bed, a comfortable life. Comfortable government job, comfortable ‘love’ relationship, comfortable future. Comfort had made Captain Stephen Hiers soft and weak. In his mid-twenties, Warrant Officer Hiers had felt immortal, and he had sworn that he would never grow old or grow soft. Now, in his early forties, he wasn’t at all old, but he was very soft. All of the muscle of his youth had turned to jelly from dis-use. Comfortable, and stagnant – that summed up the life Captain Stephen Hiers. He had excelled as far in the army as he would, could, or wanted to. He lived with his wife Sarah, in a lower-middle class house that she had acquired from a previous marriage, in a white trash neighborhood, and he definitely ruled the roost. And that is what was irking him just now, as he lay awake in his comfortable bed. His step-daughter had just moved back home after having been gone almost two years. He didn’t really mind that she was back, and Sarah was of course ecstatic. But the little whore used to give up to him, and now she had denied him. “Oh well, fuck it!” thought Hiers in a moment of deluded self- consolation. “She doesn’t even look as good as she used to. But as long as long as she expects to live under my roof, she’s gonna show a little respect” Rolling his head, he gave a look of contempt at the sleeping Sarah lying next to him in the comfortable bed. She had become a mess in her mid thirties. Sloppy; lazy. Too many damn cigarettes! Hiers had had the habit for years but had recently quit. Cold turkey, that’s right! He had will power! Not like all the fuckin’ punk kids today, the little shits! Kids today had it so easy, and they were all dropping the ball for America. Even some of the kids smart enough to get into the army were still little punks that needed to be shown exactly what time it is! And then the phone on Hiers’ night-stand rang. Who would be calling after 10:00? Slightly startled, Hiers checked the caller ID, and blinked. The number reflected was his own office number. How could that be?! No one could be in his office calling him. This was most impossible. It rang for a third time. Hiers’ answered slowly, gruffly. “Hello?” A chill male voice replied, “Captain Hiers?” “Yes, who the fuck is this?” “I am an army of one,” answered the voice deliberately. “I am down at the recruiting office. I thought I would sign up. I think the army could use someone with my talents.” Hiers exploded, “Now listen, you little punk! I don’t know who you think you are or what you think you doing in my office, but if I ever catch you I’m gonna rip off your head and piss down your throat!” The voice on the other end of the line interrupted his tirade calmly, “Don’t you think that there is a perfectly logical explanation for why I would be in your office?” The calm and rational sound of the voice served to enrage Hiers even more. “You little shit! Just you stay put!” He slammed down the phone, threw off the covers and launched out of bed. “Baby,” said Sarah, suddenly awake, “What is it? “It’s nothing, baby. I’ll handle it. Go back to sleep.” As Hiers threw on some cloths, he contemplated calling the police, but something about the tone of the voice, perhaps its youthfulness or apparent conflict avoidance, had suggested to him weakness. No, he would wait to call the police until after he had busted the young punk who had apparently broken into his office, and he would definitely bust him! Sarah watched from the bed as he hurriedly dressed. It was in her nature to worry, and she was also, of course, rather nosy. She was dying to know where Stephen was off to in such a hurry after such a late phone call. Her imagination started running possibilities. Was this a ruse? Was it all an act? Had the phone call been from a girlfriend? Something about this scene seemed unlikely or staged, and she wouldn’t put it past Stephen to be cheating on her again. It had become almost like a condition of their relationship. She had just about convinced herself that he was running out on her, and was in the process of deciding how she would deal with it, when she saw him strap on his sidearm. She asked again, “Stephen, what is it? What’s up?!” “Just go to bed, Sarah,” he answered shortly. “I’ve got it under control. I’ll be back in an hour.” And with that, he darted out the bedroom door. Marcus didn’t have to wait long after his phone call to Hiers. He sat in Captain Stephen Hiers’ comfortable desk chair, looked through the desk, and removed a gun from a drawer, and replaced it in the rear of another drawer. After only seven minutes a green Jeep Grand Cherokee came to a screeching halt outside of the office. Hiers burst into to front office area brandishing a billy club. Once inside he stopped and inspected the front office area. There was no sign of vandalism. Quietly now, he stepped through the room to his office door. Sliding the billy club through a loop on his belt, he readied his gun, poised himself carefully, and kicked the door open. “Freeze, motherfucker!” he bellowed, and leveled the gun at the calm youth sitting behind his desk. Marcus had been shot many times before – it was no big deal. Still, he avoided it about the same way one might avoid a bee sting, and in fact it would him hurt less. But getting shot would slow him down, and right now he didn’t want to be hampered. He put his hands up. “Whoa, let’s remain calm here,” he said. Hiers hissed, “I’m perfectly calm, you little shit. Now what are you doing in my goddamn office?” “I wanted to meet you, Captain Hiers,” Marcus stated flatly. “I wanted to see if there was any reason at all to allow you go on living.” Hiers was dumb-struck! He kept the gun pointed directly at Marcus for a moment while he tried to process this most unlikely situation. What impertinence! What a punk! Marcus continued, “I thought you should be aware of the stakes. So! What is it that you do for society?” “What the fuck?! I’m calling the cops, you little punk!” Hiers blurted. “Get up out of my desk!” “I do not think so,” Marcus said, his tone still flat. Hiers couldn’t believe what was happening. “Are you high? I said get up out of my desk!” “Nope.” Flustered, Hiers reached for the phone with his left hand while keeping the gun trained on Marcus. He realized that dialing the 911 and keeping the drop on this little punk was going to be tricky. “Pick up that phone and dial 911, motherfucker,” he commanded, “or I swear I’ll blow your brains out!” This was going nowhere for the vampire. He would have to make this Captain Hiers fear for his life before he would cooperate. He needed to relieve the good captain of his gun. As always, the old vampire maintained his objective perspective of the ages. Marcus calculated that he would probably have to take a bullet. More than likely, it would be a flesh wound. Only a shot to the heart or the head would be life threatening for the vampire, and even that was no guarantee. “If I’m fortunate he’ll get off a lucky shot and kill me.” But that had not been the vampire’s ‘fortune’ so far. “No,” said Marcus nonchalantly. “I’m afraid you’ll just have to shoot me.” “Why, you little shit!” “Or, do you have the guts to just fight me, man to man?” asked Marcus. Hiers’ face contorted with rage. He couldn’t believe the moxy of this little punk. Tossing the gun and the billy club out the open office door, he spat, “The day I can’t whip a little shit punk like you, is the day I die!” “You are probably correct,” said Marcus evenly. And he stepped out from behind the desk and raised his arms in a defensive stance. “Come get some,” growled Hiers. He was very confident about his fighting ability. He sized up his opponent, and immediately underestimated him. The little punk may have been a fancy dresser with his slacks and boots and long black leather trench coat, but the captain was fixing to teach this little shit a sorely needed lesson. The vampire was, of course, by far the superior fighter. No contest! He decided to end this quickly. If he had had more time, or more patience, he might have taunted the captain further in an attempt to compel the hot-headed man to lash out first, but alas, he was already very bored of this blow-hard, and feeling a little anxious to feed. The vampire advanced, his hands still in a blocking position. Hiers let loose with what he thought was a very fast one-two punch. But his left jab was easily deflected by Marcus’s left forearm. His right cross would have connected squarely with the vampire’s nose, except that Marcus had dodged it with a slight movement of his head to the right and a with lightning quick half turn, the vampire grabbed the captain’s hand before he even had a chance to pull it back to a defensive position. Marcus then gave the hand a pull, and Hiers pitched forward. Before the confused soldier could regain his balance, Marcus, with the grace of a dancer, had the man’s arm bent around and held behind his back. With a grunt from the captain, the vampire pushed him roughly face first on the desk. “Now, where were we?” asked Marcus. “Son of a bitch!” cried Hiers painfully. “Oh yes,” Marcus continued, “I was asking you what you contribute to society.” God! But this kid was strong for a punk! Hiers was stunned. Not just by being slammed down on his desk, and being so quickly and easily overpowered, but also by this entire unlikely situation. His mind raced in a panic, and for a second he wondered absurdly if this might be a nightmare, and he was really at home right this second in his comfortable bed, trying to wake up. Now that the vampire had eliminated the threat of the gun and overpowered the hot-headed soldier, he became suddenly aware of his growing appetite. He could take the ignorant man now if he wanted, and end it – he did not have to prolong it. He figured that he had about one more hour before he wouldn’t be able to help himself anyway. The little man, well on his way to becoming a victim, had started to sweat a little now, secreting that particular hormone that seeps out quite naturally when one feels fear. The vampire could smell it. And along with that sensation came the strong association, like Pavlov’s dogs, of extreme hunger! But no, the vampire would not feed right this second; not while he was still rational, and there was still the slightest chance that the captain could be ‘educated.’ Perhaps, rather optimistic for someone as cynical as a 500 year old vampire, but Marcus believed in the good nature of people and felt that they could change if they had the proper motivation – preferably internal, but external was always fine in the absence of the former. He waited for any kind of reply out of the army captain. When nothing came after a moment he tightened the arm not slightly and said, “I’m waiting.” “Stephen Jeremy Hiers, Captain in the United States Army, serial number 52 – umph!!” Hiers grunted as the vampire cut him off by pulling him back by his twisted arm and slamming him down again on the desk. Annoyed, the vampire said, “I do not care about that! I am not torturing you to get top secret information. I asked, what do you do for society!!” Hiers had always wondered how he would hold up under interrogation. Aside from being slightly confused as to what this young interrogator was after, he felt he was doing rather well. At least he was feeling better about the situation than a second ago. He was a little unsure – should he be fearing for his life right now? Sounding almost articulate, though winded, he said, “I defend and uphold the constitution of the United States of America.” “Finally!” said Marcus. “Now we are getting somewhere. Do go on!” “I fought in the Gulf War to keep this country free for young punks like yourself.” “Is that so?” Marcus said patronizingly, with feigned interest. Hiers could tell that this little punk must be one of those anti-war zealots. They simply had no appreciation for their common everyday freedom that this fine country afforded them. But it’s hard enough to get through to these little punks, damn near impossible when they’re twisting your arm. Hiers decided that he would not back down. “You little shit punk!” he growled. “You have your freedom handed to you on a silver platter. You don’t appreciate the men and women that fought and died to make you free.” “Listen very carefully, captain,” Marcus hissed. “Nobody grants me freedom. I am free because I make myself free. Do you understand?” “Whatever, punk!” retorted the soldier. “You have no fuckin’ idea! Try talkin’ that shit when the enemy invades your homeland.” “And in such an instance, you and your precious army would defend me, eh?” “That’s right! That’s what we do!” Finally he was getting through to the little punk.. “Well, who would defend me against you?” “We don’t attack you, ass-hole!” Hiers yelled. “Would that not be a decision for your commanding officer?” “My C.O. would never give such an order.” “Do not be naive, captain! It happens all the time.” The vampire calmed a little bit. “Shall we have a dignified, civilized discussion, sir? Think of this as a quiz show where the winner gets a chance to win his life. First of all, before I let you up, is there any doubt in your mind that I could kill you – that you are alive this very second by virtue only of my good graces?” Hiers scoffed (as much as one can scoff when they have their arm twisted behind their back.) “Just how, pray-tell, would go about doing that?” he asked, mocking the vampire’s tone. “I would bite into the back of your red neck and suck you completely dry, you sad idiot!” thought the vampire. But he answered out loud, chillingly, calmly, “I would start by breaking your arm. Then, as you screamed in pain, I would grab your head and snap your neck. Do you have any doubt at all that I can do as I say?” The captain weighed the question seriously for a moment. This kid might be a punk, but if the little shit wanted to, he probably could kill him. Hiers needed to regain the advantage. He decided that he would have to humor the little punk until he had a chance to go for the gun. “OK, OK, I believe you! Let’s be civilized and calm about this.” “Good,” said Marcus. “Have a seat.” Hiers felt the pain in his arm subside as the young man released it and stepped back. Painfully straightening himself up, he turned to see the lad picking up the gun just outside the office door. The captain was about to raise his hands, but realized that the kid wasn’t pointing the gun at him. “Perfect,” thought Hiers, as he made his way around the desk and sat in his comfortable chair. When the time was right he would get the gun he kept in his desk. He felt some-what in control of the situation again. Marcus stepped slowly back into the office and stood in front of the desk. Looking Hiers dead in the eye, he set the gun directly in the middle of the desk. “Think of this as your panic button, your ‘all-or-nothing’ last resort. If you go for that gun, you had better be quick, and you had better shoot to kill, because, if you do go for the gun, I will most assuredly kill you,” the vampire spoke with that even, chilling tone. “Now, again, where were we? Ah yes, your C.O. as you call it – who would that be?” “Randall Steadwick, Major, U.S. –” “Yes, yes,” interrupted the vampire, “who is his commanding officer?” “Colonel Mark Gibson.” Hiers would play along only for a little longer. “And his commanding officer?” “Brigadier General Smith.” “And his commanding officer?” continued Marcus. “Major General Hurn,” said Hiers, his voice edged with his declining patience. “What is the point of this?” “Time is running out for you, my friend,” said the vampire. “It is up to you to discern the point of this, unless you would prefer to take your chances with the gun. Now, who is next in the chain of command?” “Lieutenant General Green and above him would be General Shepperd.” “That is a inordinate number of generals! And above them?” “Well, that would be the President of the United States,” said Hiers. What was this nut-case after? “And who is his commanding officer?” asked Marcus, sounding rather innocent. Hiers was exasperated. “Why, nobody. There’s nobody above the President, unless you count God.” “Let’s not count God. I do not think that the President does what God tells him to do,” Marcus stated. “So! The president tells everyone in the army what to do.” “Well, not directly, usually, but yes,” Hiers answered. “But the President isn’t even in the army. He is just a politician, put into office by a rather complex and largely bogus electoral process – the supposed ‘will of the people.’ Do you think he is really wise enough, and good enough, to tell you what to do?” “It is not my place to question authority, I simply –” Marcus interrupted the captain with a mock buzzer alarm, “A-a-a-ahnt!” causing the frazzled man to jump. “Wrong answer, Mr. Hiers. If you truly believe that then you should just kill yourself now – put yourself out of my misery.” “Look!” Hiers almost shouted. “The system is set up so that the ‘will of the people’, as you put it, will mandate the actions of military.” Marcus stopped. Maybe there was hope for the mis-educated army captain yet. He said, “That is the most intelligent thing you have said all night. Unfortunately, you know as well as I that the ‘system,’ as you put it, does not work. The ‘will of the people’ is too caught up with who looks good on camera and buying lottery tickets to exert any influence on the actions of the military. The ‘will of the people’ is too easily suppressed by those who would have authority over others.” Hiers shifted and coolly eased his hand towards the desk drawer as he argued, “But there has to be an order. Without a strong authority there would be chaos.” “Maybe, maybe not,” said Marcus. “What if everyone in the world was a good person and there was no crime anywhere? Would there still be this dire need for authority?” “But that is not the way it is,” said Hiers. “There are bad people in the world – very bad people. We need authority and order to keep these people in line.” “And that is your job then, is it not?” said Marcus. “To exert the will of authority over all those poor wretches out there who can’t help themselves, and cause damage to themselves and others.” “Exactly!” said Hiers, and with as quick a movement as he was capable of, he pulled open the drawer and grabbed…..at nothing! “Shit!” he cried, and beads of sweat instantly broke out all over Hiers’ body, soaking his shirt. Marcus seemed to pay no attention to the move that Hiers had intended to be his ace in the hole. It had been anticipated. He was disappointed only slightly. Educating people took energy, and it was frustrating to have expended all that energy for naught. (When was it not?) Hiers wasn’t going to learn in time to save himself from the vampire. It was time to feed. “So, Captain Stephen Hiers,” Marcus asked as he moved around the desk toward the trembling man. “What would the will of authority compel you to do in the case of disciplining someone who was guilty of raping a child?!” Captain Hiers knew that he had to get the gun. It was now or never. His hand shot out, and just as his fingertips were contacting the cold steel, his wrist was being grasped by the smooth hand of the vampire. The vampire held the man’s wrist now, and with his other hand the vampire reached around the tall seat back of the desk chair, covered the man’s mouth, holding his head solidly against the back of the chair. The man struggled vainly to get free as the vampire brought the wrist up to his mouth, bit, and drank! Captain Stephen Hiers made a loud noise from deep in his throat that would have been an intense scream of pain except that his mouth was firmly sealed by the hand of the vampire. First had been the pain of the bite itself, which had wracked his forearm and hand with such pain that he would have preferred it just cut off! Then, along with that excruciating pain came the alarming feeling of his life being sucked out. Ultimate depression and guilt immediately set in and Hiers would have begged for death, if he had had use of his voice. A building crescendo of noise, like the sounds of hell was building in his head. He was aware of a pain in his chest that grew in intensity as his life strength waned. Louder and louder, with pain on top of pain! It would never stop, never break. The pain would go on and on, building, increasing – it was maddening! This was hell and Captain Stephen Jeremy Hiers had earned his rightful place in it. Finally, his lust satiated, the vampire slowed his sucking, stopped, released his hold upon the man’s mouth, and let the arm baring the two crimson puncture wounds drop limply. He had fed without mercy. Even as the sucking ended, the pain continued, pulsing in waves like the echoes of an immense canyon. The fangs had felt like razors as they slid back out of his flesh, and the wounds still stung horribly from the air it seemed, almost as if the holes had preferred being filled by those fangs. How could he still be alive? He wanted an end to the pain and guilt so badly, he wanted death with every particle of his being. Too weak to even reach for the gun….. The vampire inhaled deeply, held it for second, and exhaled slowly. There was no denying the intense pleasure that came from sucking. It was a powerful narcotic. Marcus rarely allowed himself to enjoy it anymore. It was true that the captain was no producer of anything valuable; in fact he was definitely a drain on society, on the universe. His was a pathetic life, but a conscious life nonetheless. It was a pity that he couldn’t ‘figure it out’ before his time was up, but then, how many people ever really did? The captain was now more afraid of not dying. The thought of going on living, enduring this incessant pain, seemed like insanity! “Please,” he whispered, using all of his remaining strength in the effort, “Finish me.” “I will,” said the vampire coldly. “But your body must not be found or easily identified, and I do not wish to carry your dead weight out of here.” At this, even though his body lacked all strength, Hiers cried a soft sobbing cry, like a little boy sent to bed without dinner. His sob began to form a melody, and he found himself humming ‘Abide With Me, Fast Falls the Eventide’ in his sobs. Strangely, it was the only thing that eased the pain, if only but a little. After a minute the vampire said, “Come. Let us leave.” He extended his hand, and the obedient captain took it weakly. Up, out of the comfortable chair, around the desk, out of the office, the immortal Bringer of War assisted the walking dead. Marcus did not bother to lock the front door of the office; rather, he hurriedly helped the weakened man into the passenger seat of the jeep, then ran around to the driver’s side and got himself out of the open. He took a second to look around for any witnesses. Thankfully, there was no sign of anyone. Procuring the keys, Marcus started the jeep, and sped out of the parking lot. He hurried along the virtually empty Beaverton streets, driving in the general direction of the west hills that overlooked scenic downtown Portland, as well as a good part of metro area for that matter. As they drove along, miraculously, the captain slowly began to feel better. The pain wasn’t subsiding any, but a little of his strength was returning. He began to entertain little fancies of possibly surviving this strange night. Marcus had his eye on him, though. “Would you like a little something for the pain?” Reaching into an inside pocket of his long leather trench coat, he produced a flat glass flask of Jim Beam. The captain took it, still shakily, and drank half of it down in one swig. “There’s a good man,” the vampire patronized. He would have loved to have been able to feel the effects of such a plug himself, but drugs and alcohol affected him only briefly. Very briefly and then he was always back to complete sobriety. Normally, of course, the vampire preferred that. A clear head was imperative for survival. Only the vampire didn’t really wish to survive. How many times before had he tried to do the job on himself in a car. It had been one of the first things he had tried when cars first came on the scene a hundred years before. Every time a faster car came out, Marcus had tried ending his existence in it. Something always prevented him. “Are you done with that?” asked Marcus ceremoniously. The captain took a last pull from the flask, and handed it over weakly. Marcus then poured the rest of the whiskey on the weakened man, then tossed the empty bottle to the floor of the vehicle. “This must be it,” Hiers thought, and every hope of living through this drained out of him. He had no fight left. Funny though, his life did not flash before his eyes. In what truly seemed an eternity to the regret-filled man, it paraded slowly before him in his mind, all of it, from his earliest recollection to this moment, taunting him, with this one last insult before ultimate injury. His whole life had been a dismal waste. Facing death, he now realized that his entire sense of self-worth had been delusion and denial, and false! It would be his last thought before oblivion. And now was yet again another moment of truth in an infinitely long line of moments of truth for the vampire. Accelerating the jeep was easy enough. The road was very curvy – the vehicle top-heavy. It would be a simple matter of twisting the wheel to upset the jeep and send it rolling down the steep embankment near Council Crest. As the jeep approached 70 miles an hour, the tires began squealing with the slightest change in course. Yes, now was the time. The perfect curve was coming up. Through the trees lining the road he could see the splendid view of downtown. This would be a great place to end it all. And yet, Marcus was physically unable to turn the steering wheel against the curve! Instead his foot involuntarily came down on the break. The abrupt deceleration slammed the non-seat-belted army captain against the windshield a nano-second before the air bag inflated, which then slammed him unceremoniously back into his seat, his head smashed. The vampire paid him no mind. Instead, Marcus was, as he often was, focused on his own age-old dilemma. How disconcerting, to have your body act without a conscious command from the brain. “Damn it!” cursed the vampire, as he quickly regained control of his foot, and angrily pounded both of his fists into his own inflated airbag. What had taken physical control of his body just then? How does one try to move an arm, but succeed only in moving a leg and a foot?! The jeep was still doing fifty as Marcus pulled his rebellious foot off of the break pedal. Through the spider-web pattern of cracks in the windshield created by Hiers’ head, Marcus could see another hairpin switch-back looming before him and it was certain that the inertia of the jeep would overcome the forces of friction between the tires and the road. “This is perfect!” thought Marcus. He was determined to do nothing, but allow the jeep to sail beautifully over the edge. With any luck at all, the vehicle would explode upon impact, blowing him to bits. Perfect! But it was not to be. With cat-like reflexes, the vampire’s entire body again involuntarily spasmed. This time, not only did his foot slam on the brake, but his left arm threw open the vehicle door, and Marcus suddenly found himself jumping free of the jeep. With a grace not inherently his own, he lit roughly on the pavement, and rolled three times before stopping himself, just in time to see the Jeep Grand Cherokee smash through the metal guard rail, side-swipe a tree and launch off the side of the hill. For just a half a second, the night was still. The sound of the jeep’s engine had been cut off as it sailed over the edge of the hill, and it did not carry back up the hill to where Marcus lay in the road. It seemed that time stopped. The vampire smiled cynically at this spatial-time relativity. Then it came, the crunch of the impact of the jeep into trees and dense foliage. And then another crunch with the sound of metal twisting, and another, and another! The jeep must have been bouncing now, and rolling. The sound of twisted metal became a little louder in the mix, even though the entire hubbub was sounding farther away. How much longer could the vehicle continue? The vampire chuckled at the muted echoes of twisted metal emanating from beyond the edge of the hill as he picked himself up. He was basically unhurt, except for innumerable bruises and cuts, from which he did not bleed. By the time he had hobbled over to the edge of the hill, the vehicle had finally come to rest. The vampire looked down the hill at the destruction. The now unrecognizable green jeep was a smoking wreckage about two hundred yards down the hillside. Even in the dark of night, the path that had been cut through the hillside foliage was easy to follow. Various bits of SUV could be seen strewn about, some glinting in the pale moonlight. There were gaps in the path where the jeep had bounced, and there, at the end of it, the mangled vehicle sat basically upright. The vampire quickly scanned the hillside to see if the captain’s body had been thrown from the vehicle, and he was relieved to make out the dead man’s form still positioned inside the smoking wreckage. “Good! Now come on,” Marcus commanded softly. “Ignite.” If the wrecked car didn’t explode on its own, the vampire would have to find a way to light it up. A good explosion would make any investigation into the crash a little tougher. Cleaning up after a kill was never fun for Marcus. Most of the time it involved transporting a corpse; always a risky proposition. If a body couldn’t be completely destroyed, then at least the remains must never tell the tale of the true cause of death. Sometimes Marcus had no choice but mutilation and dismemberment; activities that even after 500 years always brought the bile high in the vampire’s throat. There was a clicking sound from the wreckage, and then thankfully, a fireball erupted, lighting up the darkened hillside. The vampire turned quickly now and started walking. The house was only a few miles away. CHAPTER XX

Chad lay awake this night, as he often did. His body had neither strength nor energy, but for some reason, in spite of his pain and discomfort, he couldn’t turn his brain off. The door to his hospital room was shut, as per his request. Dim light from somewhere trickled in through the window. Many different thoughts swarmed through the young man’s mind simultaneously. Chad was gifted with the kind of brain that could ‘multi-task.’ His ability to solve several problems at once had been the thing that had helped him sail through advanced placement courses during his short high school career. He undoubtedly would have graduated at the very top of his class, but he had chosen rather to graduate three years early and enroll immediately in college. Now, his multi-tasking brain was like a runaway herd of lemmings. Many ideas, most of them good, running headlong toward an ultimate resolution…… Chad had thought innumerable times of ending his life. He had thought of at least a dozen ways to do it right there is his hospital bed. Why not end it? Why go on through this torture? Did he have any hope of surviving? Did he feel that he had unfinished business? His parents, Carl and Audrey Reeves, had raised Chad in a fine Christian fashion. For years they had been active at a large Presbyterian church that might as well have been non-denominational. Chad was taught to pray to God ever since he had been old enough to form sentences. However, when Chad had become infected with HIV, his father became increasingly disenchanted with religion. Carl felt let down by God. After discussing it, Audrey agreed that she, too, was having doubts. A child dying of AIDS is the kind of life- shaking occurrence that makes you question your belief system. Chad had sensed this from his parents even though they had not talked to him about it. And with nothing to do but sit and think, he had done some major re-evaluating on his own. If Carl’s heart was hardening against God, then, by comparison, Chad’s heart was a quantum singularity, sucking God in, stretching God infinitely and sending God hurtling down amidst unearthly tidal forces to oblivion. The young AIDS victim decided that if there was a God, then the first thing he would do after he died was spit in his face! And he had a few choice words for many of the saints as well. Faced with death, Chad had realized just what a sham this life- after-death thing was after all. It makes for a nice bedtime story – like Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny. But with the vultures circling, with Death waiting patiently in the shadows, the idea of life after death does precious little to calm one’s fears. It is good only to comfort loved ones, and even at that it is only marginally successful. So why not finish it right now? That question had posed itself to him constantly ever since the diagnosis. The answer to that question seeped up from the deepest, darkest place in Chad. Long had he denied it, but now, tonight, the realization oozed up from deep inside, like the grayish puss from an infection that is much deeper and more serious than first estimated. The answer – he was masochistic, and sadistic! On the surface, he had felt like he didn’t deserve what happened to him, but deep down he felt that it was exactly what he deserved, if for no other reason than the fact that he now got pleasure from making people feel uncomfortable and miserable. And he was so very good at it! He loved tormenting the female doctors and nurses (with Janet being the only exception). He took sexism to a whole new level. The males of the hospital staff would be ridiculed incessantly. Chad enjoyed going on about having sex with their wives or girlfriends. He wore his victim-ness on his sleeve. His negativity and cynicism knew now bounds. Nothing was sacred. With the exception of Nurse Janet, no one on the hospital staff wanted to provide any care for the AIDS victim. Chad refused to take any sleep-aids or drugs for the discomfort, just so that he could remain sharp enough to wallow in and exude his state of ultimate cynicism and self-pity. Suddenly, as he lay there, a deep and hacking cough wracked Chad’s entire body into a spasm of expectoration. It was definitely pneumonia! The sick young man put a hand over his lower ribcage and yelled in pain as the coughing fit continued to rattle him to the core. Blood and phlegm spewed out of his mouth. It climaxed with a final gagging wretch. Chad made a primitive, guttural cry as he popped his lower three ribs back into place with a painful push from his right hand. He was laughing maniacally as he looked down at the blood that bejeweled his chest and covers. The pain was his relief from the pain. No one even checked on him.

CHAPTER XXI

It was a beautiful, cool sunset over the city. Shannon Goulier exited the large glass doors from the Edith Green Wendell Wyatt Federal Building of downtown Portland. Or perhaps she should be referred to as Suzanne Gold. That was the name that read on her picture identification tag. Like most of her co-workers, she used an alias while she was at the office, and especially while she was out in the field. And she was perfectly authorized to do it. Believe it or not, there was the distinct possibility that some very non-patriotic individual out there might someday wish to do harm to Shannon Goulier, so her agency suggested that the agents take precautions. She was a pretty lady, and very likable. She had the kind of good looks that would make a man ask ‘what’s a good-looking girl like you doing in a place this?’ With her heals on she was medium tall, and her slender body showed no signs of flab anywhere. Her shoulder length hair fell down around a beautiful face that was soft and wrinkle free. She believed in the good nature of people. Mid-thirties, one child, divorced, but she didn’t let that get her down. She was a plucky woman and she knew how to attract a man. Still, there was something fundamentally wrong in her life, and deep, deep down she harbored no denial about it. On the surface, she looked perfect, her personality flawless. So why was she still single? All she wanted was a nice guy to call her own, someone to complete her. Lovely, charitable, compassionate, hardworking, patriotic, (naïve), Shannon Goulier – the ‘total package.’ And so tonight, she felt like a happy hour at The Clover. The Four Leaf Clover was a trendy downtown bar that was commonly packed with working professionals after work – lawyers, accountants, brokers of all kinds, rubbing shoulders with secretaries, receptionists, and even government employees. Every other week, because of a joint custody arrangement, Shannon would frequent The Clover after work. This was the week that her daughter was with Shannon’s ex, so she was free to do whatever she wished after work. The door to the Clover was open and Shannon could hear the sounds of the socializing from half a block up the street. She lit a cigarette, and was walking through the door by the time she had her lighter put back in her purse. It was crowded as always and she made her way slowly to the bar. Downtown Portland is typically the location for many varieties of unusual people, and dusk seems to triple their numbers. And with the setting of the sun brings out another, far more unusual than even the most unusual of the unusual – Marcus the Vampire. Dusk had been coming sooner lately. Soon it would be time for the switch back to standard time from daylight savings time. For obvious reasons Marcus preferred standard time. This night he was feeling especially cynical and sadistic as he stepped into the now thinning post happy hour Four Leaf Clover. Marcus liked The Clover because it had one especially dark booth very near the door; perfect for keeping a low profile. As luck would have it, the booth was available, and Marcus stealthily occupied it. Not even the cocktail waitress spied him. He smelled her even before he saw her. It was a faint pheromone that communicated neediness, almost more like a non- scent, or lack of smell. She sat at the bar, a very nice smile masking her dejectedness. From his dark corner he gazed upon her. Shannon looked toward the darkness of the booth, feeling an exhilarating déjà vu. Immediately, she knew why. There was Mark, sitting exactly as he had been three months ago. The memory of that wonderful night flooded into the forefront of her brain. What a night!! It had been the last happy time in her life. In a blink, the memory replayed itself.

She had had four wine coolers that night. She had been feeling good, but she had been kind of bummed that she had not met anyone. Several nice looking gentlemen had talked to her, but the conversations had somehow been cut short. That always seemed to be the way, though. But now, who was this attractive fellow in the corner? No, attractive hardly covered it. He was positively captivating! And he was looking right at her. There! He had just smiled and winked! Shannon felt her heart pound, start to race, as a fevered flush rippled over her. She managed a smile back at the young man. He didn’t look away. He didn’t stop smiling at her. He simply continued gazing at her as if she might be the only woman he had ever wanted. Shannon Goulier aka Suzanne Gold knew that she must talk to him. Not at all shy, the attractive, single, mother of one stood up confidently and walked over to the dimly lit booth. “Please, join me,” he said, still smiling. Shannon sat down across from him. Now that she was so near to him, she could see that he was even more handsome than she had first thought. Beautiful was the best way to describe him. Thick, long brown hair, hazel eyes that had no end to their depths, a flawless face, and he knew how to dress! She smiled her most alluring smile, and said, “Hi. I’m Shannon.” The young man smiled mischievously and said, “That’s strange. That picture I.D. tag says your name is Suzanne.” He pointed at the IRS I.D. tag that Shannon still wore just above her left breast. “Oh! I forgot to take this stupid thing off when I left the office.” Shannon said, genuinely embarrassed. She had had a long day and had been working late. She quickly removed it and stowed it in her purse. The young man just continued smiling at her. “Well,” she said, quickly trying to regain her composure, “You know two of my names now. What is your name?” “One of my names is Mark.” He still smiled a pure, innocent smile. “Well, it’s very nice to meet you, Mark.” Shannon looked deep into his beautiful eyes, and found that she was now at a loss for words. For at least four beats the two of them just smiled at the other, as if nothing else existed. “Well,” started Shannon. “That’s a deep subject,” he said quickly, smiling devilishly. Shannon continued without acknowledging his teasing, “You know what I do; what do you do, Mark?” “Oh, I’m a drug dealer,” said the young man nonchalantly, still smiling. Shannon couldn’t be sure whether or not to take him seriously. “You’re joking with me, right?” she asked. He replied through a smile, “I’m dead serious.” Again Shannon found herself at a loss for words. All she could manage was, “Well.” “You say that a lot,” he teased her some more. He was acid testing her. How much would she take? His comment made her even more at a loss, but there he was, still smiling at her. Was he for real? Question marks seemed to swirl in her head without forming into any concrete questions. “I – I must be drunk,” she stammered. “Maybe,” said the beautiful young man, “but you’re probably just a little confused because you’ve never had this kind of an interaction with anyone before.” “Well,” she said again. “That’s true.” Had he just read her mind and sorted out her thoughts for her? Shannon began weighing the situation in her mind. What if he really was a drug dealer? Could she still bring herself to sleep with him, assuming that it got that far? Would she allow any kind of relationship, if it was what he wanted? Realizing that these questions were highly presumptive, she decided that she had better get the drug dealer thing figured out once and for all. She re-approached the subject jokingly. “So, do you hang out at schools and give out free samples of marijuana to kids?” “Oh, please,” he said, “That is so small-time. I have a much more profitable clientele.” Shannon was relieved to hear that he at least didn’t fit into the nasty drug dealer stereotype. But she was now a little dismayed, because she had been hoping that he was going to say that it was all a joke after all and that he was really a lawyer. “So who are your clients?” The young man smiled at her almost patronizingly and said, “Your bosses and co-workers mostly.” The mental video played in her head of Arthur Sherman, her immediate superior, snorting coke, and it was not unbelievable. However, her face registered shock. “Oh, don’t act so surprised,” the young man had said, still smiling, still looking stunning. “Surely you must realize how popular recreational drug use is among professionals, especially government employees.” “But we have drug tests,” Shannon stammered. “You know those drug tests are a sham,” he countered. “There are at least one hundred and one ways to be as high as a kite and still pass a drug test.” “Oh my god, you’re really serious.” Shannon was reeling. “As cancer,” he said. If Shannon had been only reading his eyes, and not listening to his words, she would have thought he was trying to seduce her. “So why did you tell me that?” she asked. “You know what I do….” Then it suddenly occurred to her. “Oh, you want to make a customer out of me, too, right?” The young man continued his charming smile. “Not at all,” he said, “unless it is what you want. You are free, white and over twenty-one, after all.” “Well, you’re going to have to just pedal that junk elsewhere, mister, ‘cause I don’t do that.” Even through her hostility the handsome man had smiled, looking deep into her eyes. How long would he keep that up? What was he looking at? Shannon considered getting up and leaving. “Oh, I understand,” he said. “You’re more health conscious. That’s really very good.” Sucked back into the conversation, Shannon continued, “It’s not really that, I suppose. It’s just that, well, drugs can ruin your life!” “They sure can,” he agreed. “But you still sell them.” Smiling. “Yes.” “Why?” “I see that you smoke,” said the young man. “Yes. What of it?” Shannon asked. “Is there any doubt that smoking can be harmful?” he asked. “Oh, it probably is,” she answered. “Yet you still do it.” “That is nothing compared to doing drugs,” she said. “Or dealing them.” “Of course not,” said the beautiful young man. He was still smiling warmly. “But why do you smoke?” Shannon had to stop and think for a second. It had been a long time since she had answered this question to herself or anyone. “Stress management,” she said. The young man was nodding, smiling. “Surely there must be some less harmful ways to manage your stress, dear. Isn’t it probably truer that you smoke simply because you like the way that it makes you feel?” Shannon felt like she was being called to the mat. But, if you’re going to be confronted on your vices, she thought, it might as well be by someone who is absolutely gorgeous. She conceded, “In an oversimplified way of saying it, ‘yes’.” “And besides,” said the young man, “you’re a big girl, now. Nobody has the right to tell you what to do.” “Yup,” agreed Shannon. They sat there for a moment, both of them nodding and smiling. “But the cigarettes will kill you,” the young man started again. “Maybe not as fast as cocaine, but they will kill you. Do you have any doubt of that?” “Well,” Shannon started, she knew she wasn’t going to ‘win’ this one. “We all gotta go sometime, I guess.” “I suppose…..” said the young man, with an air that suggested that he had a profoundly deep understanding of death. “And at least I’ll die happy!” she added triumphantly. There! What could he say to that? “I have no doubt of it,” said the charming man. “But would not any drug addict say the same thing?” Shannon pondered that and realized that he was right. But then another thought occurred to her. “But drug users don’t only harm themselves. They also hurt their family and friends.” “Yes, that may be true. And would you agree that the amount of damage that they do to their loved ones is directly related to the amount of drugs they do?” “I suppose that makes sense,” Shannon answered after thinking about it. “So, if someone only did a very small amount of drugs then the amount of damage to themselves and their loved ones would be small, yes?” said the charming man. “Well, you don’t have to be a drug user to hurt your loved ones,” said Shannon. “That is so very true.” The young man still smiled. “I’m glad you mentioned that. There are a lot of damaging behaviors that one can engage in. However, we are talking specifically about the behavior of using drugs.” “OK, I’m with you,” Shannon said. “But we all have the right to live as we wish; do whatever makes us happy,” the young man held up his hand as he saw Shannon begin to object, “as long as we don’t cause anyone else a damage, right?” “Exactly!” she agreed emphatically. “So how much damage would you say is acceptable?” he asked. “What? What do you mean? “If a drug user is only using a small amount of drugs and doing themselves only a small damage, how much damage to their loved ones should be allowed before the drug user is at their limit?” Shannon pondered for only a moment. “Well, none,” she answered. “No damage at all is really acceptable.” The young man was smiling beautifully, nodding. “That is exactly right. So how much damage did we say those cigarettes are doing to you right now?” “Now wait just a minute,” Shannon objected. “You can’t say that my smoking is damaging to my loved ones.” “Is it damaging to you?” he asked. “Maybe, but –” “Do you have any children, Shannon?” “I have a daughter.” “That’s lovely. How old is she?” “She’s twelve,” Shannon answered, her pride not masked. “Think,” said the young man. “Honestly. Do you want your child to smoke when she gets older?” Again Shannon paused. “I think that it will be her choice to make,” she answered, but inside, she knew the real truth, and she hoped that this young drug dealer wasn’t going to dig any further. If it weren’t for the fact that this guy was so handsome... charming... interesting… provocative… different… she would have gotten up a long time ago! “Yes, and how old were you when you made that choice?” Shannon’s head bowed slightly, imperceptibly. “Fourteen.” “Will your daughter be old enough in two short years to make her own decision on the matter?” he asked. God, it stung! Shannon frowned, even though the young man went on smiling compassionately. “You don’t want her to smoke, do you?” he asked. “Look! If you want to me say that I’m addicted to cigarettes, OK! I’m an addict. But that still isn’t as bad as selling harmful, illegal drugs!” “Relax, dear. I wasn’t delving into you for a painful admission. I just didn’t want you to judge my clients too harshly.” “Well, I do,” Shannon said, exasperated. “There is such a huge difference between nicotine and cocaine. I just don’t see how you can even compare the two.” For a moment the young man look sadly at Shannon. There must have been something about this issue that he understood on a level too deep for Shannon. Then his charming smile returned, and he said, very flirtatiously, “I see that you drink.” “Oh Christ! Now you’re going to start in on that?!” Why was she still sitting here and taking this abuse? “Why are you getting so defensive?” asked the young man. His tone was calm, and still he smiled, seductively. Shannon calmed down a bit, realizing that he was not trying to hurt her. He obviously just enjoyed this verbal sparring, perhaps was even turned on by it. Shannon realized that she, too, enjoyed it, and set her mind to being a tougher opponent. She lowered her voice and tried to sound more seductive. “I’m defensive because you’re being offensive.” “I apologize,” said the young man. “I was not judging you or your behavior. I was simply stating my observation.” “Yes, I drink,” said Shannon, “But you can’t compare that to drugs, either. Alcohol in moderation is totally harmless. Drugs are way worse, way more harmful, and totally illegal.” This she said in a surprisingly sexy tone, as if she were actually talking about something kinky. “Hmmm,” said the young man, stroking his smooth chin. “I think that the people responsible for bringing about the prohibition earlier this century would disagree.” Shannon smiled cunningly back at the young man. Here she would have him. She knew a lot about the prohibition period. “Oh please!” she said, mimicking the young man’s tone from earlier. “Prohibition was simply politicians getting out of control with legislation. If you had any idea how many politicians came out of prohibition with their wallets fattened, not to mention the black market it created! Why it just sickens me. It was a very dark time for our government. There were a lot of scoundrels in office during that time period.” “It sounds to me like you would be in favor of legalization of drugs,” said the charming young man. “Where do you get that idea?” “You thought prohibition was bad, right?” “Yeah, but like I said before, alcohol is harmless, and drugs are dangerous.” “But don’t you see the parallel, Shannon? The same exact thing that was happening in government and organized crime during prohibition is happening today with narcotics. Politicians and lawmakers are getting filthy rich by waging a ‘war on drugs,’ not to mention the black market it creates.” The young man smiled beautifully as he used Shannon’s words. “What’s more, prohibition of narcotics has artificially inflated their street price. The average addict has to sell drugs in order to support their habit. It is these re-sellers that really spread drug use; they target the easy customers – the kids.” Shannon had to think about that for a second. “That may be true, but I still say drugs are way more dangerous than alcohol.” This intellectual jousting was beginning to make her sweaty between her legs. “I am not so sure,” he said. “A little more potent, maybe, but even in moderation, as you say, alcohol causes profound damage.” “How?” “Well, first of all, have you ever been sloppy drunk?” Shannon thought, “Here we go again!” But she said, “Of course. Who hasn’t?” “You do not function any better sloppy drunk than you do after a line of coke,” said the young man. He was still as sexy to Shannon as ever. “But sloppy drunk is not alcohol in moderation,” Shannon said. “That may be true,” he said, “However, that brings me to my next point. Why is it that people drink alcohol, or do drugs, in any amount?” “I don’t know, but I’m sure you’re going to tell me.” Shannon smiled. Score one for the girls! At this point, the young man had stood up. He was the picture of style and grace. “Come, Shannon,” he said, as he held out his hand. “Step out into the night with me.” She knew that it was foolish, but she had done it countless times before, with men far more unsavory than this gentleman. Wordlessly, as if in a trance, she took his hand, stood, and the two of them slipped out of The Clover. The summer night had been hot, and intoxicatingly seductive. There was no moon to be seen, and the glare from the city lights blocked out all but the brightest stars. Still the night was charmed. The young man offered his arm to the beautiful Shannon, she took it, and they walked casually down 4th Avenue. “Seriously, why do you drink?” he asked again, after a bit. “It makes me feel good.” “Does it make you feel better than you can feel on your own?” he asked. “Of course,” she answered. “It is kind of an escape from your hard day, correct?” “Yes,” she agreed, using his own words. “That’s exactly right.” “It is an escape from your depressing life,” said the young man, a look of compassion in his eyes as he looked deeply into hers. Shannon looked into those eyes for a long moment. Had he really just said that? He obviously meant no hurt by it, but still, how presumptuous! How assumptive! Could there be any truth to his statement? Even as her denial crumbled like green-ware, Shannon knew that she was not ready to admit her depression to anyone else, least of all this beautiful young man. After time began again, she said quietly, “My life is wonderful.” “Then you have no need to drink,” he whispered. It suddenly struck Shannon that she was profoundly depraved. She was starving for the kind of attention and concern that she was at that moment receiving from this charming drug dealer. Still, she couldn’t bring herself to admit consciously that she was needy. Her mind was, however, awash with several thoughts and emotions. First, there was no denying the truth – she hated her life. Her eyes had become moist at the thought. Second, something about talking to this young man filled her with hope, made her feel empowered. She could fix her life! Third, she knew that she had to sleep with this young man. He had something – some power, some understanding, something, that she had to have as well. And then, just as suddenly, Shannon Goulier, or, perhaps better, Suzanne Gold, had another strange idea. She should do her duty, to God and her Country! She could just as easily turn him in to the authorities. HEROIC IRS AGENT BUSTS DRUG DEALER, the headlines would say. Why, it could be a turning point in her career. It would fix her hated life. She would sleep with him, and then turn him in. Still trying to be as seductive as possible, she slid easily into her role as investigating agent. “So, where do you get your drugs?” she asked with innocent interest. The young man still smiled with a charming power. “My biggest supplier is a metro cop.” Shannon was again thrown for a loop. The shock must have registered on her face, because the young man just nodded, smiling. This was going to be harder than she thought. “Shannon, tell me what you want,” said the young man suddenly. Shannon, aka Suzanne, was still reeling from her last surprise. She stammered, “Wh-what I want?” “What do you want?” he asked again. “I feel like being a grantor of wishes tonight. Tell me what you want, from life, from this very moment, from the future, tell me.” Shannon did her best to speak. “I want to be happy. I wish happiness for my love ones.” “I can tell you what you must do have it,” said the young man. “You have only to show me how deeply your desires burn. What else do you want?” Shannon regained her composure and went for broke. “I want you, Mark.” “How deeply does your desire burn?” he asked, his voice soaked with passion. “It burns so as to blind my common sense,” she answered, not sure of where the words had come from. “But I want you to desire me as well.” “You shall have what you want, my dear Shannon.” And he looked into her eyes once again. Shannon felt overcome by the swoon. She surely would have fallen, had not the young man caught her firmly in his hands by the backs of her arms. Slowly, their bodies came together, and then their lips. The kiss started slowly, tenderly, deeply, then became enflamed, hungry, uninhibited, out of control. Shannon momentarily forgot where she was, and was very close to stripping the young man naked right there on the corner of Pioneer Courthouse Square. “Come,” he said simply. “Gladly!” thought Shannon. She would have said it out loud, but she hadn’t caught her breath from the kiss yet. Hand in hand, the charming couple had fairly danced (as Shannon remembered it) down Yamhill Street to the San Teresa, a cheap motel that sat on top of a seedy rocker bar. The young man had paid cash and obtained a key from the desk clerk, then the two soon-to-be lovers ascended the once decorative staircase to the second floor.

CHAPTER XXII

Any long-time Portlander knows the history of the San Teresa Hotel. In its prime, during the late 20’s and early 30’s, it had been a downtown landmark along with the Meier and Frank department store and the old Pioneer Courthouse. A hardworking young man named Edward Parker had built it. Parker had spent his youth working first as a bellboy, then as a desk clerk, and finally as a manager in various hotels. He acquired his first hotel at twenty-eight, and using his knowledge and experience, prospered handsomely. Five years later he designed and built the San Teresa without a penny of borrowed money – the ultimate in fine hospitality. It had been richly decorated, and offered luxurious hospitality service to a well-to-do clientele. The San Teresa had sported fifty lavish rooms, four deluxe suites, one of Portland’s finest restaurants, and an elegant ballroom where every night an orchestra played and the affluent danced. Parker had had the building engineered so that he could, at some future time, be able to add more floors, thereby increasing his number of units. Unfortunately, he never lived to see it through. Young Edward Parker was killed at thirty-five, burned to death in a fire. Parker had entered a burning building before the firefighters had arrived. The building happened to be a hotel that he had worked at in his early twenties and he knew its layout like the back of his hand. He helped more than twenty people locate the exits before being overcome by the smoke and flames. His dying act was to help a little boy out of a window and into the waiting arms of a fire fighter who was standing at the very top rung of a wooden ladder. Parker’s clothes were already on fire when he opened the window and lowered the boy. His flaming hand had burned the child’s wrist. By then the fire fighters were powerless to save Parker. Everyone on the street, including many of the people whose lives Parker had saved, had watched the young hero burn in that window. And so it was that Edward Parker’s older brother Stoddard took over the San Teresa in 1933. He made a valiant go of it, however, Stoddard lacked Edward’s practical experience, and after five years, the once stately hotel spiraled into decline. The San Teresa had weathered the Great Depression, but it never recovered from the fire that hadn’t even burned it, only taken away its heart and soul. Stoddard Parker disappeared mysteriously in 1941, leaving his wife Valerie to operate and benefit from the well-established business. She did her flailing best but by the end of the 40’s time and neglect had tarnished the once rich and lavish décor. Stoddard and Valerie’s son William took up the reins in the 60’s and proceeded to run the business even further into the ground. First the ballroom had been sublet to help pay the bills, and finally sold in the 70’s. Now, ‘managed’ by Eddie Parker, Edward Parker’s (not so) great nephew, the hotel had hit rock bottom, hovering right on the line of legal operability. It offered weekly rates of thirty-five dollars, without maid service. Rooms could be rented by the hour, half-day, overnight, or preferably indefinitely. Manager Eddie Parker was the soul employee, and he wasn’t much for housekeeping. Eddie was greasy, overweight, half bald, and spent the lion’s share of his day in front of the TV. Somehow he managed to keep the old oil heater working in the wintertime and the plumbing functional. Once a day, Eddie got the trash and syringes and condoms off of the floor of the hallways and sprayed everywhere with a high power industrial air freshener. Vandalism scarred the once pristine edifice. The rooms and suites had been trashed. Nonetheless, one could still sense the one time prestige of the place. The San Teresa was like an aging movie star. Though her youth had been short lived, she had been built with such care that old age and a string of bad ‘marriages’ couldn’t rob her of her dignity.

The grunginess of the aging room had only served to enhance the lovers’ erotic mood. In no time at all Shannon was naked and the beautiful young man was also quickly approaching nudity. They kissed and fondled with some ferocity. The skillful hands of the young man named Mark touched her smooth body, in all the right places, just at the right time, in just the right way. The verbal sparring that they had engaged in earlier had whipped Shannon into a state of arousal that she had never before experienced, and now, oddly, she found herself approaching climax. It was unusual, she had noted at the time, for her to be feeling so close to orgasm so soon. But she knew herself sexually, she fancied, and she knew what she liked and what got her off. In her sexiest voice she said, “I like it rough, junior.” It was a line that she used with most all of her sexual partners, because she believed with certainty that it was true, and because it invariably got a positive response from young naval officers. “I do not do ‘rough’,” said the young man, and Shannon resigned herself to having a disappointing night, at least as far as the sex was concerned. Gently, he kissed her, then rolled her over so that she was lying on her front. Shannon was aware of his long hair, delicately brushing her back, just before the lips of the young man touched the back of her neck. Time seemed to stop as those sensuous lips undertook a journey which began there, at the nape of her neck, then traveled, not in any hurry, covering every square inch of her back, buttocks, legs. And somehow, every inch of her skin seemed like an erogenous zone. Tenderly, as his lips inched slowly down the back of her legs, approaching her feet, his hands directed her body to again roll over, and he began to massage her feet and suck on her toes. The entire scene was quite out of the ordinary for poor Shannon. First, she was not accustomed to the attention. Second, this was already more foreplay than…. “All the foreplay I’ve ever had before, put together!” she thought. She would have already come a long time ago, just from his sensuous kiss, but she was fighting it as long as she could. Normally, it was all she could do just to have an orgasm. Now here she was, doing everything in her power to make this experience last as long as it could. His lips worked their way slowly back up the front of Shannon’s legs and body, careful not to skip any area at all, or to skim over any area too hastily. She thought she was going to lose it when he tenderly kissed her hip just to side of her pubic area. Shannon’s entire body tingled with sensuousness. Soon her body would have that wonderful little spasm that was her climax – she would not be able to hold it back for much longer. At long last, his lips returned home, full circle, to hers. And now the lovers kissed with even more passion – a long kiss. She expected any minute to feel his hard organ penetrating her, but it didn’t happen. They just went on kissing. Finally, she stopped and looked earnestly into his eyes, trying to mentally communicate her intense want. The young man smiled, looking deeply into her own eyes, still not moving to enter her – just holding her. Shannon’s gaze went quizzical. “What do I have to do? Beg? Pay? What? What are you waiting for?” “Are you ready, my love?” he asked. “Yes!” she answered positively, passionately, hungrily. The young man raised an eyebrow as he continued to look intently into her left eye. “No you’re not.” And with that, the young man had buried his face between her legs. Shannon had had men go down on her before, but it had never really pleased her. She simply wasn’t comfortable with it. This was completely different, however. She was already so close to climax, that the presence of his tongue on her clitoris abruptly sent her over the edge, and she had a delightfully intense, but rather quick, clitoral orgasm. “Well, that was it,” she thought as it subsided. “It’s all over now but the cuddling.” She wasn’t looking forward to the thought of working hard to please this young man, and she hoped that he would come quickly and easily. But the young man hadn’t stopped licking her clitoris. He simply slowed his pace, as if starting all over from the beginning. Normally, Shannon was a ‘come-once’ sort of girl. One, usually simple, little orgasm, and she would instantly begin to feel quite over the whole sex thing, and start wondering what was on TV. It mystified her that she could be so turned on one minute, and then want nothing but space the next. But not this night! Not here, in this cheap hotel room, with this handsome young drug dealer and his oral fixation. Oh, her clitoris was feeling extra sensitive, it was true. That was normal, and typically when she reached this point she was quick to make her lover pull out or stop whatever he was doing. But the young man seemed aware of her extra-sensitive condition – seemed sensitive to it. And so it was that Shannon didn’t remove the young man’s face from between her legs, but rather, opened herself to more stimulation. Presently, the cunnilingus began to just feel wonderful, and just about the same time that Shannon was thinking that she could enjoy this all night long, she realized that she was going to climax again! Her second orgasm built slower than the first, but more intensely. She wisely decided not to fight this one and just let it flow. When it came she moaned loudly, and her vocalness seemed to excite the young man as he grabbed her buttocks, holding his mouth tightly to her clitoris. This one lasted much longer than her first. Shannon wanted to speak – to say ‘Wow! I’m not usually this loud,’ but right this second she thought she was going to die! Her clit was extremely sensitive, and she tried to move it away from the young man’s tongue. But she was, however, held fast by the young man’s gentle but firm grasp. Again, though, he was very careful. He seemed to know exactly how to lick her clitoris so as not to overly stimulate it in its ultra-sensitive state. Before long, she was again able to relax and enjoy the cunnilingus. And before she knew it she was coming again! On her third orgasm she screamed, and he licked her with increased gusto. And after, he continued. Panting, she said, “I’m not usually this loud!” Between licks, he replied breathlessly, passionately, “Be loud.” After her fourth orgasm, Shannon’s clitoris was absolutely too sensitive to endure any more stimulation. She tried to jerk away, but still the young man held her tightly. However, he was again somehow aware of her condition, and his tongue moved down from her clit, and into her vaginal opening. Now the tip of his tongue massaged her G spot, and within a minute, Shannon was having her first ever vaginal orgasm. Her moans could be heard clear from the street below. Shannon still had to fight the urge to push him away. The pleasure was almost too intense – almost like torture. How much more of this would she be able to stand? She steeled herself, and opened herself to the agony. The young man’s tongue returned to Shannon’s clit, which was now ready for some more stimulation after its brief rest. Number five was a screamer. And so it went for Shannon’s sixth, seventh, eighth, and ninth – the young man switching between Shannon’s clitoris and G spot. Each orgasm was more tumultuous than the one before it. Shannon was beginning to get quite hoarse. She had never screamed so much in her life. Quite frankly, her world was getting rocked! As she lay, getting pleased beyond her wildest fantasy, Shannon began to rethink her idea about narcing on the young drug dealer. Perhaps it would be better if she could impress him enough to get him to do this again sometime… soon… preferably on a regular basis. Could she handle that? Her orgasms were coming one right after another. It was more like one continuous orgasm now. They flowed and crested and ebbed and crested again. She had lost count in the upper teens. It was almost more than she could take, and Shannon began to wonder how much longer she would last. Sweat glistened all over her. Her mind was a swirl. The cheap hotel room, the cunnilingus, the night, all began to spin! He finally raised his head, and smiled warmly at Shannon, his face wet with vulva liquor. She smiled adoringly back at him. He said, “Now you’re ready.” When he finally entered her, it was like the fulfilling of Shannon’s deepest desire. Now the young man moved with a gentle motion that would build with intensity, matching perfectly Shannon’s rising level of erotica. At the completion of each of Shannon’s climaxes, he would slow down, stop, kiss her lips and neck, and carefully build again. This sex was definitely a life changing event for Shannon. It was spiritual. It was a religious experience! It was belief shattering…super-natural! Never had Shannon been made love to like this. And she had had a lot of lovers. Each past lover had been more disappointing than his predecessor. But this Mark! “Oh my God!” she thought, as she screamed with ecstasy at the climax of yet another orgasm. The intercourse, not counting the cunnilingus, lasted for about thirty minutes, but for Shannon, it was the most glorious half- hour of her life. She came over and over, and her lover was most considerate, and sexy! When the young man finally came himself, Shannon also finished with a nice, warm, deep orgasm that seemed to use up the last of her energy and left her feeling weak, dizzy, euphoric. Her body tingled. It struck her funny that the young man had not asked about whether or not she was on any form of birth control. Had he just assumed? Maybe he didn’t care. Anyway, it didn’t really matter. Shannon was on the pill, and she was used to engaging in sex without any more protection than that. And besides, she decided right then and there that she’d have his baby if she ever got the chance. The lovers lay there, spent, in each other’s arms. “Oh, Mark,” she cooed. “I don’t know what to say about that.” The young man named Mark brushed Shannon’s hair back tenderly. “You were wonderful.” And that struck Shannon funny as well, that he would say something so trite. “Please, tell me that this wasn’t just a one-nighter,” she said, and he went on smiling tenderly. “I would love to do this again, if you would want to, too, I mean.” “That would be lovely,” he said. “What do you have in mind?” “What do you mean?” “Let me cut to chase,” he said. “Do you desire only sex, or would you prefer a relationship?” Shannon thought about that. She knew what she really wanted, but she also wanted to answer this question correctly. What was he fishing for? Of course, she would prefer a relationship! Are you kidding?! This was the ultimate lover of all time, and he was absolutely gorgeous – the veritable total-package. Of course, he would have to do a little changing in the career department, but other than that it was ‘academic.’ She wanted his stuff! Her quandary took a little too long, and the young man continued, “Because if it’s just sex you want with me, I’d have to insist on not being exclusive.” “And want if I wanted a relationship?” asked Shannon, tipping her hand. “I’m open to that, but we would have to make a few changes,” he said. Shannon smiled, “Good! And I totally agree about the changes.” “You do?” he replied, smiling. “What changes did you think I was proposing?” “Well,” she started, “You probably want me to stop drinking and smoking. Those seem like important issues to you, and that’s fine. I’ve really been looking for a reason to quit anyway.” “Silly girl,” the young man had teased with a grin. “It is not my intention to make you change for me, as if I even could.” “I would be changing for me!” Shannon protested. “You say that now….” he said. “It’s true,” she continued. “And besides, you’ll need to make a few adjustments in your life, too, buddy boy.” Shannon had every intention of changing Mark into her ultimate lover/boyfriend. By her assessment he was already ninety-five percent of the way there anyway. It wouldn’t take much to make him perfect. “Oh?” he was still grinning. “This should be good.” “Well, of course you’re going to have to stop selling drugs and get a legitimate job!” Shannon said. “Obviously, a woman in my position can’t be sleeping with an outlaw.” She had been expecting some kind of confrontation at this point, but he had just smiled. “Shannon dear, you are so adorable.” He was patronizing her! Shannon pulled back some. She was wary now. “You’re not ready to go straight?” she asked. “Shannon, my dear,” he started. “It is not I that needs to change livelihoods. It is you.” “What?! What are you talking about? How can you say that?” She paused only for half a second, not really giving him time to answer, and continued. “I’m a fine, upstanding, law-abiding citizen. I do a very important job for this country, and it’s not easy I might add! I work hard for the people of this country, and you! What do you do? You leach off of the weak members of society, pedaling misery and death!” “Are you done?” asked the young man. “No, I’m not.” She started again. “Don’t think that just because you’re the world’s most amazing lover that you can get away with telling me all of this shit tonight. You’ve gone on and on trying to sound like the guru at the top of the mountain. Well, let me tell you something, mister, you’re ideas are stupid!” She hadn’t really meant to sound so harsh, but she had really had quite enough. She was hoping that some brutal honesty would humble him a little bit. Of course, she hadn’t really thought that his ideas were stupid, but she was partially in denial, and partially pissed that he had called her on it earlier, and partially pissed at her herself for being seduced by the whole thing. Not that she was sorry that she had spread her legs for him. There was no denying that she had loved the sex and would do it again if she ever got the chance! And through it all, the young man named Mark had just smiled tenderly at her, as if she was nothing more than a child throwing a tantrum over something unimportant. “If you are quite done,” he said, “I will try to explain exactly what I mean. It is very important to me that I feel like you understand my position. You do not have to agree with me – naturally, you should always maintain your own opinions. But I do hope you at least understand my position enough to not think that I am off my rocker.” Shannon calmed down immediately. She had to admit that he certainly maintained his rationality well – better than she had. “OK,” she said. “Let us cut down to the essence of what you and I each do. I am a business man. I buy a simple product, and I resell it. I do not force anyone to buy my product. And besides, if recreational drinking is OK, then recreational drugs certainly should be too. That is a rationalization, I know, but it really boils down a person’s individual choice, does it not? Nobody is holding a knife to your throat and forcing you to do either one. “You, on the other hand, work for the government. The government provides products and services that are supposed to serve the public good, right?” He paused, and Shannon affirmed that she agreed so far. He continued, “But let us say that there is a service provided by the government that I do not wish to use. I am still required to pay for it, am I not? In fact, if I do not pay for all of the services that the government says I should pay for, they will take measures to force me to pay.” “What are you, an anarchist?” asked Shannon. “In the simplest definition of the term, yes,” he answered. “I can’t believe this,” she said, and to herself she thought, “I just had my world rocked by an anarchist!” Shannon continued, “But without the government, there would be chaos.” “Maybe, but I doubt it. I envision something other than chaos with the absence of government.” “What, pray tell, is your vision?” she asked sarcastically. “Please, Shannon. I hope that I would never be so mocking of your ideas.” Again, Shannon was shocked that he had reacted so rationally to her sarcasm. Why was she trying so hard to get a rise out of him? After listening to herself, she realized that she had sounded like a bitch. “I’m sorry, Mark. God, you must think –” “No!” he interrupted. “I do not think badly of you for that. I can see where what I am saying is challenging your beliefs at their fundament. It is only natural that you might react initially with defensiveness.” “Please forgive me,” she said, “And tell me your ideas.” “Actually,” the young man started again, “It does not matter if there is government in the world or not. If there is one thing that history has shown us, it is that governments come and go. We have even seen it in our own lifetimes, have we not? What has remained constant through time is the individual. We, as individuals use a certain amount of the earth’s resources in each of our respective lifetimes, and each individual also produces a certain amount of value in their lifetime. Some people produce more than they consume; they are the hard working business owners, laborers, creators. Some people consume more than produce; they are the lazy, the war mongers, the common thieves, the bureaucrats and their employees. “You don’t think that I produce?” Shannon asked. “There are only a handful of government jobs that really produce anything of value. The rest are a leech on the tax-paying producers,” the young man answered, still smiling tenderly. “A producer is going to create and market something of value, preferably something of true value, and that is where I, as a drug dealer, skirt the line, as there has been some debate as to the true value of drugs. A producer might provide a valuable service, or, they might market and sell their own time; that would be most of the hard working laborers. But if one does market and sell their own time, their employer should be a producer or provider of something of value. Does that make sense?” “So the government doesn’t provide anything of value?” Shannon asked. “The government does absolutely nothing to improve my quality of life,” he clarified. “Don’t you use the roads? Don’t you benefit from police protection? What about the fire department?” “I would rather pay a private corporation to provide the services that I need and use,” said the young man. “But that just doesn’t make any sense at all. You can’t trust big business any more than you can trust the government,” Shannon said. “Even less, I’d say!” “No, that is not true,” the young man said. “Look at any time there was corruption in a business, big or small, and you will find that government and/or legislation was actually at the heart of it.” Shannon thought about that. She was quiet for just a minute and then asked, “What about the mafia? Who would protect us against organized crime if there was no government?” “Again, organized crime gets its life and power from corrupt government leaders and law-makers. Even I would probably have to find another livelihood if not for the regulation of controlled substances. Anyway, that is why I believe that dealing drugs, as despicable as that is, is a more valuable service to society than the IRS.” This had all been sort of making sense to Shannon at the time, but still she hadn’t been convinced. Surely, this beautiful young man had missed something, overlooked one issue somewhere that negated all of this anti-government sentiment. She just hadn’t been able to think of anything at the time. But if he was right, then Shannon would have to re-evaluate her entire life. Unfortunately, she had been too distracted since then to give it any more thought. “So you want me to quit my job, huh?” she had asked, still not believing that the entire night had happened the way that it had. “I want you to do whatever makes you happy, but just remember that everything you do is a cause set in motion. I hope that the effects of those causes bring you happiness,” the young man had said. It was something that Shannon had heard countless times before in many forms, but that night, in that setting, it had struck her as more profound than anything she had ever heard before in all of her thirty-three years. And Shannon had realized for the tenth time that night she was absolutely not happy. What was her life missing? Could there be any truth to the young man’s words? Was her problem that she did not produce anything of value? She had looked deep into the beautiful eyes of the young man then, her own neediness stabbing deep into her bosom. “Mark,” she had asked, “Are you happy?” The young man named Mark had smiled his most tender and loving smile back at Shannon, momentarily numbing her deep hurt. “Let us talk no more about any of this. I promise that I will check back in on you in a few months. That way, any changes that we each make in our lives will be of our own individual volition. I believe in you, Shannon.”

CHAPTER XXIII

Shannon knew that despite the pain, all that the young man had said that night was exactly what she needed to hear. And she had had every intention of giving her whole life a shakedown. But it had been less than a week later when her routine blood test came back positive for HIV. Understandably, the news had turned her life upside down. After some quick investigating, it was discovered that she had contracted the AIDS virus from a past lover – ironically, it had been the first lover that she had had after her husband left her. It had been a fling, and one quite foolish, she had thought, even before she had found out about the HIV. Even before the divorce had been final, Shannon had been haunted by the thought that twelve years of marriage had killed her sex appeal. In a futile attempt to prove to herself that she was still sexy, she had jumped in the sack with the first willing male. The first willing male had turned out to be a young naval officer that she had met at a nightclub. The sex had been utterly forgettable. Since that rather horrid night, Shannon had had about twenty other one night stands, and ten more week-long relationships. With the revelation of her impending slow and painful death, her life became consumed with trying to inform as many of her past lovers as she could. The task of calling up men that she hardly knew, men that probably didn’t want to hear from her even if it had been good news, was a chore that she was loath to perform. Reactions had varied all the way from a quiet ‘damn’, to weeping, to ‘You fucking bitch!! Click!’ She had succeeded at contacting only about half of them. She couldn’t even remember the names of some of them. And so the glorious night that she had spent with Mark had been the last happy day in her life. To say that her life had sucked profusely since that night would be a masterful understatement. She continued her job at the IRS, as something about carrying out her duties there gave her a feeling of vindication. About the only behavior that she had changed was her sleeping around, for obvious reasons. So now here she was, back in the Four Leaf Clover, and there was Mark, checking in on her just like he had promised. She was very glad to see him, but her heart broke with the knowledge of the task that lay before her. Shannon Goulier, aka Suzanne Gold, stood up from her bar stool, exactly as she had done three months earlier, and walked over to the dark booth where sat Mark, aka Marcus the Vampire. He took her hands in his from across the table and said, “Shannon, my dear, how have you been?” Shannon managed only, “Hello, Mark,” before she lost her composure, bowed her head and started sobbing. The vampire said nothing, but secretly used his amazing powers to calm the distraught woman and help give her a sense of well-being. “I have something terrible…” her sentence trailed off into sobs. The ancient night walker paused for a moment, waiting to see if she would recover; continue. When she didn’t he said, “Come now, Shannon dear, get yourself together. Tell me what is the matter. I am no good at guessing games.” In truth, Marcus knew all about her late diagnosis. He’d been keeping tabs on her for months. With teary eyes and cracking voice, Shannon said, “I don’t know exactly how to tell you this, and I’ll understand if you hate me…” She averted her eyes from his again. To Shannon, those beautiful light brown eyes seemed so pure and innocent. And she would be the instrument of their defilement, and death! If she only knew the truth….. “Come now, Shannon,” Marcus coaxed, gently squeezing her fingers. Sobbing, she said, “I’m HIV positive.” Marcus didn’t drop his smile; just maintained a gaze that reflected ages of wisdom and perspective. “It is alright, dear.” The beleaguered woman continued to carry on, “You need to go get tested. God, I hope you’ve been practicing safe sex. You may need to….” “Shannon,” he interrupted. “Shannon!” She stopped finally. Her red rimmed eyes looked sadly into his and she realized for the first time that there was no distress there. “It is OK, Shannon dear. Everything will be OK.” Needless to say, the poor woman was confused, but very relieved that the young man had taken the news so well. For the moment she didn’t care why. She said, “Oh Mark, I’m so sorry,” and the sobs began again. “Shhh, my dear, shhhh,” said Marcus. “This should not be your most pressing health concern.” Still confused and crying, Shannon asked, “Wha-what do you mean?” Marcus, aka the young man named Mark, just smiled and said, “Come, my dear. Let us go get a room at the San Teresa.” The suggestion from Mark brought flooding back again to Shannon the memory of that night and the out-of-this-world sex that they had shared. She had put out of her head the idea of ever feeling that way again after she had received her dreadful diagnosis, and now the thought of it filled her with such joy that the tears began flowing again. The lovers exited the Four Leaf Clover, and Marcus escorted Shannon the IRS agent down Fifth Avenue. They walked in silence, Shannon unknowingly holding the arm of a vampire. She looked down, her gaze fixed on the red-brick sidewalk while he gazed longingly out at the glow that lingered atop the west hills. Presently, they arrived, and Marcus stopped just down the street from the entrance. “I shall be right along,” he said, pressing a key into the hand of the cheerless woman. “You head up and make yourself comfortable. Room 202. I am just going to fetch a little something.” And the far too trusting Shannon did exactly as she was told. This time, Marcus hadn’t even paid for the room, he just happened to have the key, and earlier he had made sure that the room was not currently occupied. It would not be good for Fast Eddie to see them walking in together. Rather, the vampire walked around the block, stepped into an alley to the side of an old office building, jumped and grabbed a metal fire-escape rail, and climbed up with the grace of a spider. Like a shadow he ascended the three flights to the roof, crossed the rooftop to its edge and jumped the twelve feet over to a fire escape on the Hotel San Teresa. Down the fire escape to second floor, he entered and stepped down the hallway to room 202. The door had been left just barely unlatched, and Marcus pushed it open. Shannon lay on the bed, already undressed to her bra and panties. She had been able to get her composure. And she had had just a minute to reason things through. She was now suspecting that Mark had already had AIDS. Why else would he have taken the news so calmly? And that thought made her just a little upset. Not so upset, mind you, that she was going to turn down a glorious night of sex with the world’s most amazing lover. But how could he have not cared enough to tell her? How could he have knowingly put her at risk like that? Why, if she hadn’t already had the AIDS virus, he might have given it to her! It was just a little upsetting. What had she been thinking, after all, sleeping with a drug dealer?! It didn’t matter much now, but it had definitely been the crowning point of all the many foolish things that she had done in her life. Of course, how could she regret it, when none of it mattered anymore? Especially when she was fixing to go do it again right this second. She was perfectly willing to have sex with this man right up until she died. Shannon hoped that her daughter would make better choices in her own life. Too late. Marcus removed his trench coat, shoes, and shirt and joined Shannon on the bed. “I’m so glad to see you are feeling a little better,” he said. “Thank you,” Shannon replied. “I’m so sorry I made a spectacle of myself back at the club.” The vampire was of course very grateful that she hadn’t really made a spectacle of herself. Thankfully, their entire conversation had gone unnoticed by every one else. “That is OK,” said Marcus. “It is easy to get upset when you lose proper perspective.” Shannon’s suspicion flared. “Is that how you were able to take the news so well?” she asked. “Exactly,” he said, smiling. “Level with me, mister,” she said, letting anger leak just so slightly. “You’ve already got AIDS, haven’t you?” Marcus chuckled but said nothing, letting her go on thinking like that for just another moment. “It’s true,” she asserted when he didn’t immediately deny it. “No, dear, I do not have AIDS. And I can not get it.” “How?” she asked. Marcus ignored that question and went on. “And I am not a drug dealer.” Shannon of course no longer really cared about that, but still confusion clouded her face. She could say nothing, so the beautiful young man continued, “And you are still an IRS agent.” “What the hell has that got to do with anything?” asked Shannon. She noticed that this time their verbal sparring was doing nothing to turn her on, unlike their last encounter, and now she was feeling a little chilly in her partial nudity. “I was hoping that you would make some positive changes in your life,” Marcus answered. Resentment apparent, Shannon answered, “I’ve been a little pre-occupied with something more important!” She wasn’t listening to her own words. “That is too bad,” Marcus said. “I believed in you.” “Oh, don’t patronize me like that, buster. I don’t need to make any changes in my life. You need to get over this strange idea that you’re going to reform ‘the evil IRS agent!’ You are an over-zealous idealist and you need to just grasp the fact that you’re not going to change the world! I’m a good person and I do a good job for my country.” Marcus chuckled again. “It has been a long time since anyone ever called me an idealist.” “You’re insane!” Shannon said. What was she doing here? God! What was she doing here in her underwear?! Marcus turned serious. “You are working on a case right now against a corporation called Bradley Holdings,” he said. “The assessment that you have calculated, coupled with all of your bogus fees and fines, and interest, will be enough to bankrupt the corporation.” It all suddenly came very clear to Shannon. “Oh, so you’re with Bradley Holdings,” she said. “And you’re trying to soften me up so you won’t get hit so hard. Well, you can just forget that, mister. You’re guilty as sin of tax evasion and you’re company needs to go down!” “Go down?!” echoed Marcus “Should you not mean to say ‘pay our tax assessment’?” “Whatever!” Shannon answered. She moved to the edge of the bed and sat up. “That sounds awfully destructive,” said Marcus, innocently. “Corporations like Bradley Holdings bring it on themselves by not properly paying their taxes,” she said venomously. Suzanne Gold had personally brought to ruin more than four dozen private businesses of various sizes. The destruction in her wake had left people unemployed, companies bankrupt, families homeless. “But the government does not provide any beneficial services to my corporation,” said the vampire, smiling. “We have been over this already, my dear. It would be bad business for us to pay for services that we do not use.” “Your corporation gets its life from the state! I think that’s a pretty valuable service!” “Look again, my dear,” said Marcus. “Bradley Holdings is 270 years old. That makes it much older than the state; even the country!” “It just doesn’t matter, Mark. You have to pay taxes. We all have to pay taxes!” She sat on the edge of the bed, her back to him. “OK,” said Marcus, “Let us say that Bradley Holdings did go to the expense of paying taxes. They would just have to raise the price of their goods and services. That would mean that the consumer is actually paying the tax bill; the public masses getting stiffed again, their money becoming less and less effective. Could you imagine how good the economy would be without big government spending and a huge tax liability on corporations?” Mark had a good point there, but she wasn’t going to let him have it. Shannon replied sourly, “I think that it would just make your economy good.” “Well, Shannon my love, I have some great news for you,” said Marcus as he tenderly touched the back of her hair. She stopped, his touch melting her again. She still wanted him, damn it! How could he be so irresistible? It just didn’t matter. If he wanted to fuck her, she would definitely let him, and she would still go after Bradley Holdings with a vengeance. “What?” she said, trying to change her mood. “You will not die of AIDS” said the vampire. Before she had even registered what he had said he was upon her, his teeth in her neck, his hand firmly over her mouth. The vampire’s victim was rigid, paralyzed, as he slowly sucked the life out of her. There was to be no pleasure for the unremorseful Shannon. “What in God’s name is happening?!” she thought. This was like something straight out of a nightmare! Shannon wanted to struggle, to fight off this assailant, but she couldn’t move. It seemed to her that this bite in her neck was so deep as to somehow impede impulses from her brain to elsewhere. She had never believed in anything so fanciful as vampires, and even now only thought that she was being attacked by a demented Satan worshiper or something like that. God! Had she ever been wrong about this guy! The pain of the bite was intense, but quite frankly, nothing compared to the pains of giving birth. A noise from somewhere was building; a white noise, a static perhaps, that grew louder. It crescendoed as Shannon began to wonder how much louder it could get. The noise encompassed her, and she suddenly felt very small and alone, even as the noise increased. Shannon was alone in an expanse of white nothing; a small dot in the middle of an immense blank page, with nothing but the maddening, still growing noise. Infinity stretched out before her in all directions. She screamed, but couldn’t even hear it in her own head for the noise, the mind shattering noise!! And all through Shannon’s internal madness, Marcus the vampire sucked serenely on her neck in the decaying hotel room. She had good blood. At length, Marcus released his victim, and she tipped weakly until she lay on her side at the edge of the bed. He had been very neat about this feeding – there was not a drop of blood on his face or anywhere else. He had drained her very nearly dry. She would not live much longer. As Shannon recovered from her temporary paralysis, she began to tremble, sobbing softly. Her confused mind could not grasp the insanity of the situation. The noise was gone, but the memory of it lingered like a deep, subtle rumble from somewhere horrifying – somewhere that beckoned for her to return. “You know the really pitiful thing,” said Marcus cynically, “is that there are more people like you in this world right now than I could ever feed on and kill in five thousand years.” Shannon wondered if there was any way out of this for her. She also wondered if she wanted out. Suicide had crossed her mind several times in the last few years, and especially in the last few months, and she realized now that she just wasn’t that ‘in love’ with life. “Life must be a man,” she thought, because it had fucked her over just like every man she had ever known. Marcus was dressing. “My dear Shannon,” he said, smiling darkly. “My dear, dear Shannon. I hope that if anyone else takes on the Bradley Holdings case, that they are as delicious as you have been.” The vampire donned his leather trench coat, reached into an inside pocket, and pulled out his extremely sharp hunting knife. This corpse was to be found, and it was time to do some sculpting. CHAPTER XXIV

Mitzi Titzi threw her shoulders back and stuck out her bowling ball sized breasts like only she could. For the moment, she was wearing a thong panty with a long, button-down-the-front ‘man shirt.’ The buttons, however, were popping off all over front of the stage, bouncing and rolling down to the lucky tables that were at the stage’s apron. Tonight’s music selection was ‘You Make Me Feel Like a Natural Woman,’ and Mitzi was doing her famous ‘bust out of a shirt’ routine. And as usual, she was rockin’ the house. It was busy for a Monday, and she was having a good night. Mimi had managed to score on a little cake, and she was feeling good. More importantly, she had managed thus far to keep her habit a secret from Janet. Mimi was indeed very fond of the chubby nurse, who was now seated at her usual table in the back of the Bare Cage. The beautiful amazon had not introspected as to why she was attracted to Janet. For her, it was simply enough that she was. And Mimi certainly enjoyed the company of the shy girl. But Mimi also enjoyed getting high. Very much! And now, for the first time in her life, she was introspecting on her addiction. Should she quit? Was it necessary? Where the hell was she going to in her life? Mimi looked down at the faces of the men who were ogling her as she did her strip-tease. She knew most of them, but only from the club. The few that she did socialize with outside of the club were mostly ‘party associates.’ She desired only one thing from any of them – money. Everything that she did on stage was calculated to achieve that end. She appreciated them as people, as fellow human beings, but she didn’t really feel anything at all for them. Without a doubt, Mitzi was an exhibitionist. She loved her body, and she loved showing it off. Mitzi had been stripping for about five years – a very blurry five years. Her start in dancing had also marked the beginning of her cocaine use. Had the two events been related? Mimi couldn’t remember. In high school Mimi had been very popular with the college boys. She had only engaged in dating high school boys while she was still in middle school. It was a miracle that Mimi hadn’t been knocked up! After having watched the young girl bust right out of her training bras, her forward-thinking mother (an extremely fertile woman) had put young Mimi on birth-control pills. Not a second too soon either, since the pre-teen Mimi had already been experimenting with sex, and she had gladly given up her virginity shortly after her eleventh birthday. Thus began Mimi’s extremely promiscuous puberty. At some point along the way, Mimi decided that she pretty much preferred girls over boys, although either was fine for her, generally. The drugs had also started at a young age. First pot, then X, then, as she graduated from high school and got into dancing, she also graduated to coke. Life for Mimi had been nothing more than an exercise in acquiring as much momentary pleasure as she could get. Sex, drugs, and – well, that was about it for her. It hadn’t seemed to her like a bad way to live. Mimi knew that there was a problem now, though. Her coke habit was running about two hundred dollars a week, up from one hundred dollars just about a year ago, and that was only covering the coke that she paid cash for. Mimi had curtailed her sex for drugs activities since she had started sleeping with Janet, so her drug bill was again climbing. She had never cared, never been ashamed of it – until now. Mitzi Titzi put her focus on the overweight girl that sat at the back of the club. It was most enjoyable to dance for Janet. The bashful girl, try as she might, couldn’t hide her excitement while watching the amazing amazon dance, and Mitzi could see it from the stage. The girls had been together three times in the last week, not counting their first encounter. Their relationship was rather innocent, but mature. They seemed to have a lot in common, though the girls were not perfectly compatible. So far, however, no difficult differences had reared their heads. Except that the poor naïve nurse had no idea about the dancer’s drug habit. How long could Mimi keep it a secret? Would it be the end of the romance when Janet learned of it? Maybe she wouldn’t care. Maybe the overweight girl was so grateful to just be getting some attention from anyone that she would be able to look past it. Mitzi chided herself as she danced. What made her think that Janet would think so low of herself? Sure, it was obvious that the nurse exhibited low self-esteem, but that is not the bottom-line factor that determines an individual’s true self-worth. Else, why would Mimi be attracted to Janet in the first place? No, Mitzi decided. Janet probably would not be accepting of the habit. Nor should she be, if it happened to be that she didn’t believe in drug use. And so it was, that Miriam Hudson, aka Mitzi Titzi, aka Mimi, decided that she would tell Janet about her addiction. She knew that she was running a risk of losing Janet, and that idea saddened her deeply. Mimi was quite sure that her feelings for Janet were love, or at least they would be very soon! But the large-breasted girl was mature enough to know that if she was going to be ‘in-love’ with anyone, then their relationship would not be based on false pretenses. Such a deception could potentially be damaging, and certainly, she knew, a waste of time. Mimi had no compunctions about doing herself a damage, that was her right and prerogative, but she could not allow herself to be the cause of pain for Janet. Resolved that she would tell Janet at the first opportunity, Mitzi felt a slight exhilaration as she danced. One way or the other, it would all be all right. In her joyful state, another idea popped into the dancer’s head – what if she did quit the drugs? For just a quarter of a second, Mimi got a glimpse of something beautiful, as the positive mental picture of life without that heinous vice flashed in her mind. But then, powerfully overwhelming, a dark feeling shattered the fleeting image. Replacing it was a dark, jagged image that represented what life would really be like if the joys of cocaine were never again to be enjoyed. Mitzi’s dance proceeded on auto-pilot as she thought, “Oh God! There is no way I could ever give it up!” But even as she thought that, she realized that she did not love cocaine. She could remember a time when she had thought that she did, but right now she just remembered all of the times when cocaine had not been so sweet to her. Cocaine did not make life rosy, but still life sometimes was. So what did make life rosy? Caught up in her thinking, Mimi didn’t notice the door of the club breezing open. Neither did any of the horny club patrons, as they were completely enthralled with the amazing amazon. Janet was also enthralled with Mitzi, but she suddenly found herself feeling distracted, almost dizzy. She was seated near the door and now she noticed that it had opened. There was someone there, talking to the bouncer, but she found it difficult to focus on the person. She blinked, and blamed the wine. For the ‘someone’ that had just entered the strip joint, it was habit to use his special talents to cause people around him to lose their concentration. It was expressly for the purpose of remaining inconspicuous, but it was also a little joke that he enjoyed playing on everyone around him; one of the jokes he enjoyed anyway. Marcus had, of course, many more little jokes and most of them were not so harmless. He was pleased that the bouncer, Quince, did not seem to remember him from the last time. Donna, the chewed-up cocktail waitress, showed no signs of recognition either, as she took Marcus’s usual drink order. But now, here was a slight problem – there was the chubby, emotional girl that he had so painstakingly ‘fixed-up’ with the busty dancer. Had she just taken notice of him? Janet was wondering if she had lost all her tolerance for alcohol. She had only been on her first wine when the feeling of mild disorientation hit her. Squeezing her eyes shut, she shook her head lightly, then turned her attention back to the stage and Mimi. Strangely, though, Janet now felt like she had been released from Mimi’s ‘spell.’ Just moments ago, the stripper had been Janet’s whole world. The overweight girl suddenly found herself feeling lost, detached, cut off! What was it, that was seeming to exert so much control over her feelings? Almost as if in answer, her gaze wandered over to the sharp-dressed, young looking man that was seated at a table just off to her left. “Shit!” thought Marcus. His powers were losing their effect on the girl. He casually but quickly got up and exited the room. “Who was that guy over there?” thought Janet. “He looked familiar….” But before she could place him, her attention turned back to the amazing Mitzi, and the shy little nurse was again under the spell of the large-breasted dancer. The vampire was relieved to again be unnoticed. This was not the first time in his long life that something like that had happened. Thankfully, he had all of his wits about him, having so recently been satiated. It had been a fine evening so far, and, fates willing, it would go right on being a splendid night. He would just have to wait in the darkness, as he was so accustomed to doing. It wasn’t long before another night was winding down at the Bare Cage. In ones and twos the dancers emerged from the backstage dressing room, making their way through the bar toward the door, some of them meeting up with exiting Bare Cage patrons. And then there was Mitzi, wearing a tight skirt and a T-shirt tied in a knot just under her right breast to show off her sexy navel. She headed straight for Janet, who stood as she approached. Joyfully the girls embraced, then kissed tenderly, then continued to hug. The oily DJ looked at them hungrily. Oh, to be between those two right now! All of that breast tissue…. It was good to see Mitzi spending time with someone that obviously must be good for her, and not the dregs of humanity like Rodney and Tina. Marcus was pleased as he spied the girls exiting the club. Money couldn’t buy entertainment like this. Like a shadow, he watched from a dark sedan as they walked through the little parking lot. The smell of Shannon’s perfume permeated her new Audi. Marcus would ditch the car later; probably park it at an Audi dealership somewhere….. Janet and Mimi drove in separate cars to Janet’s apartment. On the way, Mimi rehearsed in her head how she would tell Janet about her drug problem. For Janet, this had become the norm. She no longer suffered from the nervous shakes. The girls bubbled with affection as they walked into the building from the parking garage. Just inside the door of her apartment, Janet turned to Mimi. She was quiet, as if she was about to say something. Mimi stopped, just appreciating the look of love that Janet wore on her face. “Mimi,” Janet began. “I just want to tell you how much I appreciate having you in my life. You’re wonderful, and you’ve taught me so much in such a short time. I love you.” “I love you, Janet.” The girls kissed, and every good intention of being truthful with Janet about her drug habit disappeared in Mimi like a magician in a puff of smoke. In a frenzy, the girls tumbled into the apartment, made it as far as the couch, and proceeded to make love, unaware of the shadowy form that stood like a statue on the balcony. The ancient voyeur had a fairly unobstructed view of the sexy and voluptuous lesbians. His desire for entertainment made him a watcher, a voyeur. Except that he had long ago stopped watching for any kind of sexual gratification. For the vampire, it was more like looking at art. And he enjoyed it immensely if the art was good! Marcus mused as he watched the girls unselfishly pleasing each other. Right about now there was sure to be a huge crime scene taking place only one block down from the police station.

CHAPTER XXV

Henderson appeared on the surface to be frustrated and concerned as he carried out his investigation at this latest downtown homicide, but inside he was exhilarated. Another chopped up corpse! His Psicko Killer, (as the perp had now been dubbed), was obviously feeling confident and cocky. The pieces of Shannon Goulier lay in a pile on the brick plaza in front of the Edith Green Wendell Wyatt Federal Building. This time there were no clothes on the body parts, and the pieces were cut smaller. Her picture ID tag with the name of her alias Suzanne Gold had been placed deliberately on the pinnacle of the pile. A large number of cops were trying vainly to keep people from gawking at the gore, while Henderson quickly set about his investigation of the crime scene. All the while it was the general consensus among them that the victim must have been some bitch that got what she deserved. With the KOIN building the south neighbor of the Federal Building, it had not taken any time at all for a news reporter and a camera crew to invade the scene. They had been only minutes behind the cops. The scene had exploded into a grisly circus of gore. Henderson knew that he was wrong for feeling like this, but secretly he hoped that the Psicko Killer would keep on pushing the envelope, seeing what he could get away with, seeing how far he could go. Henderson believed that eventually the Psicko would screw up, and the detective would be able to nail him. He could see the headlines now – FEARLESS PORTLAND COP BUSTS PSICKO KILLER. For Henderson, it wasn’t about keeping the streets safe at all, except for his family. He could have cared less about anyone else in the metro. He just wanted the glory of one great bust. And now he had adopted the Psicko Killer as his nemesis. But he knew he would have to do some discrete digging around in other divisions of the department. The pleasure would be all his. Additionally, Henderson, who felt that he had his own fair share of ‘cop’s intuition,’ couldn’t shake the feeling that Jimmy Bechard had something to do with this. He had a silly fancy that this might be another contract killing! Oh, he’d love to bring the insubordinate crusty old fat-slapper down. Naturally, with this victim sitting out for the entire world to see, it had been a lot harder for the police to prevent the particulars of the homicide from becoming available to the public. The body had first been discovered by a homeless man, who was happy to tell anyone willing to listen about all of the macabre minutiae of his discovery. He even claimed to have seen the big chainsaw welding winged demon that had done the dirty deed. “And he had the head of a goat!” the wino had been heard telling newspaper and television reporters. Of course, it did not reflect well on the police to have the body (parts) dumped right out in the open and only one block away from police headquarters, right in the front of the Federal Building. Henderson readied himself to receive just a little bit of heat over that one. Other reporters were interviewing Police Captain Von Rahal. A reporter asked, “Will this reopen the case against Jamahl Shafer, the man accused of killing Officer Clarence Chapman?” “Hell no!” answered Rahal. “The evidence against Shafer was iron clad! What we have here is probably some little nerd that thinks Shafer’s work was cute. We’ve got a copy cat.” And so Portland officially had a serial killer at large. This would put a little pressure on Henderson and his fellow peace officers, but it wouldn’t be bad. Hell, if anything, it would push the budget through and he’d end up with a raise. He couldn’t wait for the next diced body to turn up. Rahal finished with the reporters abruptly and beckoned for Henderson to join him for a little walk. Once the two men were able to converse without being overheard, Rahal said, “Darrel, we’re getting pressure from the powers that be to bring in the FBI on this.” “Oh, come on, Cap’n,” whined Henderson. “Let’s not call those dogs in just yet. Let’s try to crack this one on our own first, huh?” And of course, he really meant ‘on my own!’ “OK, Henderson,” Captain Rahal replied. “I’ll hold them back for now. But if one of those diced up bodies shows up across the river, it’ll be out of my hands anyway.” What the Captain was referring to was the wide and beautiful Columbia River that served as the state line between Oregon and Washington. If body parts were ever found across state lines it would become a federal investigation. Rahal spoke again. “How about if we have the FBI consult with us for now; work up one of their famous psychological profiles?” Henderson wanted to say something smart about the FBI’s ineffectual profiles, but thought better of it. “Sure,” he said, and then thought to himself, “Let ‘em knock themselves out coming up with a profile, just keep ‘em outa my way!”

CHAPTER XXVI

At length, the girls’ fiery passion began to wane slightly and a need for sleep began to overtake Janet, who was also obligated to arrive at work in about three and a half hours. A different need was beckoning to Mimi for satisfaction. Janet dozed and Mimi lay there snuggling her as long as she could stand it. Finally she roused Janet and said, “Hey baby, you should go to bed.” This is fine,” she replied sleepily. “I should go,” Mimi said just as Janet began fade, warm and fuzzy, back into a sleep state. “Aw, don’t go,” Janet pleaded. “I need to; let you sleep. You gotta get up early,” Mimi fumbled. “Well, if you must go,” Janet said. She rubbed her eyes and sat up. “Are you still coming up to the hospital tomorrow, er, today, I should say?” “Sure, baby,” said Mimi. “Eleven o’clock?” Janet confirmed. “Sure,” said Mimi. The girls said rather hurried ‘I Love You’s, hugged and kissed, and Mimi exited. Marcus followed Mimi to her car, just long enough to ‘smell’ her. It was just as he had presumed – Mimi’s natural output of pheromones had dropped to nearly nothing. Her gait was urgent, but her movement was clumsy and she looked depressed. This problem would have to be dealt with if….. What did he care? “Marcus, old boy, what has come over you lately?” he said to himself in a whisper. It was still early yet; only three a.m. The night was alive. Marcus got back behind the wheel of Shannon’s Audi and drove over the hill to Beaverton. He parked the car on the far corner of an Audi dealership that was located just off of I-405. He called a cab from a pay phone and twenty minutes later was deposited on the edge of a certain neighborhood in Tigard. The vampire had memorized Tina’s address the other night while waiting for the be-fated Captain Hiers to arrive at his office, so now he walked through the neighborhood where she lived and to her house. There were no lights in the house, so Marcus stole around to the back. There he found a sliding glass door on the back porch, and a pit-bull. Naturally the animal, now awake, was suspicious and defensive of the intruder. (Not even the vampire was quiet enough to sneak past a guard dog). The big dog growled and would certainly soon be barking, and rousing the house. But the dog was suddenly confused. The animal usually ‘smelled’ fear from any malevolent intruder, but there was no fear from this man. Was he a friend? Instead of barking, the pit-bull whined slightly, then rolled over exposing his tummy. Marcus rubbed and patted the animal lightly, and within less than a minute, the large dog was deeply asleep. Marcus entered the house through the sliding glass doors. The first thing that he noticed was that it smelled like a poo cave. Like a ghost, he wandered around the smallish three bedroom house. The layout of the house was common, but clutter was abundant! It was a mess! In the master bedroom he found a woman sleeping restlessly; feverishly. Even now, she tossed and turned, moaning occasionally in a haunted slumber. Sleep did not provide her a release from her state of mourning. Her heavy form in the bed was long; she was a relatively tall woman – 5’ 7”; maybe 5’ 8”. But her body seemed to have no defined shape under the covers. Even though the woman exuded victimosity, the pain-taut muscles of her dimly lit face seemed to suggest a deep passion, yet unfulfilled. At the far end of the house he found Tina. She was sleeping much more comfortably than her mother, no doubt for the first time in years. Like a dark guardian angel the vampire stood at the girl’s bedside. He watched her sleep. Even in the dark, one could still make out the pop icon posters on the walls of the room, and dolls and other girlish trinkets gave the room a light and innocent feel. The young girl looked very peaceful in her slumber, but not dead. She no longer looked so much older than her actual age. What a baby! Such a small, innocent girl, forced by circumstance to forfeit her childhood and take on the tough pressures of adulthood. That realization in Marcus brought a flood of bittersweet memories that he allowed to run freely in his mind, if for no other reason than to insure that they wouldn’t fade. Ah, Maria! The vampire knew that, given enough time, she could heal and move on from any psychological damage. The only question was would she live long enough? It had taken him more than a lifetime to get forgiveness from the child that he had been. Before he knew it, it was five o’clock. The vampire stole out of the house and hurried home.

CHAPTER XXVII

Nurse Janet was finishing up her morning rounds. She had always been known around the hospital as the cheerful nurse, even before she met Mimi, when she had been suffering from repressed depression. But now the hospital seemed different to her. Sure, it was still filled with the sick and the dying, but something had filled Janet with hope, and now she spent her days providing a piece of that hope to those under her care. She felt better than she had in years. She was no longer taking anti-depressants, and the weight was starting to melt off. Love can do some amazing things. Self-love can do miraculous things. The next thing on her list of things to do was bathe Chad Reeves and then take him out for fifteen minutes of fresh air and sunshine. Of course, in his condition, it was probably the worst thing for him, but he liked it. He always responded well to it. And he was pretty much a lost cause at this point anyway. “Just keep him as happy and comfortable as you can,” Doctor Prichart had told her. Janet had also made arrangements with Mimi to come up to the hospital at 11:00 and accompany them on his walk. She knew that a visit from the amazon would brighten Chad’s day more than anything else that could possibly happen to him. And she wanted him to meet her. She would need assistance for the bath however. Approaching the supply room, she saw Nurse Carrie Yuthers. Janet asked, “Say, Carrie, could you please give me a hand bathing Chad.” Carrie Yuthers was a pretty girl. She looked like the kind of nurse that you might see in tacky porno flick. She had sticky blonde hair, a narrow face, and wore heavy mascara. Her body was slender, and many men might have labeled it perfect, but in reality her back was long, her butt was low, and without a bra her breasts were a floppy mess. But she was certainly good on the first take, and great in certain lighting. Carrie recoiled at the request. “You must be out of your mind,” she said. “I won’t go near that asshole again! Do you know what he said to me yesterday?” Defeated, Janet answered, “No.” “He asked me to –” she stopped as if by a gag, and tried to figure out to paraphrase. “He asked me to defecate on his chest!” “He was only trying to provoke you a little,” Janet defended. “Well, he provoked me lot! And that’s not all the little pervert does. He goes on and on about letting him fuck me – in the ass! He’s sick! You should hear what he says to the male nurses. I – I can’t go near him. I refuse to go near him!! Let him rot in his own filth! The bastard!” “I’m sorry,” said Janet and went to look for Nurse Terry. She would be a little thicker skinned. And besides, Chad mostly behaved with Nurse Terry anyway. The two nurses entered the room of the AIDS victim to find him lying quite still, his eyes glazed over, coated tongue sticking out slightly between his chalky lips, heart monitor flat-lined. “Oh no!” said Janet as she rushed to his bedside to check his condition. Terry moved a little slower. Janet noticed that the body was still pretty warm, and she put her hand on Chad’s neck. Just about the same time that she realized there was still a pulse, Chad blinked and coughed, then laughed himself into a retching coughing fit. Janet was relieved but miffed. “Why you little…” She slapped him affectionately. “You really do love me,” Chad teased, still chuckling, as he recovered from his fit. “Yes, you stinker,” said Janet. Nurse Terry was just glad that Janet had been the target of his little prank and not someone else. Anyone else might have let their true feelings show. As it was, Terry was sure that most of the hospital staff would probably want to have a party the day Chad Reeves died. “I have a little surprise for you today,” said Janet. “You got me a stripper,” guessed Chad with new energy. He was just glad for any surprise, any break from the norm. Janet had never told Chad of Mimi’s vocation. His jestful guess was disconcertingly correct. Now she hoped that Chad wouldn’t be able to tell after meeting her. Janet was ashamed of what Mimi did for a living, and she had just realized it herself! Flustered, she answered, “No, silly. My friend Mimi is coming to visit you.” “Oh,” he replied with re-newed interest. “Your special friend!” “Yes,” said Janet, “My special friend. And I hope you’ll be on your best behavior and treat her nicely, like the gentleman that I know you can be.” “For you, dear, anything,” Chad said, a look of lightness coming from his face. “Especially if you girls will do a little french kissing for me! Yeah!” Janet looked at the sick young man with mock exasperation. “Where’s a pillow so I can hold it over your face,” she said jokingly. “You’ve got a couple that’ll do fine,” said Chad. “Chad!” He was not exactly exhibiting his best behavior. What was he going to do when he saw Mimi? “When is she due to arrive?” asked Chad. “She’ll be here any minute, so let’s get you cleaned up and ready to go,” Janet said. The nurse proceeded to bathe the ailing patient. He was then re-dressed, and loaded into a wheelchair. He continued his mildly crass banter, but never really got out of line. It was evident that he was looking forward to the visit and the walk with great anticipation. However, at 11:15 Mimi still had not shown up. “She’s just running a little late,” said Janet. “Let’s go outside and wait for her there.” She pushed Chad in his wheelchair to the elevator, and down through the lobby and outside where the day was sunny but a little cool. Still there was no sign of Mimi. Janet was perplexed. Not even a phone call? Maybe they’d mis-communicated the time. Janet was a little foggy about their conversation the previous night. Possibilities swarmed through her head. At 11:45 Janet took her patient back up to his room and helped him into bed. He lay there not moving, feeling the dark burden of his frailty, the grayness returning to his eyes and face. He was sorely disappointed and would be absolutely foul for the rest of the day. Janet dialed Mimi’s cell number from the phone at the nurse’s station. There was no answer. Stood up.

The rays of the noon day sun intruded unimpeded through Mimi’s bedroom window, lighting a room that looked like Mardi Gras after a hurricane. Clothes were everywhere and half a dozen wigs hung on any available corner looking like furry growths. A mannequin leaned in the corner next to a night stand with a lamp and a Betty Boop statuette. From somewhere in the clutter on a chest of drawers, the tone of a cell phone started oscillating the melody of ‘Erotic City’ monochromatically, but the large breasted amazon on the bed did not stir. She was crashed out hard. Too hard. As in not-at-all- healthy hard! Mimi had done a quick snort of coke earlier that morning when she had reached her car, just after her shadow had turned away. She had done some more after getting back to her little apartment and was beginning to feel better. The wonderful euphoria had only lasted an hour, and Mimi had done another line. She had scurried around the tiny apartment trying to use the rush of energy to straighten and clean, but she had been unable to focus for long. The walls felt like they were closing in and the busty girl was bouncing off of them, shaking with tremors. At seven o’clock in the morning, Mimi knew that she was going to have just stay up until after her lunch date with Janet. If she went to sleep at that point, she would not get up. Another line; had to keep going. This time the euphoria was thankfully more intense. She had floated around the efficiency, turned the TV on, flicked through ten channels, turned it off, levitated over to her bed, lay down upon it sidelong on her back with her head hanging off its edge, and looked around at the upside-down apartment. Her body suddenly felt very heavy and very big. “Oh my god! I’m huge!” she slurred, but it would have been difficult for anyone to understand her words. Her breasts seemed like two enormous mountains. She wanted to touch the pretty shapes of the nipples through her T-shirt but she wasn’t sure if she could reach them. Her arms were heavy and didn’t seem long enough to span the immense distance. She gave up on that and took a deep breath and held it. That was fun! Again she looked around the upside-down room, only this time she felt sick. With great effort she rolled her body over, and with her head still hanging off the edge of the bed, she vomited. She would clean it up later. She took another deep breath and held her throat against the edge of the bed. Aided by the weight of her heavy head she felt the swirly, mushy rush of auto-erotic asphyxiation. Then, Mimi passed out. As consciousness left her, the body of the large breasted amazon relaxed utterly. Her head fell slightly to the side and fortune smiled upon Miriam the sad addict; her breathing at last resumed. But her state of unconsciousness was actually a mild coma. And so she did not even twitch when Janet called at noon. She did not even move later that night when she was expected at the Bare Cage to do her show.

CHAPTER XXVIII

If you had noticed the windowless black van parked at the edge of the shopping center parking lot near the corners of 82nd Avenue and Glisan Street, you would have most likely thought nothing of it. If you had seen the driver of the black van, you probably would have labeled him as another one of the many bizarre personalities that can so readily be found throughout the Portland metro. He wore a large, dingy t-shirt and baggy camouflage fatigue pants, the pockets of which bulged with god-knows- what. A black baseball cap covered straight, greasy, dishwater blonde hair. It had been quite a little while since he had bathed. He was 30 year old Tim Williams, and he was a vampire slayer. Watching him as he stood stretching next to the open door of the van, you might have seen him grab a pair of high-powered binoculars and look north up 82nd Avenue. You might have even overheard him talking to himself. Maybe, if you had stayed around long enough, you might even have noticed as well what he was looking at so intently. You would have seen a tall, thin man, fully bizarre in his own right, with bright, white hair that seemed to stand up as if he had just put his finger into a 220 socket, walking nonchalantly down the street as if he had all the time in the world. Tim watched the tall, slight man turn the corner onto Glisan Street and continue on, seemingly heedless of his surroundings. At least Tim made an effort to stay abreast of his basic location. The other man, Tim was pretty sure, did not bother himself with location ‘designations.’ Tim Williams believed in vampires. He, in fact, knew that they did indeed exist. But so far, he had not been successful in convincing a single soul, and he had long since given up trying. It had all started for Tim in 1995. He had been working at the time as an accountant for a large accounting firm in New Orleans. His life was structured and safe, and he liked it that way. He worked hard to stay in control of his little space. Tim didn’t ask for much out of life. He didn’t care for luxuries; just security and comfort. His sister Rebecca, one year older than himself and to whom he felt extremely close, had become involved in what he had thought at the time was some kind of strange religious cult. Naturally, this had severely disrupted his safe and structured life. She was the only family he had after their parents had died, and she was his only friend in the world. He vowed to save her. The cult organization was located just on the other side of the Mississippi border, very near the gulf coast. There, the cult leader, or leaders, had erected a group of rather luxurious cottages where the faithful followers lived, very much like a commune. Tim had gone twice to the compound in an attempt to retrieve Rebecca, or Beck as he affectionately called her, but each time he had, of course, been turned away. The local authorities assured Tim that they would do everything they could, which was exactly nothing. Until they had suspicion of criminal activity there was precious little they could do. Tim had badgered them to the point of becoming a nuisance. So Tim set about getting the evidence that would suffice for the authorities to deem an investigation necessary. He bought some expensive surveillance equipment, long-rang microphone and night-vision goggles. His plan had been to spy on the compound, and ascertain just what was going on in there. Tim Williams was certainly a piece of work. To say that he was nerdy would only just begin to describe his lack of social skills. He tended to be overly dramatic and perhaps a bit paranoid, and he really preferred to be in his safe home. Tim was prone to anxiety attacks. But his computer skills were a force to be reckoned with, and he loved gadgets. Straight dishwater blonde hair cut in a bowl, medium height, and slightly pudgy, Tim wore round wire rimmed glasses, and loose-fitting clothes, and he looked, perhaps, a bit boyish. To him, his own physical comfort was paramount. He loved watching television and reading comic books, and he especially identified with the FBI Agent Moulder on the X-Files, and his favorite comic book hero Desperado. Before Tim had been able to get up the chutzpah to actually spy on the compound, however, he had had to overcome his mild agoraphobia and anxiety. This he did quite involuntarily and subconsciously! One stressful night at home after worrying himself sick about his sister, frustrated by his inability to act, Tim had finally fallen asleep reading one of his Desperado comic books. His haunted, vivid dreams that night had starred Desperado, a strong character with no inherent super powers; just a massive, sawed-off double-barreled shotgun, a Harley Davidson, and a bad-ass attitude. Desperado wore long brown hair in a pony tail, stubbly facial hair, dark shades at any hour, black leather pants and long leather trench coat. He was hugely muscular, as most all comic book heroes tend to be. In the dreams, Tim and his sister Rebecca had been running from ‘bad men’ with all of the sloth-like movement that is nightmare running. Suddenly with a loud rumbling roar Desperado had appeared on his Harley in the nick of time to save the day. The dream Rebecca had been solicitous in her gratitude to the muscular, ruggedly handsome man. But Tim had been incensed. “I could have handled it myself!” he groused. “Whatever,” said Desperado. “I don’t force my help on anyone.” The next morning Tim had gotten up as usual and went about his morning routine. At work Tim crunched the numbers with the speed and focus of a savant. Then, while driving on his way home from work, Tim had heard a rumble and then caught a passing glance at a Harley and its rider. He gaped in disbelief; it was Desperado!! The black, immaculate Harley sat in Tim’s front yard as he pulled his sedan into the driveway. Desperado himself sat casually on the front porch railing, his shotgun resting on his shoulder. Tim was speechless! “OK, chum,” said the big man, “Are we stormin’ the compound tonight, or what?” Tim was still fully at a loss. Desperado continued, “Yo! Hello!? Earth to Lunar Module! Mork calling Orson! Are you in there, little buddy? Are we savin’ your sister, or what?” Tim had brushed by the leather-clad man as if to dismiss the hallucination. He unlocked his front door and entered his safe, cozy house, then bolted the door behind him. He spied one of the Desperado comic books on the coffee table in the front room and vowed to cut down. Tim made his way toward the kitchen. The voice of Desperado greeted him from the breakfast nook. “Eat a good dinner, little dude. You’re gonna need your energy for tonight.” Tim was exasperated. “Leave me alone! You’re not even real!” Desperado picked up one of the comic books from the table. “Of course I’m real. Look! I’m in a magazine.” “Leave me alone,” Tim repeated. “I don’t need any help!” Desperado’s eyes grew wide. “Oh yes ya’ do! You can’t even hardly leave the house, my small friend. You’re gonna need a lotta help! To do this thing, you’re gonna need a whole lotta help!” “Not from you,” said Tim, holding his shaky ground. He knew that he was imagining this. Tim had often had invisible friends throughout his life. This one seemed to have a life of its own, though. “Tim, Tim!” crooned Desperado. “How can you say that? To the person you’ve idolized for the last nine years; ever since I got the balls to stop being ‘Bunky,’ sidekick to Captain USA, and strike out on my own to fight for freedom, justice, and the American way!” Captain USA and Bunky had been a duo force to be reckoned with back in the 70’s when comic book writers were writing campy plots with fairly unsophisticated villains. For dramatic purposes in the storyline, Bunky had finally broken off from the duo as a young adult to eventually become Desperado, the sawed-off shotgun toting, Harley riding, leather-clad rogue vigilante whose comics were now a bit more adult than the Captain USA comics of the seventies. To keep it suitable for young teens the writers still kept the language pretty clean but escalated the gore to new levels never before seen in mainstream comics. The villains were now classy drug cartel leaders, stylish organized-crime mafia dons, and urbane would-be dictators. “Look,” said Tim. “There was a time when all I wanted was to be like you, but I can’t. That’s just not me. I like ‘safe.’ I like ‘secure!’ I want to help my sister – I’m going to help my sister, but not with you. You’re dangerous.” “Danger is what it’s all about, little dude!” “Not for me! No danger. I’m going to take care of this without danger.” Tim said. “Well, I’m very disappointed,” said Desperado. “I’ll leave you alone. But you ain’t getting’ diddly outa this without some risk and sacrifice! Mark my words, dude.” That night, Tim had braved the dark swamp for the first time. Facing venomous snakes, alligators, and other uncomfortable hazards, he had started his night-time surveillances on the compound from various points in the surrounding bayou. In a few weeks, Tim had become familiar with the layout of the compound. He had identified what seemed to be a main building, two dormitories, a workshop, and a few other buildings whose exact functions he had yet to determine. One of the buildings had a smokestack that was occasionally seen venting a good amount of smoke, and Tim figured that it housed a furnace, or a foundry, or perhaps an incinerator. All together, Tim counted eight buildings total. There was also a large garden and a pavilion and a pool. For a commune it looked a lot like a resort, except that its perimeter was marked with a twelve-foot chain-link fence, with only one gate other than the main entrance. Both were guarded, though Tim had verified that the guards carried no visible side-arms. Eventually his job performance had begun to suffer from his moonlighting surveillance activities. Still, he had been determined to save his sister, so he had quit his job and started spying full time. Tim had followed cult members as they left the compound. He would trail them as they went to the nearby Super Wal-Mart in Slidell for supplies, and take note of what they bought. Twice in the first few months he’d seen a huge black helicopter take off from an immense in-ground hanger. He watched tirelessly for glimpses of his sister, and was rewarded seldom. She only came out at night, and it was hard to determine her condition using the night-vision apparatus. It had also been difficult to ascertain the approximate population of the commune. He had been only moderately successful in assigning subject designations. The one thing that he had noticed was that there was a lot of ‘making out’ at night, and it wasn’t always boy/girl couples. That always made Tim feel a little weird down there. But then, after about six months of constant ‘surveilling’, he finally saw something one night that would definitely warrant an investigation by the authorities. But it had been too weird and too gruesome; far beyond Tim’s comprehension initially. What he had seen was a vicious attack and murder! It had been just a little after dark, and Tim had just fixed the infrared amplifier on his telescope. He was located in a large, old cypress tree approximately forty yards from the edge of the compound. Suddenly, from out of a solid looking little block building with a thick steel door came running a very young man. He had run only a few yards when someone else hurried out from the stout little structure. Tim trained his shotgun microphone in the direction of the building and checked his earpiece while zooming the telescope in on the scene. “Stop!” he heard through the earpiece, and the command sounded ghastly. Then he watched as the second person out the door, a large male, quickly overtook the young man, and attacked him with the ferocity of a raptor. Tim could hear the sounds of struggle, then, clear as day through his expensive and sophisticated sound equipment, he heard the sounds of bones popping, flesh ripping, some kind of strange, inhuman guttural exclamation out of the attacker, and then – what? Was that guy sucking on the first guy? Tim zoomed in even more on the face as the attacker lifted his head. Were those fangs?! A cold chill spread from Tim’s neck down his back and arms. He couldn’t believe what he had just seen. Moreover, he was horrified! He pulled away from the telescope eyepiece, and shut his eyes. His bladder suddenly felt very full and he feared that he might lose containment. Through the earpiece he again heard that ghastly voice, “That was unfortunate. Clean this up. Burn the body.” When Tim had the courage to look again into the telescope he saw a man and a young woman carrying the dead weight of the victim through the collection of buildings to the one with the smokestack. Needless to say, at the time, Tim had been horrorstruck. He had called the police on his cell phone and told an officer everything he had seen. The cop exhibited some reluctance to believe some of Tim’s report, but he assured the horrified young man that the authorities would investigate. “Don’t wait until morning!” Tim had pleaded. Thankfully, the authorities arrived about thirty minutes later, and Tim watched from a distance as a few county deputies were allowed to look around the compound without entering any buildings. The fine members of the commune had nothing to hide. The police were politely invited to come back after they had acquired a search warrant and look inside any of the buildings. But the cops were satisfied that everything was in order. They were sure that Tim’s imagination had run completely away with him. Shortly after the authorities had left, several people carrying flashlights entered the swamp surrounding the compound and started sweeping the area. Tim had scarcely been able to retreat to his vehicle and leave without being detected. In his rush to get out, he had left a part of his surveillance apparatus. They would know that they had been watched. Tim had decided to put just a slight pause on his surveillance activities after that. The scene needed to cool down. But the very next night after the killing, Rebecca returned to the house in the dead of the night. Tim lay in a troubled sleep in his very comfy feather bed, covered with a thick blanket. “Tim,” came a soft voice from his dreams. “Tim.” Still asleep, Tim mumbled, “Beck, come home. Please get outa…..” “Tim, wake up, I’m here.” Now awake, Tim said, “Beck?” “Hello, Tim.” She stood there in his room; at his beside! She bent and kissed his forehead. Even in his state of just-awakened fog, he could tell that there was something very different about his sister, something wrong. “Beck, have you come home to stay?” He didn’t expect the answer that he wanted, but he asked the question anyway. Beck could not cover the sadness in her face that she felt for having to disappoint her brother. But she had a better solution to this problem anyway. Their parents had died too young, both from hereditary illnesses. Beck had found a way to avoid that. “No, Tim, I’m not here to stay. I came to get you, so that you could come live with me.” The idea of being with his sister again was very appealing to Tim, but he wanted her to be the way that she had been before. This ‘new’ Beck was strange; not at all comfortable for Tim. He was sure that she had been brainwashed, and he didn’t want anything like that for himself. “No, Beck. Stay home. Stay here and live with me. You don’t need them.” “I – I can’t. I can never come home. Please, Tim. Come back with me to the Kibbutz.” “Beck, I don’t think I would like living there. I like it here. I need this place.” Tim still lived in the home where he and Beck had grown up together, raised by their late parents. “Then I must say ‘good-by’ to you forever, Tim,” his sister said sadly. And then her tone changed back to a pleading and she took his hand in both of hers. “Please, don’t come back out to the Kibbutz to spy. It’s not safe for you to do that.” Tim did not try to deny it. He said simply, tears welling in his eyes, “I want you back, Rebecca.” She stepped back slowly, shaking her head sadly, slowly releasing his hand. Then she turned and exited the room. “That’s it?” thought Tim. No way!! “Beck!” he called after her as he hurriedly got out of bed. He paused only to grab his robe that hung on the bedpost, then ran after her. By the time he got to the front porch, a black Lexus with very dark windows was quickly pulling away from the suburban house and roaring down the quiet street. “BECK!!” he cried, tears streaming down his face. In the distance then a rumble grew and then suddenly there was Desperado riding right up onto the front lawn on his Harley. “Quick! Come on! Let’s go after her!” said Desperado. Tim had wanted to badly, but fear and indecision had bolted his feet to the floor of the front porch. “I can’t,” he said weakly. “OK, man. Your call,” said the cool rider. “But we can’t give up your sister.” “Who’s ‘we,’ man!” Tim replied caustically. “I’m taking care of this.” “Whoa, Whoa! Chill with the hostility, bro,” said Desperado. “I know you don’t want to admit this but you need my help. But I’m cool! I’ll just hang out in the background; that way I can be handy to bail you out when you really step in the dog-do.” And Tim had been powerless to stop him from doing just that. Carefully, the determined young geek had continued his surveillance, often with Desperado sitting not-so quietly nearby. Tim took great pains to camouflage himself and his gear, and was slightly put off when Desperado made no effort to do the same. Tim made the entire outfit more mobile. To do this he mortgaged his house to the hilt, then proceeded to default on the loan. He sold his car and bought a black windowless van and left the house forever. Tim knew that something terribly wrong was going on at that compound, and he was absolutely determined to get to the bottom of it, and to get his sister back! For months, the surveillance continued with no more strange incidents occurring. Then finally, Tim and Desperado had witnessed a second execution in the middle of the night. Again, the circumstances of the killing had been so bizarre that poor Tim was sure that the cops wouldn’t believe him, so this time he didn’t report it. Tim was sure now, based on what he had seen, that the ‘Kibbutz’ as Beck had called it was some kind of satanic cult. Tim had never been overly religious, but deep down he believed in God and Jesus, and was very scared of the Devil, and now he was very, VERY scared for himself and his sister. But he didn’t know what to do! “You know what it is, little buddy?” Desperado had said one night as they spied on the compound from only fifty yards away. “Drugs, that’s what; drugs. They’re running drugs, and probably guns, too, man. That’s how these dudes operate. Drugs and guns.” “Shut up!” Tim hissed, and Desperado dead fingered him. They had continued their surveillance on the Kibbutz, using every precaution, and over the course of the next few months had witnessed several more bizarre killings. Tim had given up on trying to get help from the local authorities even though he had taken to video taping the horrendous goings on and had some compelling proof on video. The ex-accountant figured that the cops were receiving a bribe to look the other way. The large black helicopter sometimes brought new people to the Kibbutz; ethnic looking people; slaves perhaps, or victims for human sacrifice. Something had to be done to stop this, and Tim was the only person who could do it! He felt very frustrated, and very alone, in spite of the company of his imaginary friend. Then one night, through his shotgun microphone Tim had heard the ghastly voice say, “He’s still out there, damn it! He’s been watching us for months and I want it to stop! Find him. Kill him!” Tim froze! He needed to get out of there, the question was, how much stuff should he try to save? He decided to try to save all of it. “Give me a hand with this stuff,” he hissed at Desperado. “Oh! Now you want my help, to save your little toys.” He bent down and grabbed one of the smaller items. “We should stay here. We could take ‘em!” “Are you insane?” cried Tim. “I’m getting outa here!” Tim looked like a little trooper in his camouflage fatigues, and he had pockets, packets, and loops for everything. Hastily, and as quietly as he could, he finished stowing and attaching all of his equipment, as he watched flashlight beams dance from the edge of the darkened compound. Then, the two of them ran for it. Tim was about two hundred yards from the little opening in the trees near Jackson Landing Road where he routinely parked the van. Stealthily, he made his way toward it. Desperado was right behind and watching for pursuers. By this time, Tim had become so familiar with the swamp and the woods that he could move, even encumbered, with surprising speed and ease. His pursuers were not so expedient. They could be heard splashing and crashing through the swamp. Tim and Desperado got back to the black windowless van and quickly pulled off the camouflage netting that covered it. The netting would have to be left for now. Maybe they could come back for it later. No big loss either way. Tim pulled his camo jacket off along with more than half of his gear still attached to it and tossed it onto the passenger seat as he climbed in. He would empty the packets and pockets of his camo trousers later. For now they had to blaze trails! “Hey!” Desperado complained as he climbed into the passenger side of the van. “Were you expecting me to sit in the back, or what?” And he quickly dumped the gear-laden jacket to the floor. Once he had the van back out on the little two-lane street, Tim floored the gas pedal, feeling good that they had once again made good their escape. But, they had a stowaway. In their hurry, they had not looked into back of the van, where Tim kept more of his high-tech gear and gadgets, along with a little bed. A cloth partition hung down behind the cab of the van, to prevent anyone from seeing inside the cargo area of the van. Only, at that moment, it was preventing Tim and Desperado from seeing that they were carrying a passenger – a passenger with long fangs! Tim was occupied at the moment with accelerating the van. He didn’t see the malevolent stowaway peak out through the cloth partition. Just as the van was approaching seventy miles an hour, a figure suddenly lunged out from the side of the road directly in the path of the speeding vehicle! “Shit!!” screamed Tim as he slammed down the brake pedal and swerved the bulky vehicle to avoid hitting the crazy person who was obviously willing to receive serious injury or death just to stop his escape. “Watch your language, little buckaroo,” quipped Desperado, as he held himself steady in the lurching vehicle. The turbulent driving upset everything in the back of the van, and it upset the unrestrained rear passenger, who, incidentally (and conveniently for Tim as this certainly saved his life), was thrown forward, smashing his face into the dash board. Tim thought he had caught a glimpse of white fang as the unwelcome passenger had flown by! The strange person bounced off the dash and didn’t move. Again, Tim was horror struck! There was someone with him in his van!! He screamed like a little girl that had just been touched by a spider. “Oh, come on!” bellowed Desperado. “Its just some dead dude!” The van was past the kamikaze jumper and Tim again focused momentarily on putting some distance between himself and the Kibbutz. What a night! And what was he to do with the body lying across his automatic transmission control lever? Desperado grabbed a hand-full of hair and lifted the head of the unwelcome passenger. The man’s nose and the front of his face were utterly smashed, and he looked dead. Mortified, Tim pushed the body off of the transmission lever until it hung half on the passenger seat. “Yuck! I don’t want it,” said Desperado. Tim had decided that he would take the body to the police. By the time they arrived in Gulfport, the nearest town with a sheriff’s office, it was after five o’clock and the sky was starting to lighten. The melodramatic young man related his story to three deputies, who listened skeptically and regarded him as if he were a little boy that was telling a whopper. Desperado stood a little off to the side making jokes about the policemen. “Wow! I thought you had to be in good shape to be a cop. Are you pigs sportin’ paunch, or what?” Tim liked to tell his experiences with details and he always kept the series of events completely in sequence, so it was a little while before he got to the part about the man in his van. By that time the cops were convinced that Tim was a nutcase and were inclined to send him on his way. But they were also enjoying laughing out the sides of their mouths at the young man, so they humored Tim, and started egging him on. Finally, the very frustrated Tim said, “Look, the guy’s still out in my van. You can come see for yourself anytime!” The cops agreed, and the group, now up two since a couple of deputies had arrived for work, stepped out into the light of the brand new day. Tim opened the passenger side door and saw nothing but his jacket, still covered with gadgets. The cops were chuckling. Next, Tim opened the side door. Aside from a jumbled mess of equipment, there was no sign of the man with the smashed face. Tim was frustrated, but not surprised. The guy must have not been dead after all; come to and escaped while they had all been in the station wagging their tongues. Damn it! The sheriff deputies were now laughing at the young nerd and all of his high-tech gadgets. They began to saunter back into the station, joking with each other. Desperado looked after them with disdain. “Hey!” called Tim. “I have video footage of some of the weird stuff they’re doing out there!” “I don’t think I wanna see that,” laughed one of the men. Another of the cops turned to Tim and said, “Look, pal. It’s obvious you take this very seriously, but, let me give you some advice. Give it up. Just, give it up! I’m real sorry about your sister, but that place is legit. You’re gonna have to move on, bud. Now, by the looks of it, I’d say you have some very sophisticated surveillance gear in there. If we get any reports or complaints about you spying on the good folks around here, we’re gonna shut this hobby of yours down, got it?” Properly reprimanded, Tim said humbly, “Yes, sir,” while Desperado mimicked the self-important officer. They were just going to have to become even more invisible! There was no doubt in Tim’s mind that he was right about the Kibbutz. They had left the police station and driven to a Waffle House, where Tim treated himself to his favorite breakfast, a waffle and hash browns, scattered, smothered, covered, and chunked. “Now is that a breakfast, or what?” said Desperado. “But it’s all gonna go to your gut if you don’t start working out.” Tim liked eating at Waffle House because he had discovered that it is always exactly the same no matter which restaurant he was at. (He was not yet well traveled). After breakfast he would tackle the chore of straightening out the back of his van, which he planned to do in the parking lot behind the restaurant, a place where there would hopefully be a minimum of passersby. When he opened the rear doors of the van, he couldn’t help notice that there was something large and man-sized underneath the little futon pad and thick blanket that he used for a bed. Tim was again mortified at the thought of the man being alive and in his van! But this time the timid young ex-accountant was ready to confront his trespasser. First, he yanked the blanket off, then, with a little more effort, he jerked the heavier pad away from the prone form. Instantly, the man jumped up, paralyzing Tim and Desperado with shock! The man’s healed face was filled with a look of inhuman rage, and Tim started to run thinking that the guy was going to attack him, but then the man began screaming in pain! Tim and Desperado watched horrified as the exposed skin of the strange man began to burn away right before their eyes! The writhing man looked frantically for a place in the van to hide. Finding nothing, he tried vainly to shield himself, apparently from the light. Weak and resigned, the strange man crawled as far inside the van as he could and cowered, but it did not save him. Layer by layer, the flesh of the man disintegrated, as if he had been dropped into a vat of acid, until within moments the only thing left of him were his wet garments. Tim shuddered a violent shudder! He did not want to know what those clothes were damp from. For once Desperado didn’t have a word to say. What they had just witnessed could only have been one thing – the death of a vampire! As unscientific as the thought was, they could not think of any other way to explain it. And Tim couldn’t think of a single person to tell about it. Finally, Desperado had gulped and said, “Did it just get dangerous, or what?” Before that day in his life, Tim had believed that vampires were, of course, as fictitious as the mythological boogie-man. They were ranked right together with lycanthropes, poltergeists, Bigfoot, and invisible friends. If there really were vampires, he had thought with dreadfulness after his experience, what else was really real? Tim didn’t want to know. His world, already a place with many things unsafe and uncomfortable, was being shared with ruthless bloodsucking beings that were undoubtedly strong and brought swift death. And he had just killed one of them! And his sister had become mixed up with a bunch of them! She might even be one of them!! Tim, terrified by that thought, had vomited his breakfast in the parking lot. That would be the last of the breakfasts at the Waffle House for a while.

CHAPTER XXIX

Tim had wanted nothing more at that moment than to drive back to New Orleans, back to his safe house in the suburbs and never leave. But he also knew that if there was any way to save his sister, he had to try! He knew there would be no hope in petitioning the authorities for help, so instead, he drove with Desperado to the library in Gulfport, and proceeded to read and study every book that he could find about vampires and the folklore that surrounded them. His plan was to slay the vampire or vampires, and save his sister. For the first time, he felt reassured by the presence of Desperado. This sort of thing was right up the rogue biker’s alley. Desperado would help him. They had spent the next few weeks at various libraries all through the New Orleans area, Tim soaking in all of the information about vampire lore that he could lay his hands on and Desperado reading mostly comic books. “My life is amazing!” the hero had said. Tim had been dismayed to learn that according to many mythological theorists, his own home town was a favorite hunting ground for the dreaded nightwalkers. He had been so naïve! After studying many different sources on vampire folklore, (and even a few claiming to be more scientific), Tim declared himself an expert on the subject and, since he had actually killed one, an official vampire slayer. Many of the sources had some minor factual contradictions, but for the most part they all agreed on some main points: Vampires either live forever or for a very long time; They need blood, (on this point there were some discrepancies about whether or not they could live on the blood from animals, or the blood from a blood bank); They could regenerate from most injuries; They could charm people; Someone would become a vampire if they drank a vampire’s blood, (why would anyone want to do that?); They slept during the day in coffins; Sunlight killed them most surely; Decapitation was the other most sure method; Garlic repelled them; A holy artifact such as a crucifix, holy water, or communion wafer would burn and repel them; They cast no reflection in a mirror; A stake in the heart could subdue them; Fire could weaken them greatly or kill them; And finally, there was speculation about the effects of weapons made from silver, and further speculation as to whether vampires could transform into bats or mist, and fly. Apparently, the only way to save his sister, if she was in fact a vampire, was to slay the ‘master’ vampire. Doing that would turn her back to normal, and that sounded easier to Tim than trying to wipe out an entire coven. On top of studying vampire lore, Tim studied weaponry, primarily fire arms. Desperado was an enthusiastic teacher. They bought a gun and spent some time at a shooting range while Tim learned to use it effectively. Silver bullets were difficult to find, but Tim eventually found a connection and bought several cases for his new Browning Buck Master Standard .22 caliber pistol. To complete his ballistics arsenal Tim purchased a twelve-gauge shotgun with a six-cartridge ammo clip. Desperado had suggested that he have something with a lot of explosive close-range blasting power, so he sawed off the barrel, leaving only about four inches; only a little shorter than Desperado’s. Without the barrel, the gun balanced well in one hand, and even though it kicked like mule, Tim learned to grip it firmly and fire it one-handed. He even managed to get his hands on cartridges filled with silver buckshot. The characters that Tim found to purchase his firearm-ware from were very curious about what Tim was planning to do with his new toys. As much as Tim wanted to tell someone about the vampire coven and maybe enlist some additional aid in his quest, those gun dealer guys were just too weird for him to confide in. Besides, he and Desperado could handle it by themselves. He did locate and purchase a silver-bladed sword, taking his geekiness to all new heights. He assumed that using the weapon to kill a vampire would be a simple case of swinging hard and aiming for the neck. At least they made it look pretty easy on ‘Buffy.’ “Whatever!” Desperado had said. And so, re-outfitted with even more high-tech surveillance gear, guns, sword, crucifix, and a very smelly band of garlic around his neck, Tim had again entrenched himself and Desperado a few hundred yards from the edge of the Kibbutz, and planned their attack. The two of them had come up with a few strategies, but they were all weak and flawed, and mostly relied a lot on Tim’s own ability to carry out an attack like Desperado, and, to his credit, Tim was not sure about his talents as a commando. He saw enough glimpses of his sister at night to be reassured that she was at least alive. Even after a few months, Tim was still working up the courage to actually do something offensive. He was very frustrated, but he refused to give up. Desperado antagonized him incessantly for his lack of gumption. Tim had decided that their attack should happen during the day. It made sense to have available the ultimate weapon against vampires. By that time, he learned that the vampires stayed inside the little block building with the steel door during the day. More than likely, that building covered some kind of underground crypt where the vampires kept their coffins. Surveillance during the day had become a little riskier, but Tim had also become quite clever about camouflaging himself, even if Desperado had not. For over a year Tim had been living in his van, bathing once a week at a hotel, and spending virtually every waking minute spying on the Kibbutz. He and Desperado had witnessed countless feedings, many deaths, and several brutal murders. He no longer yearned for safety and security the way he had all of his life. He had become tougher and stronger for his experiences with Desperado, and he didn’t completely realize just how much. He only knew that they were finally ready to make their move! And then, one fine day at about ten o’clock in the morning, they had seen the ultimate in strange things take place at the Kibbutz. It started with a stranger walking down the drive from Jackson Landing Road to the main entrance. The stranger was confronted by the guards, but Tim and Desperado watched as they let the man pass. On that day, they had taken up a location only two hundred yards from the fence, and they watched as this new stranger strolled almost leisurely, but with purpose, through the compound, in the direction of the little block building. The man was tall, with a shock of white hair that stood up like Albert Einstein’s. But the man looked youthful in his face. He was dressed in simple kacky pants with an old wind breaker. He might have looked like a derelict, except that he was clean shaven and the tall stranger didn’t carry himself like a bum. Tim zoomed in on the man and watched as he pulled something out of his pocket. From his vantage point Tim couldn’t see exactly what happened, but the man had reached the steel door of the little block building, and then an alarm had started sounding all over the compound. All of the guards at both gates left their posts and started running for the little building, and other people, men and woman, also ran in that direction. Tim knew that this was their chance! The secondary gate was unguarded and the place was already in an uproar. When would they get another opportunity like this? He dropped down from the tree that he was in and he and Desperado ran for compound. Desperado pulled out his shotgun as they approached the gate, ready to shoot the lock that he knew to be on it. The lock, stout as it was, blew to bits with the second shot, and the Vampire Slayer and his partner Desperado were then inside the compound. “Let’s rock!” said Desperado. Tim holstered his twelve-gauge, which he actually wore backward on his left hip, then readied his .22 pistol. The scene as they approached the building with the steel door was very curious. All around the entrance of the building there were people lying either unconscious or otherwise subdued on the ground. Sadly, Beck was not among them. There were no signs of mortality. The steel door was open. Something had burned through its handle, lock mechanism, and the steel bar that had barred the door from the inside! The people all around made no move to stop the vampire slayer or his large accomplice, nor did they appear to be a threat. Obviously, they were not vampires, so Tim let them be. He took a deep breath, and he and Desperado entered the little block building. “Cozy, or what?” quipped Desperado. A staircase going down was the only thing to be seen. It was lit with a soft light, so the going was at least, for the moment, easy. At the bottom of the staircase was another heavy steel door. It, too, hung open, burned like the first, and Tim noticed as he hurried by it that it had also been barred from the inside. “What can cut through a steel door and a steel bar like this?” asked Desperado. They would soon find out. The second steel door opened into a simple passageway that was finished with brick and concrete, and lit. At the end of it, some twenty short feet, was a circular vault door. The tall, white-haired man was using a small handheld device that emitted what looked to Tim like a laser, and he was apparently cutting through each of the locking bars inside the vault door! “Wow, man! Dude’s a Radio Shack-phyte like yourself,” said Desperado in a low tone to Tim. “You two should get together and go bowling!” Tim hesitated. He wasn’t sure what to do. Surely this man had somehow subdued all of those others at the entrance. But what was his purpose here? He wasn’t a vampire; that was certain. Tim realized that he and Desperado would have been hard pressed to get this far from their own offensive, (no… it would have been impossible!) so he stayed back at the far end of the passage, and vowed to be ready for whatever was going to happen. Desperado also stayed ready. The strange man acknowledged Tim with a glance as he finished his circuit around the door. He then pocketed the device and pulled out a round dish-shaped object, almost the size of a compact disc. In the past year, Tim had already seen some very weird stuff; some extremely weird stuff; life-alteringly weird stuff! He had reached a point where he thought nothing would surprise him anymore. But he was about to be surprised again. The white-haired man pushed the vault door open, revealing a lavishly furnished room. There were no coffins, and the room appeared very un-crypt-like. But Tim didn’t have time just at the moment to take full measure of the room. Spilling through the open vault door like rabid dogs were five, blinding fast, shadowy forms all moving together toward the calm, white-haired man. Those forms were definitely vampires! Even as they moved lightning fast toward the intruder, Tim could clearly see the white fangs of each of them bared and ready. “Not good,” growled Desperado. What occurred next happened so fast that afterward Tim had only the outcome to trust that it had actually happened the way that he remembered it. The tall, white-haired man held the round object that he had just pulled out of his pocket with both of his hands. It had started glowing, and a split second before the vampires would be upon him, the object emitted a tiny, quick flash, as if the man were taking a snapshot of his advancing death. Tim, still standing at the far end of the hallway with his .22 pistol ready, heard a high pitch tone that glissandoed up as it faded. Two vampires were already lunging toward the intruder when the strange dish went off. In an amazingly fast defensive move from the strange man, each vampire was met in mid-air with an elbow to the face. Then, in an incredible display of martial arts, the white-haired man quickly subdued the other three attackers without even using his hands. He moved as if he had choreographed the fight himself. Desperado stood with wide-eyed admiration. “Is that dude good, or what!” Tim had noticed that the strange man did not seem intent on killing the vampires, and he was confused by that. And the vampires on the floor also appeared very mystified. They did not move against the white-haired man a second time. That, too, confused Tim. Inside the room, at the far end from the entrance stood two more vampires. One, a strong looking male, held the other vampire, a female, against him with a knife to her throat. It was Tim’s sister, Rebecca! “Not another step, slayers!” yowled the male. “Or this beautiful girl dies heinously!” Tim froze, and he hoped to god that Desperado and the white-haired man would also not do anything to jeopardize Beck’s life. Desperado pointed his shotgun, but said confidentially to Tim, “Dang! Shotguns aren’t real good for this sort of thing.” Thankfully, the strange man made no move to enter the room. He turned toward Tim and began a slow, thoughtful walk down the corridor. He was leaving! But the male vampire was enraged! His grip on Rebecca tightened as he screamed, “What’s happening to me?!!” “Cool your jets, pal,” said Desperado. Tim could see that Beck’s face also read confusion and fear. She was whimpering, “Please, Jeantavio. Please, don’t hurt me. Please!” Enraged and confused beyond his capacity to control himself, the Vampire Jeantavio shook and tightened his grip on the pitiful and pretty Rebecca until the knife blade broke the skin of her white neck. The sharp blade of the knife, under the control of a man without any control, sliced cleanly into her jugular vein and her carotid artery releasing a crimson river that ran down her chest. Upon watching his dear sister die right before his eyes, Tim had felt a wave of grief that nearly overcame him. He felt sorrow toward his sister; he’d let her down. He had failed her. To be so close and then fail right at the end!! In his mind, he could see his dead parents. They, too it seemed, had been let down by him. His world became grief! Tim was utterly alone in the world. While his sister had lived, or he had at least had hope of her living, there had been hope for this world, and there had been hope for Tim in it. At that moment, little agoraphobic Timmy Williams died. All that was left was Tim the Vampire Slayer! He had holstered his pistol and brought the twelve-gauge to bear. The Vampire Jeantavio, still mad with rage, fangs bared, ran as fast as he could toward his only remaining threat – Desperado and the Vampire Slayer. But his run wasn’t fast enough. Tim and Desperado coolly fired their shotguns as the vampire lunged at them, and the headless corpse of the ancient Jeantavio fell at their feet. Grief-stricken, the slayer was still not fully aware of his actions. Reality seemed only to be a series of explosions; flashes and splashes of bright crimson. When he finally came to himself, Tim found himself standing over the last cowering vampire, dry firing the twelve-gauge at his head. The corpses of the others lay all around, heads obliterated like only a wide-spray patterned shotgun at close range can do. The room was deathly quiet after the repeated explosions of the shotgun. Desperado said quietly, “Maybe you should switch to de-caf, little buddy.” Tim paused for a second, mildly shocked by his own carnage. Then, calmly, he reloaded the shotgun. The vampire whimpered pitifully, pleading, “Please, spare me. Something’s… not right. Please! I don’t want to die.” Tim hesitated, his malice fleeting. The whole thing had been way easier than he had thought it would be, except for this heart-wrenching display. Then he looked over at his dead sister. He pulled the trigger. Crying like a little boy, Tim had apologized and said ‘Good-by’ to his sister. For several minutes, he was utterly grief stricken. Desperado looked on solemnly. During his minutes of grief and anguish, a few of the people from above had courageously peaked around the second steel door to see what was going on, and upon spotting the carnage in the hallway leading into the open vault, left quickly and quietly. Tim wasn’t sure what (if anything), the white-haired man had done, to the vampires with his little glowing dish. He had planned to run after and catch up with him, and find out who he was, and what he was doing! But first, Tim and Desperado had looked around the inside of the large, luxurious room. It was probably forty feet square, and there was one large bed, easily big enough to accommodate ten or more bodies, against one wall. The room was equipped with a large screen TV, component stereo system and entertainment center. In a corner there was fantastic hot tub, and nearby was a toilet and a bidet, and a lavish open shower, which was curious as traditional vampire folklore had suggested that vampires do not have regular human bodily functions. And in another corner, Tim had found a kitchenette. On shelves near the kitchenette were twenty bags containing white powder that looked to Tim’s inexperienced eye to be cocaine. Near the drug-laden shelves was a video monitor station that showed various areas of the compound, including each of the steel doors and the hallway just outside the vault. The vampires had seen them coming! “See?” said Desperado. “I told you it was drugs.” “What would vampires be doing with drugs?” asked Tim. “Don’t you get it, man?” said Desperado. “A vampire, most vulnerable during the day, would want a very secure daytime hidy-hole. That’s why traditional folklore has these dudes sleeping inside of coffins in a crypt, tomb, or some other kind of burial chamber. This vault looks much more comfy. The vampires of this coven were forced to trust each other as they shared this one bed every night….err, day – or whatever. If there was going to be any hanky-panky, they’d all be in on it! The drugs are here on the remote chance that the vault is ever raided. Instead of the authorities thinking that they had just walked into a giant vampire coffin, they would be more inclined to think they had just busted the world’s most eccentric druggies.” Tim had wanted to bury Beck, but realized that it would not have been feasible. Apparently, the part of vampire folklore about their bodies disintegrating upon death was incorrect. Eventually the mess would be found, and Tim would be the prime suspect, so, it was best for him to disappear. Surely there were other vampire covens out there, and Tim the Vampire Slayer with his partner Desperado would hunt them all. They had nothing better to do! By the time the vampire slayer had emerged from the little block building carrying the twenty kilos of cocaine, there wasn’t a soul to be found anywhere in the Kibbutz. No one to tell him in what direction the strange white-haired man had gone. Tim said, “We have to find that white-haired man.” “Yeah, but first,” said Desperado, “Tim Williams has to die. Leave your identification on one of those headless vampire corpses. Mississippi cops are stupid and they’ll never know what happened to you.” Tim had done as Desperado suggested, then the two of them had left the Kibbutz and Mississippi. Against the admonitions of Desperado, Tim had used some internet connections he had acquired to find buyers for the cocaine, and used the proceeds to help fund his vampire slaying crusade. (Tim had a high-powered laptop and a cellular modem for internet access). He also had them help him to procure a Swedish vehicle operator’s registration in another very Swedish sounding name. Then, if he ever got pulled over, he would fake a thick Swedish accent and try to schmooze his way out of it. However, Tim tried hard to avoid that altogether. And that hadn’t been the end of Tim’s and Desperado’s adventures. Tim had enlisted the aid of all the faceless internet and bulletin board system users across the United States to help him locate the white-haired man. Tediously, Tim put descriptions of the strange man out on every BBS and internet forum that he could find. (They were not so numerous in 1996; only a few hundred thousand that Tim knew of). In addition to trying to locate the white-haired man, Tim and Desperado had also looked for vampires as they traveled from town to town, state to state. Even without his vampire hunting getup, Tim got a lot of strange looks wherever he went, especially from ignorant rednecks. He never told anyone what he was doing, though, and that often caused trouble anyway. Desperado was also famous for getting Tim into trouble! Tim had decided to investigate some people with a particular website called The Dark Children that was an internet organization for vampires and the people that liked vampires. The masters of the website claimed to be vampires themselves. With relative ease, Tim had learned that the web-masters of the Dark Children site were physically located in Louisville, Kentucky, so he and Desperado had traveled there. That one had turned out to be horrible mistake, however. By the time that Tim had figured out that the members of the Dark Children ‘coven’ were only depressed, gothic teenagers with fetishes, Desperado had already shot one of them fatally in a terrible scene. Tim and Desperado had had to hastily sneak out of town. That had humbled both of them and Tim began to second-guess his evaluation of what he had seen and done in Mississippi. Then finally, after two years since the Mississippi incident, they had hit pay-dirt when Tim received word from an alert internet user that the white-haired man had been seen near Columbus, Ohio. They had hurriedly journeyed there and had managed to catch up with the strange, white-haired man as he walked unhurried through the city. He looked exactly as he had in Mississippi; even the same clothes. Tim and Desperado followed him for a few days, watching where he went and trying to solve the many riddles. The eccentric man never stopped to eat. Occasionally he would stop and apparently meditate for short periods. Afterward he would fiddle with some small objects that he carried in his pockets. Desperado had suggested that they approach the man and talk to him. “Find out just what his story is.” But Tim expressed nervous apprehension about that. “And besides,” Tim argued, “There is stuff we can learn about him from just watching him.” “That’s your problem, Timmy Boy,” said Desperado. “Too much watching and not enough action!” Still, Tim had not been goaded. And then one night the pair had witnessed the strange man in action again. From the short distance of 100 yards they watched the white-haired man as he walked down a street in Westerville lined with quiet neighborhood homes. Suddenly he stopped and pulled out one of his little objects. He seemed to be gazing intently at the small, round article. He had been stopping often for the last few minutes to do this. Now, as Tim and Desperado looked on through high-powered binoculars from inside the van, the stranger pocketed the orb and pulled out the little item that they had seen in Mississippi – the laser device that had cut through a vault door! Purposefully, the white-haired man strode right up to the front door of one of the houses and, without slowing, gained entrance to it. “Dude’s makin’ a move!” said Desperado excitedly, and Tim quickly engaged the drive of the van and moved it down the street in the direction of their quarry. By the time they had stopped in front of the house and jumped out of the van, the strange man was already exiting the house the way he had entered. He regarded Tim with only the slightest of annoyed glances. Womanly cries of anguish could be heard from inside the house. Desperado had been just about to poke his roguish head in the still open door when a small, quick, female form dashed out of it and ran like a blur at the casually walking stranger. Without even looking or turning around, the white-haired man extended an arm and delivered a light blow to his attackers head, effectively putting her down and halting the attack. He continued on without so much as a backward glance. “Wow! Dude is good!” said Desperado in awe. The woman remained crumpled facedown on the lawn, sobbing. Tim approached her warily. “Are you OK?” he asked. She did not stop her weeping or acknowledge him. “Careful, dude,” said Desperado. “She might be a… you know.” The sound of the woman crying cut little Timmy to the quick. Desperado was not so easily taken in. But this was not a simple feminine ploy by the woman; she was genuinely distraught. Tim repeated, “Ma’am? Are you OK?” Still no response. Only the ominous fractured click of the firing mechanism being cocked back on Desperado’s shotgun very near her ear silenced her weeping. “Listen, girlie! Are you a vampire?” She looked up him from her crouch and her little voice erupted with rage, “No, you little geek!!” “You better not be!” said Desperado. “C’mon, Dude. Vamos!” And Tim and Desperado moved toward the van. As they climbed in Desperado asked, “Just what did she mean by that?” The strange, white-haired man had walked only a short distance, and Tim decided that it was time to break the ice. Tim pulled the van alongside the man, and through the rolled down window asked, “Do you want a ride?” The man looked at Tim, recognition on his face, but said nothing, and shook his head. “Hey! What’s your story, dude?” asked Desperado. “Shhh!” said Tim. “Let me handle this.” Then, to the strange man he continued, “Seriously, man. You can’t just walk everywhere. Let me give you a ride.” The bizarre looking man stopped his walking and regarded Tim with alarm, then a slight, amused curl formed on his mouth and he seemed to be considering. Tim closed the sale, “I can get you to where you’re going a lot faster if you get in.” Finally, the white-haired man softly cleared his throat and said in a smooth, youthful voice, “Okay. Thank you. I accept your graciousness, but I cannot be held to any obligation.” And the man stepped around to enter the passenger side of the van. “Great!” said Tim, excitedly. Desperado said, “I’ll take my Harley.” And he disappeared. The nose of the strange man wrinkled as he climbed into the vehicle. Tim said, “Oh yeah. Sorry about the smell in here. I kinda live in my van.” The man said nothing and situated himself in the passenger seat. He said, “I am traveling in a northerly direction.” “OK,” said Tim and he started the van rolling. “What town?” The stranger shook his head. “I do not know towns.” Furrows formed on Tim’s brow. “OK, but you know where you are going, right?” “Yes.” “Where?” asked Tim. “I do not know the designation of the place,” said the white-haired man. “You’ll just know it when you get there?” “I can show you,” the stranger said. “Stop the vehicle.” As Tim braked he said, “Ah! You have a map.” The strange man reached into a pocket and pulled out the little crystalline orb that Tim had seen him examining so many times. It was colored a rich, opaque blue with a few glowing red speckles on one side. “Focus on the center, the middle, the inside of the device,” the man instructed. Tim did so and the orb seemed to grow and engulf him. He found the optical illusion very pleasing. It was as if he was inside the orb looking out at its beautiful blueness and randomly situated red lights. The blue of the orb was moving, but not morphing, and began to take on shapes that were familiar to him. The little red lights also moved past him so that they seemed to be red stars against a deep, opaque blue sky. Tim suddenly realized that the blue shapes were actually an optical representation of the North American continent, and that he had a vantage point from somewhere in orbit. He watched a giant finger point toward a red light near the great lakes area. “Focus here,” said the man, and Tim found that by doing so he seemed to be transported there at blinding speed. The view expanded on him until he could see that the red light was actually several individual points of red light. There was nothing left of the blue shapes. “I need to go to those lights,” the stranger said. “Whoa!” said Tim. “Too close.” “Focus just in front of it then,” said the man, and Tim did. Tim found that he could control his own movement, forward, backward, side-to-side, in this three dimensional holographic map of the world. He moved back just a bit from the points of light until he could see the outline of the blue shapes again, the Great Lakes. “Detroit!” he exclaimed excitedly. “You want to go to Detroit!” And with that, Tim had hammered down! After refueling the van, and hitting the interstate, Tim had immediately tried to engage in conversation with the strange, white-haired man. “I’m Tim, What’s your name?’ “You must not ask any questions of me, Tim.” Fear turned in Tim’s stomach, and he was mildly relieved to hear the rumble of Desperado’s Harley directly behind the van. Tim realized with mounting apprehension that he had offered a ride to a fugitive. His voice quavered slightly as he tried again. “You don’t want to tell me anything about yourself, where you’re from, what you do?” “I dare not.” “Allrighty, then,” said Tim, trying to calm himself, and they rode on for the rest of the night in silence. The man could have been a fugitive, but he had not appeared malevolent, at least not toward Tim anyway. Whatever the strange man had done to that woman, Tim did not know, but she seemed OK, just upset. Tim glanced side-long at the man. Perfectly youthful face, but what was the deal with the white hair standing up as if he’d just put his finger in a light socket? And what about that amazing crystal orb, and the other wondrous devices that Tim had seen the man use. Had that been science or magic? Or both? ‘I do not know towns’ the man had said. Tim’s sci-fi oriented mind casually turned over the outlandish notion that the man might actually be an extra-terrestrial. But they were dealing with vampires. It made more sense to Tim’s mildly psychotic mind that the man was some kind of very powerful ‘jedi’ wizard magic user. They had arrived in Detroit early the next morning, and the man, consulting his crystal orb, had directed Tim to a very large, gated house in a well-to-do neighborhood in New Haven. Something about the place reminded Tim of the Kibbutz and he was sure that there were vampires inside that house. “Thank you,” said the man as Tim stopped the van, and he stepped out of the vehicle. “You’re welcome,” called Tim lamely, and suddenly Desperado was at his window. “C’on, bud! That dude ain’t gettin’ all the fun!” And Tim bolted out of the van, grabbing his guns and taking only a few extra seconds to don his shoulder scabbard and sword. There were two security guards at the gate, but they had already been subdued as Tim and Desperado approached. The confused guards got quickly to their feet and tried to stop the pair as they passed by the open gate. Desperado leveled his shotgun at one of the armed guards. “Are you getting’ hazard pay?” he growled, and the guard just raised his hands. “Then get outa my way!” No longer impeded, Tim and Desperado ran past the gate and up the finely landscaped drive. At that point a general alarm sounded and all hell broke loose. The next two minutes were to be a blur in Tim’s memory. Afterward, he had tried to reconstruct the sequence of events with little success. Basically, the best that he could recall was himself and Desperado storming into the place and blasting anything with fangs. The interior of the house had been quite dark as every window was outfitted with thick curtains. Absolutely no light from the outside penetrated the coverings. A few soft lights and candles had provided the only lighting throughout the ornate and richly-furnished house. By the time Tim and Desperado had gotten inside, there was no sign of the strange, white-haired man. It had seemed to Tim and Desperado that fanged creatures were coming out of the woodwork, and the geeky Vampire Slayer was certainly in his glory, though he had somewhat of a slow start getting into the swing of things. The first vampire, encountered in the front entrance area, had seemed to be a particularly hard kill. Tim’s first shot went a little wide and flayed the flesh of the vampire’s arm to the bone. That served only to enrage the vampire and he advanced with even swifter resolve. Moving with stunning speed, the vampire grabbed a nearby chair with his good arm and holding it in front of him advanced a few steps, then hurled it at Tim in a forward thrust. Desperado fired at the air-born chair a fraction of a second before it hit him, disintegrating it. Unfortunately, he was unable to get another shot off before the vampire was upon him! Little Timmy was knocked to the floor and lay on his back. The vampire was on top of him like a lover. Strong fingers grabbed Tim’s chubby face, while bloody fingers held Tim’s gun hand immobile. Tim could smell the vampire’s sweet breath as he said, “What have we here? A little nerd that thinks he’s Buffy?!” Tim’s horrified gaze turned to Desperado who was standing over the struggling pair trying, apparently without success, to get a clean shot. “Do something!!” yelled Tim. The vampire would have been ready to dismiss Tim’s cry as a ploy to distract him, however, it was obvious to the vampire that his victim was truly addressing someone standing there. He turned to look and saw nothing. “Right!” said Desperado, and the vampire received a kick in the crotch. The kick provided only a short window of opportunity for Tim to get out from under his assailant, as the vampire recovered from the blow with startling swiftness. Tim scrambled to his feet only a second before the vampire had coiled himself into a position to strike. Like a rabid dog the vampire sprang at Tim. Desperado raised his twelve-gauge coolly and fired at the vampire from point blank range! The blast melted the vampire’s head and robbed the body of any remaining inertia, causing it fall at Desperado’s feet. “Wicked sick!” he exclaimed, then he and Tim paused momentarily to inspect the dead vampire and catch their breath. From somewhere deeper in the house there was suddenly a ghastly scream. “Slayer!!” And Tim and Desperado sprang back into action. They had killed six more vampires as they tore through the house. But those kills had been far easier than the first. The vampires seemed groggy and disoriented, and they died quickly. After Tim and Desperado had exhausted the ammo in their shotguns, Tim resorted to his sword, which, to his delight at the time, turned out initially to be quite effective against these particular vampires. In later adventures he had found that the sword did not always work so well. The interior of the house was much larger than could have been guessed by looking at it from the outside. Tim found that the house had an expansive downstairs area with many various rooms, all without windows. As they moved through the house, inspecting every room for more vampires, they came across a large, well-equipped laboratory. Tim did not need to know a lot about chemistry to see that the lab was about as state of the art as you can get for being inside of a suburban house. Still, the lab was sparsely lit, and so had a mad-scientist feel about it. At length, Tim and Desperado had caught up with the strange man in a large, ornate, windowless sitting room in the downstairs of the house. The stranger was standing over a vampire that was seated comfortably in a reclining chair. Two other vampires also sat on the floor of the room looking somewhat dazed, and Tim abruptly slashed one of them with his sword, hacking repeatedly at the fallen vampire’s neck until the head was detached. Then, for the sake of variety, Tim sheathed his sword and un-holstered his .22, thinking that now might be a good time to test its effectiveness. Throughout the attack, neither the seated vampire nor the white-haired man had moved to stop Tim. But as Tim leveled his gun at the other vampire on the floor, the vampire seated in the chair addressed the strange man in a voice barbed with annoyance, “Would you please stop him!” In a very loud, commanding voice the white-haired man said, “Tim! Stop!” Tim did stop, just as he was about to fire a silver bullet into the pathetic creature that seemed only vaguely aware of what was happening. “But they’re vampires!” he protested. The man in the chair said, “Are you nuts, buddy? There’s no such thing as vampires!” “What you been sniffin’?!” said Desperado. “This house is crawling with vampires!” “Come here,” said the strange man, beckoning to Tim. Tim obeyed, but was quite startled when the strange man fast as lightning took the gun right out of his hand. Tim and Desperado both watched in shock and amusement as the stranger then turned the gun on the man in the chair. “Now!” was all that the strange, white-haired man commanded. Reluctantly, the man in the chair reached into a pocket and retrieved a small crystalline orb identical to the one that the strange man had shown to Tim. “I guess you’ll be wanting this back,” he said sheepishly, and he handed it over respectfully, but with extreme hesitation to the strange man, who, in turn, pocketed the small item, handed the gun back to Tim, and then walked out of the room. “Wait!” yelled Tim. “What the heck is going on?” Desperado turned to man in the chair and said menacingly. “You gonna tell us what is going on here, or what?” “What!” said the man. “Did someone forget to take their clozapine today?” Then, as if the all of the goings-on hadn’t been strange enough, Tim and Desperado watched as the young man leaped out of the chair, calling after the stranger. “Hey! Wait for me, old man!” Tim and Desperado had then made their way out of the house, grabbing anything of value that was easily tote-able. As they exited, they noticed that the body of the first vampire they had killed was steaming hot and decomposing very rapidly – extraordinarily rapidly. Tim had at first thought that it must be what vampires do when they die, but then he remembered that none of the dead vampires at the Kibbutz had decomposed like that. Maybe he hadn’t noticed? Maybe he hadn’t stayed long enough afterwards to see it? But then, none of the other dead vampires around the large house were doing it either. More questions… The duo hurried to catch up with the strange white-haired man, and they were very surprised to see him engaged in discourse with the young man from the house. Tim tried using his shotgun mic to eavesdrop on the conversation, but the two bizarre men were speaking in a different language that might have been Arabic, or Hebrew. It might as well have been Greek to poor Tim, but he tape recorded all of it that he could. He planned to someday learn the language, whatever it was, and translate it. Even without understanding the strange tongue, Tim could tell that the nature of the conversations was epic! He didn’t feel that he could trust anyone else with it. The stranger and the young man from the house had traveled together for about six weeks before they finally parted company. Tim and Desperado decided that they should continue tailing the strange man, which they did, to the result of many adventures over the next six years. They followed the strange, white-haired man as he methodically walked his seemingly meandering course across the United States. Several times, Tim had tried to re-establish relations with the stranger, but never to any avail. Once, when Tim had tried to offer him another ride, he had said simply in a quiet voice, “I dare not.” So here they were now, in Portland, Oregon, still stalking the strange man with the gravity-defying white hair. Sure, the vampire slayer was a wreck right now. He and Desperado slept for very short periods, and only when their quarry slept, or rested or meditated or whatever it was that the strange man did whenever he wasn’t on the move. Eating and bathroom was catch as catch can. But they weren’t about to take their eyes off of their subject and lose him as he wandered around the city. The white-haired man talked to no one and avoided interaction and anything that might cause or necessitate it. He walked everywhere, never ran; never once using a cab, a bus, or the mono-rail. Tim would see the strange man grab leaves from a tree as he walked beneath it, and nibble on them. He also ate plants and roots, sometimes even picking weeds to eat. The man never bathed, but he did not seem to carry the stench inherent of the homeless. Occasionally, Tim and Desperado would catch the strange man looking at his little blue orb, and they knew that the strange man was zeroing in on a quarry of his own.

CHAPTER XXX

All Marcus could do was go out and look for trouble. God! He hated daylight savings time. It was so much easier during the winter when it was already dark by five o’clock and he could just follow the government employees on their way home from their useless jobs. Spring and summer were only good for executing the petty criminals. Soon the big switch would be made back to standard time, and then more people would be out of doors after dark! Not that it really mattered; with the decades passing in the blink of an eye, for the vampire it was really only a function of who could be found hanging out after dark. The vampire loved feeding on politicians; it was easier on his conscience. But that had to be done in great moderation. They were always conspicuous missing persons. He also really enjoyed killing cops, but that was even more dangerous for the vampire than killing politicians. Not that killing the individual police officer was difficult. It was just that those bullies belonged to that tightest and most vindictive of all street gangs, and when one of their numbers came up missing or dead, whether they knew the victim personally or not, whether they liked him or not, the investigation was always intense and invasive, the retribution swift and final. But whatever the food, he tried to remain true to the wishes of his first love – to kill only those who most deserve it. So tonight, the victim would have to be some poor unsuspecting vandal or burglar. But then, that is what made middle-of- the-road Portland, Oregon such good hunting grounds. Trouble was never hard to find, even though it kept a low profile, which was also good. The cleanup was always the biggest drawback. The victim’s body would have to be completely destroyed, or at least hid so well that it would be years before it was found. The vampire walked downtown, and jumped on the first bus that came down 5th Avenue. The bus was the ‘number four,’ and it crossed the Willamette River on the Hawthorne Bridge, and drove along its route through southeast Portland down Division Street. At 39th Avenue the vampire again took to the street on foot. It was eleven o’clock, and surely trouble was close. Marcus walked serenely along a street; he didn’t pay attention to the name of it. Perhaps he had been here before, decades ago. It didn’t really matter. This neighborhood, and others like it, had changed greatly in the last twenty years. Older, smaller homes sat on one side of the street along with a couple sets of apartments, while on the other side there were a string of small businesses, the buildings all old, but well-kept. A Shell station along with its accompanying convenience store on the corner was the only business that didn’t sport a Vietnamese sign. It and the Vietnamese video store were the only businesses on the street that were still open. The other three businesses, a market, a restaurant, and a clothing store, were dark. Marcus was, of course, fluent in Vietnamese. He had, in fact, learned virtually all of the languages in the world. It had proved a stimulating hobby, and an invaluable skill. He mused, looking at the backlit posters for Asian pornos on the doors and windows of the video store. In the past couple decades there had been a large influx of Asian immigrants into the Portland metro area; Cambodians, Vietnamese, Koreans, and even Chinese. Many of these immigrants had risked life and sacrificed property to come to America and when they had arrived in the land of promise they had proved to be extremely hard working. Small businesses, built mostly from blood, sweat, and tears, and not from government assistance, had popped up everywhere in low income neighborhoods where these immigrants had settled. Marcus’s deep musings were interrupted by a loud booming and an equally loud and irritating flatulent sound that turned out to be a spoiled out little Acura Integra. For such a little car it sure makes a lot of noise! The black car was slammed to ground with low profile tires. A purple glow lit its underside. The windows were tinted darkly, and the rear hatch window was filled with a red Vietnamese symbol. Marcus recognized it as the symbol for the Kien Giang. Among the boat people of the early eighty’s had been some that were not so assiduous. Rather than working hard to create something of value they had formed into small gangs that stole car parts and sold drugs. It hadn’t taken long for one far-sighted individual to unite and organize all of the little clans into one rather formidable group. Known as the Asian Mafia to all the rest of the people living in the Portland metro, Don Tuyen had named his creation Kien Giang, after the name of the province in Vietnam where he was from. He had come to America in 1980 when he was just fifteen. At twenty, Don Tuyen had realized that all of the little Asian gangs were only hurting his people. He worked to end the petty gang wars and persuaded the gangs to prey upon the outside neighborhoods. By 1990, he had his Kien Giang. Don Tuyen had fancied himself a regular godfather type, but his crime syndicate had nowhere near the size or the power and influence of its Sicilian forebear. But he had had the patience to carefully nurture and grow his little mob into an underground army. He had organized the selling of narcotics within the Asian communities. Don Tuyen had little control in the white and black neighborhoods. He had created a lucrative prostitution operation that serviced any one with an Asian fetish. His girls and boys fished the waters of 82nd Avenue; their biggest customers were army and navy men. And Don Tuyen had established enough contacts with the police that he could be reasonably assured that his enterprises wouldn’t be interfered with by the authorities. His ‘sheet’ wasn’t very long, but it had been growing steadily. The Kien was just strong enough that when Don Tuyen came up missing in 1997, the organization didn’t completely fall apart. A successor to Don Tuyen, Ben Ho, quickly assumed the position of power. Ben Ho had been only a few years younger than Don Tuyen, and his story was very similar. Now he was thirty-four, and feeling very fine about where his life had taken him. His father in Vietnam had died young and poor. Ben Ho was a millionaire and quite untouchable. He knew that if he kept his organization discreet and only engaged in the ‘minor crap’, prostitution and drugs, he wouldn’t attract the attention of the F.B.I. He also personally regulated gang related murders. Executions had to be handled very carefully. There were no other gangs in Portland metro that would stand against the Kien; no rival gangs hoping to take over and usurp the territory. Properly paid off, the police wouldn’t even drive into the Asian neighborhoods. Ben Ho seemed to reward his captains even better than he rewarded himself, so they had no reason to move against him, and his minions were well rehearsed in the law of silence. And so it was that Ben Ho, self-appointed heir of Don Tuyen to the Kien Giang, felt that he had found the perfect groove for making the most amount of money with the least amount of risk. And all of this went on while the fine hardworking people of the Asian community struggled, scrimped, and saved, to build their businesses and feed their growing families. God! What a racket! From the rear of the car protruded a long chrome muffler that did not seem to be muffling the sound of the engine at all, just transposing the pitch of it up a couple of octaves. And competing with the high-pitched noise of the engine was the sound system, playing something that sounded like kick drum, sub-bass, and hi-hat only. If there was anything else to the ‘song’, it wasn’t carrying through. Marcus gritted his fangs at the annoying disturbance. Trouble had reared its head. The vampire vanished into a shadow, and watched as the car stopped in front of the Vietnamese restaurant. Two young Asians, probably in their late teens, jumped out of the trendy vehicle, leaving it running. They each hefted baseball bats. Without a word, the boys advanced on the old building. They looked to be exactly the same height, which wasn’t an inch over five feet and five inches. The first boy, the driver of the car, was handsome; probably a wannabe heartbreaker. The other boy had a round, puffy face. He was clearly the subordinate. They quickly set about to smashing the two large picture windows on each side of the front door to the restaurant. The sound of shattering glass could just be heard above the din of the house music emanating from the little car. Within moments, the frantic restaurant owner came running out from the rear of the restaurant where he and his family lived. “Stop! Please! Stop!” he screamed in Vietnamese. “What are you doing?!” The vampire crept closer to hear the dialogue between the players. Oh, the drama! “This is what happens when you don’t pay for protection,” answered the first boy, also in Vietnamese. “Accidents happen!” said ‘Puffy Face’, in English. The business owner turned simultaneously angry and terrified. It came out as frustration. “But Mr. Ho wants too much tribute! And how can I open for business now?!” “Now you see that protection is your first priority!” said ‘Driver’ as he brought his bat down hard on a table top through the now broken window. The thin wood of the table snapped. “Please!” pled the older man. “I would have paid the tribute, but my little girl is ill and I need the money to pay the doctor.” The restaurant owner had paid the ever increasing extortion fee for the past three years, just barely being able to scrape by, he and his family living hand-to-mouth. His daughter’s illness had been an unexpected expense. “Why didn’t you say so before?” said the punk. “Ben Ho would have lent you the money to pay the doctor if you had only paid for protection.” He and his partner continued swinging and smashing. The distraught man knew that if he didn’t open for business in the morning he’d be ruined. These Kien had to stop trashing his place or he would have no hope of opening his doors in the morning. “OK! OK! Wait! Please, Stop! I’ll get the money,” he cried. Defeated, the owner shuffled back into the building, out of sight, and the boys took a short recess from their swinging. Presently the man came back with a wad of bills and handed them to Driver, who then stuffed the money into his pocket without counting it and said, “Good. We’ll see you real soon.” And the boys stepped back to their still running, still open vehicle. Marcus never really saw much wrong with organized crime in general. Businesses like prostitution, drugs, and gambling might be offensive to some, but they are not inherently invasive. Now, if someone were compelling you by force to use their hooker and purchase their drugs, then that would be a different story. But by and large, organized crime was just another business. Extortion was, indeed, a different story though. That was pure and simple might-makes-right stealing. Marcus had found a suitable choice for a victim. The world would turn easier without either one of these two punks, There was something that the vampire just discovered that he hated more than extortion. He hated cramming himself between two booming, vibrating speakers playing sub-bass music. And he had thought the car had sounded bad from the outside! His presence went unnoticed. Driving as if he had nothing to fear from any traffic cops, the little Asian punk drove out of that particular Vietnamese neighborhood and headed back across the river on the Ross Island Bridge. Within minutes they were in another Asian neighborhood near Beaverton. The car stopped in front of another restaurant, this one Chinese and apparently still open at 11:30. The punks exited the car, leaving their bats, never detecting their crouching passenger. Both of them were feeling sleepy and grumpy as they entered the Chinese restaurant. The vampire entered the restaurant thirty seconds behind them. He was feeling grumpy too, but only because he felt that he was above being stuck between two loud woofers. “We are not open for business,” a thin Asian man said in heavily accented English. Another rather stocky Asian fellow seemed to emphasize the point. He had been seated reading a newspaper, but now took full measure of Marcus. The vampire smiled a warm, sly smile. “If you are not open for business,” he said slowly and deliberately, “then what are you doing here? Surely you would rather be home right now with your wife, or lover.” The men looked thoughtful for only a moment as they pondered that, then, without a word, each exited the restaurant. They didn’t even turn out the lights or lock the door. They just left the vampire standing in the dining area. Marcus knew that he could probably have fed on either one of them; surely their hands were as dirty as, or dirtier than the two little thugs that he had ridden to this place with. But he wanted that irritating little punk with the annoying car. Yes, Driver had certainly proved himself to be a destructive little shit, and the only thing more satisfying than feeding on him would be feeding on his boss. The vampire was about to get a chance to do just that. Following the hallway at the back of the dining area past the restrooms, Marcus found stairs going up. At the top of the staircase was another short hallway with two doors. Both doors, like the building, were old and weak. He picked the door that had the scent of fresh cigarette smoke emanating from underneath it and knocked. There was a peephole, but of course Marcus couldn’t see a thing through it from his end. He could, however, see the little glass go completely dark when someone on the other side looked to see who had just knocked on the door. Moving with all of the speed and power that a vampire is able, Marcus kicked the door open against the face of one of the boys. Without even breaking stride, the vampire then crossed the room to where the other little punk, Driver, the one that he wanted, stood pulling out a gun. In the flash that he crossed the distance, he took the measure of the room. It was large for an office. His victim stood near a large desk. On the other side of the desk, in the process of rising from a large chair, was an Asian man that Marcus knew to be Ben Ho, the illustrious leader of the Kien Giang. The only thing between the vampire and his victim was a couch sitting in front of the desk. Marcus jumped, then launched again off the arm of the couch. His left foot landed on the desk, his right foot connecting with the handgun that the boy was just getting ready to fire. Spinning, he let his right foot follow through with a powerful kick to Ben Ho’s head, knocking the mob boss off of his feet. He was out! Driver suddenly proved to be fairly well trained in the art of hand-to-hand combat, and very fast. He grabbed Marcus’s left foot by the ankle and yanked. Marcus fell to his back, half on the desk, landing on a fountain pen and other assorted small objects. The pain was just enough to really piss him off before pain blockers numbed it. The boy smashed his elbow down directly on Marcus’s adams apple with a blow that surely would have killed someone more fragile. Reflexively, the vampire brought the open palm of his hand up to the nose of his adversary with such force that the blow threw the little Asian back ten feet. Then the vampire stood, feeling just a bit wobbly. Across the room, the other little gang banger had recovered from the door. He was now reaching for his gun. Marcus sprang toward him like a charging animal, but this time he wasn’t quite as fast. Puffy managed to get three shots off – two of them connecting. The first bullet hit Marcus square in the chest and blew through his right lung. The second shot hit lower, into his kidney. Again, a mortal man would have been dead, and only inertia kept the vampire moving toward the boy. Of course, Marcus had been injured much worse than this in his life. He knew that he would soon shut down and fall into a regenerative sleep, and his hunger would intensify. But first he had to get things under control. Puffy knew that his shots should have dropped the charging attacker, so he was shocked beyond his capacity to comprehend when Marcus kept coming. The vampire angrily grabbed the gun along with the hand that held it. Puffy was too stunned to react, and he wasn’t well practiced in fighting like his cohorts. Marcus held the hand of the punk tightly with one of his own hands, and removed the gun from the grasp of the punk with his other hand. Puffy stood still, doing nothing at the moment to defend himself. Smiling fiendishly, the vampire put all of the little punk’s pointer finger into his mouth and bit it completely off, taking a quick drag of blood from the open wound before pulling what was left of Puffy’s hand out of his mouth. Still smiling, showing the finger, Marcus returned the gun to the injured hand. Even in the midst of his shock and terror, the poor little Asian gang banger realized the significance of this most bizarre act by his attacker. His trigger finger, for what is was worth, was gone forever! Puffy watched horrified as Marcus chewed, mouth open to allow the little punk to see his own finger being ground into a bloody mass. The vampire chewed thoroughly, even crunching on and crushing the bones; finally swallowed, as the now nine-fingered little member of the Kien Giang watched, the reality of the moment settling in on him like the dawn of a black sun. “Go! And sin no more!” cried the vampire as he finally released Puffy’s four-fingered hand with the impotent gun still in it. Then Marcus added in Vietnamese, “And if anyone learns of this night, I’ll hunt you down like a dog and eat the rest of you!” In English the threat would have sounded comical, but spoken in the boy’s native tongue it sounded very menacing. And little Puffy Face, soon to be former member of the Kien Giang, ran for his life out the door, and down the stairs, not caring what might become of his former bosses. Ben Ho was just coming to, but he presented little resistance to the vampire as he fed. Marcus quickly bled him dry. Perfect timing, as Driver was just starting to come around, his nose broken. He was bled dry in less than a minute. That was the problem with most Asians, and small people in general. They just didn’t have a lot of blood. Normally, two would have been plenty, more than enough, (though usually out of the question!), but the vampire was critically wounded, and that tended to increase his appetite. He needed more. The good thing about these kills is that they were very clean. There would be little or no investigation into the deaths. The cops would be glad that the leader of the Kien Giang was dead, and they would probably be paid by the remaining leadership of the Kien Giang NOT to investigate, and that would only be if the deaths were even reported! The Kien Giang would survive the loss of another leader; probably assume that the murder was an inside job if Marcus doctored the corpses a little. But none of the Kien would seek to find out who or how. They would all rise up the Kien command ladder a little and generally be glad that it had happened while putting on an air of passive vindictiveness and faux-bravado. Using his excellent hunting knife, the vampire put a deep, rough slit into each of the victim’s throats to cover his bite marks. Yes, that would do nicely. No one would notice the dearth of blood. What time was it? If he hurried, he could just catch the last bus. But how could he hurry? His right lung was not working, and even though he felt no pain, it was clear that he was seriously injured. The sleep might overcome him at any time. Being on a bus or in a taxi when that happened was potentially bad. He needed to stay moving and find a safe place. When this regenerative sleep ended, he would be ravenous, on the edge of grey madness. The vampire exited the now empty Chinese restaurant unseen, and walked as quickly as he could, (which wasn’t very quick at all), through the neighborhood and back to Capitol Highway. His pace became slower and slower. It took him five hours to travel the nine miles to the house where Tina lived. He didn’t know what had kept him going. The stars were already beginning to disappear one by one as he crossed the weed-filled front lawn. He vaguely realized that he was in no condition to handle the dog in the backyard just now. Almost completely incoherent, Marcus collapsed on the front door step. For just a second he slipped out of consciousness, and then weakly came to again. He reached up and touched the doorbell. The door was answered by a wary Sarah Hiers. A worn silken night-robe half cloaked the soft, misshapen rolls of fat that hung from her body. Her long, light brown hair was damp with sweat and grease and was tweaked with all of the oddness of pillow-head. A door chain allowed the door to open only three inches. Sarah looked down at the crumpled form on the doorstep. “Hello? Can I help you?” The mound that was Marcus whispered hoarsely, “Tina?” The door closed and Sarah shuffled grumpily off to fetch her sleeping daughter, and to get the story on this derelict that seemed to be passed out on the front porch. “Oh god! It’s Marcus!” Tina cried when she looked out the door crack. “We’ve got to bring him in!” Sarah protested, but did not prevent her daughter from opening the door, and trying to lift the fallen vampire. “Help me, Mom!” said Tina. “Oh my god! He’s hurt!” exclaimed Sarah when they had lifted him up. There was dried blood on his chest and stomach, and he was feverishly hot. “Jesus! He’s on fire!” The woman and her daughter managed to get the only slightly coherent Marcus back to Tina’s room and onto her bed, where Tina quickly pulled the window shades. “This man needs a hospital,” said Sarah, as she covered him, clothes, trench coat, shoes and all with a blanket. Even in his near unconscious state, Marcus registered a look of alarm at Sarah’s suggestion, and Tina exclaimed, “No! We can’t do that.” “Tina, don’t be ridiculous! This mans seriously injured and there’s nothing we can do for him. He’s absolutely burning up and he looks bad, and you haven’t told me who he is or where you even know him from!” “He’s a friend of mine from downtown and he’s a great guy,” said Tina. “He’s the one that talked me into moving back home.” That, at least, made Sarah feel a little better about letting a wounded stranger into her home. She was very glad that Tina had come home, especially now in her difficult time. If this gentleman had had something to do with bringing Tina back home to her then he must be at least a little bit alright. But what to do about those injuries? “Tina,” Marcus whispered, and she was all ears. He spoke quietly, deliberately. “I will sleep. It will be safer for you if I am not disturbed. These windows will need an additional covering of some sort.” He stopped for a moment, then continued, even quieter. “Tina. When I wake up I will be blind with hunger. Please, be here, but do not let me kill you.” “When will you wake up?” asked Tina, innocently. “After dark,” Marcus whispered, and he was unconscious. Tina was elated that the vampire would entrust so much to her. Her mother, on the other hand, was quite mystified as to what exactly was going on. She hadn’t heard Marcus’s second instruction. She stood by the doorway of the room now, waiting for Tina to take her aside and explain everything. Tina did take her mother aside, out of the bedroom, where she shut the door. “Mother, trust me. I’m sure he’ll be fine. He just needs some sleep, and it’s important that you don’t disturb him, OK?” But deep down inside her there was doubt. This was all too weird for Tina all of a sudden. Was he really a vampire? She had been convinced the night that he had sucked her blood; it had been wonderful! But maybe she had just been caught up in the moment. Maybe he was just a weirdo that liked to freak people out. He had said he would kill her step-dad, and then Stephen Hiers had had a fatal accident the next night. She was glad at how that had worked out, but had Marcus really had anything to do with it? If he had, he must really be crazy! Or, a vampire….. Sarah Hiers was still unsure, but she did not wish to be contrary to her daughter. “I’ll leave him totally alone, but this whole thing goes against my better judgment.” Of course, not even Sarah’s better judgment had ever served her that well. She had been let down by life and love so severely that now she second guessed every choice, now matter how big or small, that life put in front of her. To counteract her heinous indecisiveness, she often made seat-of-the-pants decisions, determined to make her bed and lie in it. That almost always made things worse. So now, unbeknownst to Sarah, a vampire lay regenerating in her daughter’s bed. Sarah resolved to let the man rest undisturbed. What was the worst that could happen, after all? The answer to that question was far too frightening for Sarah to entertain. The woman shuddered and very nearly changed her mind about allowing the young man to convalesce in her home. Tina scampered out to the garage and retrieved a sleeping bag from the camping gear, and a hammer and some nails. Quietly, then, she re-entered her room and proceeded to cover the entire window with the sleeping bag. Nailing it was the most secure method that she could think of to hold it up. Finished, she felt confident that it would do the job. Normally pink and girlish, the room now felt dark and warm – cozy. Tina paused momentarily and considered the ‘man’ asleep in her bed. His forehead was hot to the touch, and in fact, heat radiated from his entire prone form. But he wasn’t sweating, Tina noticed. She pulled down the blanket, opened the coat, and lifted the shirt, noting the little holes and small patches of blood. In the darkness of the room Tina could still make out what must have been bullet entry wounds. “Oh Marcus!” she whispered with a gasp. “You’ve been shot.” Even still, the wounds did not look that bad. Tina felt something for Marcus that she thought was love. And why shouldn’t she love him? He had been very nice to her and even the whole bite episode had been highly erotic. Of course, Tina didn’t really know Marcus, but she had never let such a minor technicality stop her from loving other men that had sauntered into her life. Marcus lay as though dead, and Tina mused about herself and the powerful person that lay in her bed. After about five minutes her reverie broke and she again inspected Marcus’s torso one more time before covering him again. The entry wounds had closed and were fading! Tina stood slowly, amazed, the stark realization slowly integrating with her perception of reality. She was not high, (actually hadn’t been since the night of her first encounter with Marcus), and she was now digesting this unbelievable fact – vampires are real! Dazed, exhilarated, and hopeful, she exited the room. Tina had been busy since that night that she had met Marcus and been fed upon. Her personal health was back to where it needed to be, in fact, she had never been healthier in her life. She had enrolled at the community college and was working to get her GED. She had gotten a job working as a checker at a large chain supermarket. The work was long hours on her feet, and the pay was nothing like dancing, but the job made her feel legitimate. Tina was expected at her job in about two hours, but her shift would be over before dark, so she felt OK about leaving Marcus alone in the house with her mother. Sarah promised again as Tina left for work not to disturb Marcus. All during her shift at the supermarket, the thoughts of the distracted girl meandered back again and again to Marcus. If vampires were real, then what other wondrous forms of magic could there be in the world? The little girl decided that she must make the vampire love her. She would seduce him, and convince him to turn her. Then they truly would be together forever. The thought made her giddy! Several of her co-workers noticed her flush and asked how she was feeling. “Fine,” she had answered, but in reality, words could not describe how she was really feeling. And time was crawling for the love-sick little Tina. At long last, five o’clock finally ticked along, and Tina left the supermarket to catch a bus for home. Nothing was happening fast enough for her. She ran all the way from the bus stop to her door step. Marcus and her mother were exactly as she had left them ten hours earlier; both of them lying in their respective beds; Sarah watching Jerry Springer, and Marcus still deep in a coma, but not so feverish. After fixing a little dinner for herself and her mother and then eating it, Tina retired to her room where she lay closely nestled to the unconscious vampire. She dozed, feeling comfortable and safe. It was nearly euphoric.

CHAPTER XXXI

Even though Marcus lay perfectly still in the last stages of his regenerative coma, inside his head was a rampant rampaging chaos. His subconscious had sunk from complete disorder to some kind primitive madness. In this dream Marcus was not Marcus. Here, he was not self-aware. He was dreaming the dreams, perhaps, of our ancestors, our evolutionary predecessors. And he was aware of only two things – fear and hunger. Haunted moans, wails, and screams could be heard from all directions as he stumbled over a smoking, burned waste-scape. Strewn about in every direction were large, odd shaped vases, but to the disoriented primitive they were only objects. Hordes of shadowy creatures were flanking him on all sides, surrounding him. “Danger!” a voice from somewhere exclaimed. “Danger!” It came to the primitive Marcus as an audible word, in the primeval language that he was only beginning to understand. The primitive didn’t have any relative reference to operate from. He did not know that he was weak. But he figured out quickly that he didn’t have the strength to defend himself, or the speed and agility to jump and run. However, the featureless shadows didn’t attack him with any intent to harm him. They only swept upon him, in a frenzy, frantic and agitated, and bore him up in their many bony hands and clawed fingers, carrying him across the burnt and stinking waste-scape. It was simply an exercise in teaching this primitive that he was ultimately under the control of a stronger force. Struggling would do no good, nor did he have the strength to do it. Presently the shadowy minions hurled him to the ground. In his fall, the primitive struck one of the grotesque vases and it broke against his impact. Within the broken pieces of the vase was a woman, naked, large with child. Only the woman was also horribly misshapen, a cast of the hideous vase that had previously held her. Still surrounded by the hordes, the primitive realized that there could be no escape. He seemed to understand their intent, however. “Hunger!” said the god-like voice from somewhere. “Feed!” The pregnant woman was also saying something, but the primitive couldn’t exactly understand her words. Her manner communicated an appeal, a plea. The primitive stood confused. This woman pleased him, especially her face and mouth, but the voice of god was still echoing in his mind and all throughout the world. “Feed!” The primitive attacked the woman like a wild dog. With a comparable instinctual reflex the woman fought the attack. Surprisingly, the strength of the woman was enough to keep him from ripping her to pieces. The most that the primitive Marcus could do was manage to bite into her shoulder just below her neck line. No flesh, and very little blood, but it did, however, leave a taste of the kill-to-be on his tongue. That little taste of blood drove Marcus mad with hunger, and ironically, it was just enough to bring him back to his senses – a little! “Maria!” he cried, aghast at the idea that he had tried to kill the woman that he had just now recognized. “It is alright, Lucio. You can take me,” she said. “I can’t –” he choked, through emotion. He held her now, and buried his face into her disfigured bosom. He was her Lucio once again. “You must!” she cried, “But make it feel wonderful.” “I do not know how,” he sobbed. Emotion flowed down his face. Oh, how he loved his Maria. And he didn’t know why, but he missed her terribly. Hadn’t they always been together? Why, then, did it seem that he hadn’t seen her for an eternity? Marcus wept a river of no specific emotion. It had all been some horrible mistake after all! The woman that Marcus recognized as Maria bared her neck, and in a dreadful flood of recollection he suddenly knew once again, with all of its sickness, that he was a vampire. There had been no mistake. And now he let all the power of his vampirism flow out of him, making Maria swoon in his arms. The shadowy forms also seemed to calm under his power. The moans and screams faded and the minions began to sway concertly in a massive wave, back and forth. And suddenly Marcus was also aware of the beautiful blue figure standing off to his right at the edge of the little area surrounded by the hordes. The figure made no move, did not speak, but simply looked at the vampire like it always did at this lucid point of regenerative sleep dream. Marcus now bit tenderly into Maria’s neck, and drank of her sweet life – delicious and rich. And he drank of the infant life inside of her, realizing that that too was her life, at least for now. Her life….and his!! At that exact moment, he knew he was dreaming, and also at that exact moment, Maria was gently pushed him away. “You must not kill me, Marcus,” she said, no weakness in her voice. “I love you.” And the look that she held for Marcus in her eyes added conviction to that statement. But why hadn’t she called him Lucio? Marcus knew that he was waking up. And for the first time since he could remember, he did not want to! But the waste- scape faded as if an unseen sun was acceleratedly setting, and Marcus found himself lying back on Tina Angelino’s bed, with the little girl lying in his arms. His fingers stroked soft naked skin. The room was pitch black, and it was only by her scent that he knew who it was. “How do you feel?” came her little voice, and Marcus decided that he liked it. She had been trying to sound sexy, no doubt, but Marcus only found the attempt to be cute. At the same time, his heart ached for Maria! “I feel fine,” he said, in answer to her question. But if he could only really tell her just exactly how he felt! With only a memory of the painful injury, his perfectly healed body felt amazingly supercharged, strong and powerful. Having just fed on Tina’s sweet blood contributed to the excellent feeling; euphoria with a sense of control – the kind of control that can only come from surviving, one way or another, for 500 years. “And how are you?” Marcus asked, truly concerned. “I’ll live,” said Tina. Then she added using a tone that sounded post-orgasmic, “And I feel fantastic!” “Excellent,” said the relieved vampire. “Let’s have a look at that bite and make sure that everything is alright.” The vampire was a little surprised when in the darkness he felt a small pair of lips suddenly touch his in a soft kiss that was quite pleasant. A second later a nice, soft lighted bed-side lamp clicked on and the two of them blinked for a moment as their eyes adjusted. Marcus saw that the little girl had stripped down to nothing but lace panties, and he smiled with amusement. She was making her best pitch. Marcus noted, not surprised, that Tina had two bites. One on her neck from where he had fed, and the other a little lower on her shoulder. “Sorry about that,” he said as he inspected it. “It’s OK,” she said. “You warned me. Sorry about the sock to your jaw. And who is Maria?” This question she asked without the slightest hint of jealousy, only curiosity. The vampire hadn’t even felt any pain in his jaw, but realized now that Tina must have struck him when he had first come out of his coma and attacked her while he was still in the dream state. Smart girl! “Ah, Maria!” said Marcus, his voice filled with love, affection, respect, and longing. “That is a long story. Two long stories, actually. But to answer your question, Maria was my very first love.” “Oh my god!” said the girl. She hadn’t even imagined anything of what Marcus’s life might have been, but she was glad to hear that he had at least been in love once – there was hope for her. Then she asked the next obvious question, “How old are you, Marcus?” Marcus paused, and momentarily studied the design of a symbol tattooed on the little girl’s right shoulder blade. “I’m very old, Tina my sweet.” “Tell me,” she said. “I would love to hear your story.” It had been a long time since he had talked frankly with anyone about himself. Notwithstanding Tina’s hyper-speed jump into adulthood, he was sure that this little girl wasn’t ready to ‘hear his story.’ And his own safety and well-being demanded discretion. He was already compromised to this girl a little more than he preferred. More time was warranted. He said finally, “Another time, my dear. But soon. Now, what do we have here that you can use to cover up those bites with?” “Well, at least tell me how old you are,” she persisted. “Are you more one hundred years old?” “Yes,” the vampire said simply. A flood of questions swarmed in Tina’s mind, but she would hold them in for now. Something in her still feared the vampire enough that it seemed prudent to exercise a little patience just now. When he was ready he would open up, and then she would pick his amazing brain. She got up from the bed and walked like a kitten over to her dresser, where she proceeded to dig through one of the drawers, finally fishing out a silken scarf. She was going to proudly cover her badges with an even more obvious adornment. “And how old are you, my sweet?” he asked. “I’m eighteen.” She was a good liar, but not against Marcus. The vampire could smell when a person lied. He didn’t pursue the truth, however. He inspected his shirt and shook his head. “Hmm. This will never do,” he said, eyeing the bullet holes. “Have you a shirt that I can borrow?” Tina was again delighted. He could just move in as far as she was concerned. Rummaging through another dresser drawer she produced an over-sized T-shirt, black with large rainbow colored peace symbol. Playfully, she tossed it at his face, and he let it hit him, covering his head. “Perfect,” he said from behind the garment. The clock-radio under the lamp displayed 9:40. As Tina finished dressing, and Marcus straightened and tucked his own clothes, he said, “Come, introduce me to you mother officially.” And they emerged from the cozy room. Sarah Hiers was still watching TV from her bed when Tina poked her head through the door. “Mom? Marcus is up. Would you like to come meet him?” “Well, I guess I should,” she said, then cleared her throat. Slowly, feeling much older than thirty-five, she raised herself out of her bed. A short, thin, dingy silk robe was all that covered her. The woman grabbed her cigarettes and lighter from a night- stand cluttered with the bottles of various pharmaceuticals and shuffled out of her filthy room. Her mood changed almost instantly as she entered the living room of her small and cluttered house. There sat the man that only this morning had been crumpled on her porch, seemingly unable to move under his own power. Now he sat on the couch, looking quite whole, and quite handsome! Tina sat comfortably on the other end of the couch. She turned to her mother, “Mom, this is Marcus.” Then she turned back to Marcus, blushing, and introduced him to her mother. The woman was instantly charmed. “Very pleased to meet you,” said the vampire, as he thought, “I am the one who sent your loser husband over the side of the hill in his jeep!” Then he said, “We are enjoying a lovely late night conversation. Would you care to join us?” The invitation pleased Sarah immensely, and she found herself responding more eloquently and politely than normal. “Thank you! I would love to.” And she sat down in the EZ chair that her late husband had so often enjoyed, momentarily forgetting all of the questions about the young man and his injuries that had remained a fuzzy concern in the back of her mind all morning. Marcus did not know all of the details of Sarah Hiers’ life. He would soon learn them, however. His smiling countenance portrayed a deep wisdom, and the grieving woman would undoubtedly open up to him fully. He was experiencing nothing new with this; everyone opened up to him if he granted them the opportunity. The vampire felt partially responsible for the woman’s grief. Of course, he did not feel any responsibility for the results that her lifetime of actions had brought to pass. But the grieving widow obviously needed some counseling, and it so happened that the murderer of her late husband would do the honors. He probably was, after all, the most qualified and experienced psycho- therapist in the world. He spoke deliberately, his Italian accent frosting his words. “Sarah, I wish to thank you for allowing me to take recovery in your home. I was utterly fatigued.” “You’re very welcome,” and then she added blushing, flustered, “Marcus.” Sarah found that she felt very comfortable with this young man, but she also felt as nervous as a school girl. She was overwhelmed by the compulsion to make a good impression, as if she were on a first date. The woman wasn’t ready to admit that she had a crush on the beautiful young man. This was the same man that she and Tina had carried into her home this morning at the crack of dawn?! Questions again began to form in Sarah’s mind, the leading question being ‘what interest did this young man have in her daughter?’ Number two was ‘what was the extent of their relationship?’ She would interrogate carefully. “So, how did Tina and you meet?” “I met your daughter downtown,” said Marcus simply, and he began to rub the girl’s bare feet as he talked. He was not sure of how much Sarah knew about Tina’s adventures out on her own in the big city. He looked at Tina as he continued. “She impressed me as a sweet, delightful girl. But I have yet to get to know her real well. She seemed like she could benefit from an older brother.” Tina did not exactly like that answer, but she said nothing. She had little lies to keep covered up. And besides, his rubbing her feet felt so wonderful that she found that it was all she could do just to concentrate on the exchange between her mother and this young man that she knew to be a real vampire. Sarah, on the other hand, loved the answer. “Now, are you in school? Or do you have a job?” she probed. Tina giggled at the question and understandably her mother shot a questioning look at both of them. Marcus did not wish to appear mysterious. He had a partial truth ready to go. “I am majoring in biology at PSU.” That pleased Sarah. “How old are you, Marcus?” she asked. Tina held her breath for this answer, smiling. She liked the fact that this vampire also had the need to perpetuate lies. “I am twenty years old,” said the vampire. “I live in the west hills with my step-father. He is a dear old man and I hope that he lives long enough for me to discover the cure for cancer.” “Ha! How’s that for sounding like a zealous, idealistic youth!” And there it was. In just a few sentences, the young man had put Sarah Hiers totally at ease. She was completely relieved, completely comfortable with this Marcus, and completely infatuated! Sarah immediately began scheming. Oh, she would be careful to do nothing to hurt Tina, naturally. But this would all be for the better anyway; Tina was still much too young for a man like Marcus. But now Sarah couldn’t think of a thing to say! She just looked at the smiling young man sitting on her couch and rubbing her daughter’s feet. In spite of all its strangeness, the scene still felt like a first date to the woman. The problem was that she had never really been on any first dates. The few relationships that she had had in her life had not started out that typically. Sarah thought that she could remember reading in some woman’s glam magazine once about a list of topics that people should avoid talking about when they are first getting to know each other. “Screw it!” she thought. “This is not some damn first date! I’m going to talk about what ever I feel like.” Then she asked, “Are you religious, Marcus?” Tina would have rolled her eyes, but they were already closed at the moment, very nearly rolled into the back of her head. Still, her nose wrinkled slightly. Her mom was so nerdy! Marcus answered, “Not overly.” The therapy was beginning. “Are you Christian, at least?” she asked as if it were the only sect. “I think Jesus Christ was a great man,” he said, and the vampire suddenly found himself thinking of his old friend John, who had claimed to have actually known Jesus personally. “But don’t you believe in the atonement? That he died on the cross for the sins of the world? And that he was resurrected?” she asked. Marcus mused darkly, thinking, “Madam, if he really did come back to life, boy, I have a whopper of a possible explanation for you!” Then he asked, “Sarah, have you ever witnessed a miracle in your lifetime?” Tina wanted to raise her hand and share, but kept her secret to herself, giggling silently. Sarah thought it over for a moment, then decided to nod. Marcus was actually a little surprised, but said, “Tell me about it.” “Well, when I was a little girl, my grandmother was diagnosed with colon cancer. The doctors had done everything they could. She had been given only days to live. My father and two other men from my church gave her a blessing and told her that she would live to see her first grandson born, another six months! And she did.” “That sounds like a very powerful blessing,” said Marcus. “Where did your father and those men get such power?” “Their power came from the priesthood,” said Sarah. How long had it been since she had proselytized? “Well, if that priesthood is as strong as it seems,” Marcus suggested, “then would it not also seem to follow that that religion could be considered –” pausing, searching for the right words, “quite correct?” “Of course,” said Sarah. “I’ve always kind of believed that.” “It sounds as though you are quite enthusiastic about your beliefs,” said Marcus. Only lifetimes of practice allowed him to say it with a straight face. Sarah’s face fell slightly, “I believe in the church, but I have had a falling out with it.” “Why?” asked Marcus. “After such a miracle as you have witnessed, I would think that your faith would be strong!” “My faith is strong,” she answered. “The church may be true, but it’s not perfect.” “You mean the people that make the church go are not always perfect.” “Exactly!” said Sarah. “I wonder how God could allow that?” Marcus pondered. “Me too,” agreed the woman. “So, your grandmother – you are convinced that she would have died without the blessing?” Marcus asked in more of a statement. “Oh yes! They blessed her right in the hospital bed. The next day she was up and out of there! The doctors all said it was impossible.” “And it was the power of the priesthood that somehow stopped the colon cancer from killing her, and sent it into remission for six months?” Marcus continued. “The spiritual had a direct effect on the physical?” “What are you getting at, Marcus?” Sarah asked, edging toward defensiveness. “Is there any possibility of another explanation for what happened?” Marcus asked, his tone so soothing, that Sarah again relaxed completely. “Well, I suppose there might be other ways it could have happened, but they would have to be pretty far fetched,” she said. “It could have happened on its own.” “But the chances of that are, of course, extremely remote,” said Marcus in that agreeable tone. “Of course,” Sarah affirmed. “Are you familiar with Ockham’s Razor?” asked the vampire. Sarah thought a minute and drew a blank. “I seem to remember the term from somewhere, but I can’t recall anything about it.” “William of Ockham was a delicious fellow born in England sometime around 1285,” Marcus began. “He is credited for popularizing an idea that is still used in science and philosophy today. They call it Ockham’s Razor because it is pretty much used to cut through, pardon my french, bullshit and get through to the truth. Basically, Ockham’s Razor suggests that if there is more than one explanation for any particular result, the simplest explanation is generally the most correct, or at least, has the best chance of being correct.” “So, you’re saying that my grandmother’s remission probably happened on its own,” said Sarah. She wasn’t upset by having her miracle explained or trivialized. Sarah suddenly felt that discovering the truth, whatever it turned out to be, would be more amazing than any miracle. “Actually, I think the remission is good example of the power of a person’s will to live, coupled with the power of positive thinking,” said the beautiful, young looking man, deliberately, soothingly, sounding to Sarah as being wise far beyond his years. “Let us also not discount the power of the placebo effect. But each of those three possible causes were all internal for your grandmother. They would have little to do with the actual blessing. She did it herself! Does that make sense to you?” “Yes,” Sarah said, swallowing a lump in her throat. Her eyes became moist. She had seen a glimmer of something – the truth? In a small voice, she added, “I never even told you what church.” “You did not need to, Sarah my dear,” he said, smiling at her, the wisdom of half a millennium impossible to hide. She expected him to say ‘You didn’t need to because it was obviously the Mormon Church. That church is so unique….’ But what he did add shocked her to the core. “Because,” he whispered, “despite enormous doctrinal contradictions, they are all the same.” A warm blanket of silent thought covered the three people for a long moment. “There is more, Sarah,” said Marcus tenderly. He drew a deep slow breath, and glanced at Tina. She looked as if she might be in a trance and she pretty much was. Then he continued. “Ockham’s Razor shakes the foundation of the belief system that we, you, me, western society have pretty much had instilled into us since we were old enough to speak in short sentences. The belief system that I am speaking of is the God Hypothesis!” “Are you an atheist?” asked the woman, simultaneously appalled and inquisitive. The vampire shook his head. “Not really. I am just waiting for more data on the issue to come in. In the meantime, I prefer to insert nothing imagined into my perception of reality.” This was a lot for poor Sarah to digest, and even little Tina was absorbing all of it with the question in mind of how she would integrate everything into her daily life. But poor Sarah had lived with God everyday of her life. Even though she was currently inactive in the church, she still prayed at least once a day. She credited God for giving her the strength to bare all the pain and disappointment that she endured on a daily basis. God was so integrated into the woman’s daily life that she could hardly imagine the world, the universe, without that wondrous Supreme Being. Still, she felt something pure and honest about the idea of discounting an un-seeable, un-measurable, unquantifiable deity as being the orchestrator of this wonderful universe. Natural evolution had always seemed a plausible explanation to her, and it rendered immaterial the question that had haunted her ever since her early teens when it occurred to her to ask it. Sarah Angelino had been thirteen years old, and seated reverently in her Sunday school class, paying rapt attention as her teacher, Sister Landers, orated about the creation of the world. Sarah raised her hand, and after Sister Landers acknowledged her, she asked, “Where did God come from?” “That’s a very good question, Sarah,” said Sister Landers. “Let me try to answer it. Joseph Smith once said ‘As Man is, God once was. As God is, Man may become.’ What this means to me is that there never really was a beginning to any of this. Because if God was created as a man, and then God lived his life as a man, very much like we’re doing now, and grew and developed into the God that we now know him as, that would kind of answer your question. But we could still ask ‘Who created the Creator’s Creator?’ and so on, and so on, forever, with the answer always being the same, without a beginning.” That answer had never really satisfied Sarah. It was just too convenient; too pat. Without a beginning to the universe, the whole of reality seemed like nothing more than a dream to her. And like so many people in the world that suddenly realize that their faith or their philosophy is not enough for them, she began to think that there had to be something more to all of this; more even than the Mormon’s extravagant explanations. But she had never found it! “Marcus,” the woman said, very confused, “I don’t know what to do…..” And then she wondered why she had said it. Why had she entreated this young man? Did she deem him so wise? Why did she deem him so wise? “Sarah, my sweet,” said the vampire, and just the tone of his quiet voice was enough to make Sarah’s eyes tear up again. “I sense you that are extremely unhappy. I know that you are grieving over the death of a loved one, and that would be enough for anyone to have to deal with. However, you are unhappy on a deeper level than even your grief for your loved one. You are greatly disappointed by what life has delivered you.” Sarah sobbed quietly, nodding. Marcus, never missing a trick, jumped up and moved quickly to the bathroom, located the facial tissue, and hurried back to Sarah with the box. He returned to his place on the couch, again performing his foot massage on Tina, and continued. “You were married young?” “Yes,” she said, sniffling. “The bastard cheated on me.” “A religious man?” “A returned missionary,” she replied. Sobbing, she remembered how the title of ‘Returned Missionary’ on a man held significant promise for a faithful girl like she had been. It meant that he had served successfully and honorably as a missionary for the church. “Your first marriage was short?” “Yes.” “And your second marriage was also one-sided?” Marcus asked. Sarah was extremely choked up now. She could only nod. But she wondered if this young man was clairvoyant. “Tell me,” said Marcus simply, and so Sarah, relieved to have this sympathetic ear with which to pour out her hurt and disappointment, began tearfully and unknowingly to relate her life to a five hundred year old vampire. Sarah Angelino had been raised in a strict Mormon family. At a young age, she was indoctrinated with the fairy tale of someday meeting her Prince Charming who would marry her and give her a beautiful family and a beautiful life and love her forever. At the young age of sixteen she had met Greg Nielson, her future first husband. They dated for three whole months before he left to go on a mission for the Mormon Church. When he came home eighteen months later, Greg was as horny as a rhino. They were married inside of a month. They had had problems from the beginning. Neither of them was mature enough or experienced enough to realize that their problems revolved around simply not being compatible, personality wise, sexually wise, or other wise. There was no good guy or bad guy; they simply made a bad match. Like so many hormone driven young adults, they had married each other without really knowing anything about their future ex-spouse. From both sets of parents came the fine advice of ‘Stick it out! Making a marriage work is not always easy. It requires a lot of hard work.’ So Sarah Nielson had. She had tried with all of her heart to make the marriage work. She prayed to God for strength and understanding. Greg Nielson had prayed too. And on the surface he looked like he was trying to make the marriage work as well. The only person besides himself who knew that he was not really giving the marriage his all was Shelly Ross, his secret girlfriend. As Sarah ballooned with pregnancy, Greg saw more and more of Miss Ross on the sly, and before Tina was even born, he had filed for divorce. He was immediately branded the bastard by Sarah and her family and her lawyer. Sarah ended up with custody, the house, the house note, and a healthy alimony and child support settlement. It was just enough that she didn’t have to work, and that was nice so that she could be a stay-at-home mommy for little Tina. But the shattering of Sarah’s fairy tale dream life had sent her swirling down into a deep depression. Where had she gone wrong? She had done everything right – just the way her church leaders had admonished. Why was God testing her so harshly? Fairly ostracized from her life-long church affiliations, she took up habits that before the marriage she would never have dreamed of – smoking and drinking. She felt let down by the Mormon Church, and was determined to live the way that her church leaders had always told her not to. To adequately describe Sarah Angelino Nielson’s journey from devout, upstanding Latter Day Saint to sorely depressed, anti-church resident of Hell on Earth would require a book all by itself. But such a book need not be written again. It has been written many times already. It is, in fact, a very common story. It is a very sad story, and that it is so common is tragic. Sarah had eventually contemplated on her depression only enough to decide that she wanted nothing more to do with organized religion. But her odium for religion centered specifically on the hurt and damage that she felt that the Mormon Church had caused her. She had never given any consideration to the possible damage caused to the world by the god hypothesis. Just before Tina had started school, Sarah had met the freeloading Lieutenant Stephen Hiers. She allowed him to move in, and they cohabitated for about two years before she finally convinced him to cut the cake. Sarah had wanted him to adopt Tina, but he seemed to never get around to it. And so Sarah’s second marriage had disintegrated into a shit pile. Stephen never lifted a finger around the house, and coupled with Sarah’s depression, nothing ever got done and the house became a sty. Sarah was only vaguely aware of the extent of Stephen’s sexual abuse on Tina. Naturally, he had never told her any more about it than was absolutely necessary. She was upset about his lust for her daughter, but not in the way that a protective mother would be to keep her child from harm. Rather, Sarah was jealous, hurt, heartbroken, very much self-absorbed. How could he do that to her, his wife? And when Tina saw how much Stephen’s attraction for her hurt her mother, the young girl hid as much of the unwanted affair as she could. It became a burden that Tina would carry for her mother. After Tina ran away from home to the safety of the Portland streets, Stephen Hiers had increased the cheating on his wife even more than before, doing very little to hide his infidelities. He didn’t care even a little bit for or about the woman. He was in it for the rent-free ride, and hell, he needed it! Army lieutenants don’t make shit, and neither do captains! He hadn’t been concerned with the future. And now he was dead and Sarah felt that without Tina, her life would be over as well. She needed peace, but the contrast between her lost dreams and her childhood training clouded her perspective. Peace in that condition was impossible. Marcus said, “You have experienced nothing but disappointment in your life. The sad thing is that I can see that you are a beautiful, passionate woman. It has only been the illusion that you were raised believing that has clouded your judgment, your decision-making.” She was able to stop crying for a moment. “How do I fix it?” she asked. “The first step,” said the vampire, “is to come to the knowledge within yourself that reality is indeed perceivable. Even if it takes a lifetime, know, that sooner or later, you will see the universe as it truly is, even if your perspective is narrow. Start trying to right away!” “I can do that,” Sarah said, hope shining on her wet face. “If anyone ever tries to tell you that true reality is beyond the scope of mortal perception, ignore them. They are a loser!” Marcus continued. “At the same time, we must feel like there is a purpose to this life. We would prefer to have knowledge of an individual purpose for each of us, yes?” Both girls nodded now. “I suppose that that might be one empowering belief that you could take on faith alone,” he said. “The wonderful thing about any belief that might empower us is that at some point in our personal growth and evolution, any particular belief may no longer serve to empower us, and at that point, we must have the wisdom and broad perspective enough to quit that belief. Flexibility is the key to survival in this universe.” Marcus’s words struck a chord deep in the unhappy woman, and she felt as though the curtains had been opened on the window of the dark and stuffy room that was her life. Sunlight streamed into that little room, and Sarah Angelino Hiers felt joy for the first time in years. And this was only the beginning. The beautiful vampire went on. “There is a little scenario that I do like to imagine that helps me to maintain an objective perspective on life.” He held the girls riveted. “Let’s suppose that somehow, some way, whether it be by virtue of an immortal soul, or the development of certain technology or whatever, that fifty million years from now we three are all together somewhere, doing something, and can remember this exact moment.” This wasn’t such a far stretch for Sarah. She had been raised to believe that if she lived in accordance with the doctrines of the Mormon Church, she would live forever with her eternal mate. It had always been a wonderfully romantic notion that she had loved, but she had sort of blown it as far as the Church was concerned. Strange that even having been raised with the concept drilled into her, she had never really contemplated what eternity was really going to be like. Marcus continued, “What the heck! Let’s make it fifty billion years! By that time we would have grown so much, surely by then we would be what we consider to be a god today. What will we still have in fifty billion years that we have today?” The girls pondered this as Marcus paused. At this point, the vampire was careful to mask his revulsion at the thought of being forced to exist for such an interminable length of time as he was – as a killer! “In fifty billion years, everything that we own will have long since been gone, this house will be dust, this world will probably no longer exist, and we will be somewhere really treasuring nothing except our loved ones. The relationships that we build over the ages – that is the only thing that we will really value in fifty billion years. So, its fifty billion years from now – how do you want to remember this moment?” Tina looked longingly at the man that sat the other end of the couch from her. She had always imagined that vampires would be the same as they are portrayed on TV – young, beautiful, and full of angst, as if damned for all eternity to teenager-dom. True, this Marcus looked young, and very beautiful, but his depression was much deeper than any simple angst, and it was clear to Tina that he had a very clear concept of immortality, and of reality; a concept that for the moment was far beyond her own comprehension. The little girl wanted nothing more than to be close to that wisdom, be part of it. She wanted to hold and be held by that beautiful man. Her desire at that moment wasn’t exactly sexual, but hormones certainly played a part in it. Like a kitten she moved herself over to him, and nestled against him. At the exact same moment, an identical desire came over Sarah. She, too, wanted to embrace the magnificent Marcus. She did not react immediately to her desire as the little Tina was just in the process of doing. Rather, she pictured herself at fifty billion years old. Suddenly, her daughter didn’t seem that much younger than herself. Marcus’s last words, ‘how do you want to remember this moment?’ echoed in her mind. Like a cat, the woman got up from the EZ chair and crossed the short distance to the couch. She kneeled on the floor in front of the vampire and leaned into his lap. Here, Marcus had only a minor problem – Tina no longer feared him. Something other than fear for her own life would need to motivate her to maintain her discretion. Marcus wasn’t too worried, however. Tina was a smart girl. Surely she could understand the importance of staying quiet about Marcus’s true nature. He wanted badly to tell Sarah, though. He had the selfish desire of wanting to feed on her like he did on Tina. Perhaps in time – he was a very patient vampire. They talked through the night, Sarah and Tina asking questions, and Marcus giving them answers – good,, honest, complete answers that satisfied them. Sarah felt born again, and Tina felt positively enlightened. He left the woman and her daughter at around four o’clock in the morning. They had begged him to stay. The next day, Sarah Hiers went out to look for a job for the first time in her life.

CHAPTER XXXII

The Downtown Portland Waterfront is a beautiful park running along the west side of the Willamette River. A wide walkway with an ornate rail spans a very long and functional seawall along the river’s edge for well over a mile. The water level is generally about twenty feet below the walkway, so at night the river is a shimmering blackness. People of all types are attracted to Waterfront Park. It is a very popular running path, along with scores of bicyclists and roller-bladers. Artists and musicians and beat-nick poets can be found regularly. And of course, there are always the obligatory homeless folks, straggling about. It is also very common for a navy boat or two to be moored at points along the walkway. Often, these are relatively large boats, spilling out hundreds of restless sailors into the downtown area. At night, the waterfront becomes a romantic hotspot. To one side is the view of the river, with its wondrous bridges and the lights of the east side of the metro, Lloyd Center, the Rose Garden Arena, and the magnificent green spires of the Convention Center. On the other side is the massive grove of skyscrapers that make up the spectacular downtown Portland skyline. With everything lit up so beautifully, the scene is intoxicatingly seductive. Just now, it was minutes before sunset. The city lights were just winking on and there were still a lot of the daytime sights to be seen at the waterfront. Janet walked past the big round computer controlled fountain that sprayed from holes directly out the cement walkway. During the summer days this multi-varied water array was a hot-spot for kids of all ages with a compulsion to splash and get wet. At night, lasers and lights were incorporated into the beautiful spectacle. Janet stopped to look as the lasers and lights came on shining through the streams and shoots and mists of water for their opening sequence of the evening. She was on her way to meet Mimi; they had made arrangements to meet at a point just a short distance down the walkway from the fountain. Janet was probably a few minutes late, but she didn’t care. Mimi could damn well wait for her! Since the ill-fated lunch date three days before, the poor caregiver had been wallowing in depression. It had taken her two days to even raise the large breasted girl on the phone. Her hellish emotional basket ride had spanned the gambit between feelings of utter foolishness to physical chest pain as if her heart was actually breaking. There was no denial of her depression this time. The odd thing was that there was some part of her, not so deep inside no less, that enjoyed the bitter sweet pain. She had had her heart broken before by a few different boys, and one man, and each heartbreak had held a certain flavor for her. She certainly had managed. And it hadn’t been heartbreak over some guy that had caused her to spin into a chronic depression steeped in denial prior to her relationship with Mimi. Something about this sweet pain tinted her world in richer colors, brought to her awareness deeper smells, and though she walked through her day constantly aware of her pain, her interactions with others also felt more lush and full. It had all moved too fast – way too damn fast! Yet, at the same time, the ten short days since their first night together seemed like ten years ago to Janet. Still, it bothered her slightly that their relationship had been so physically oriented. As much as she had enjoyed the intense love-making and the deep conversations that the girls had shared, Janet knew that their ‘love’ had yet to be tested. So now she didn’t know where she stood with the beautiful dancer. That, of course, held only half of the equation for Janet. The question that mattered to Janet, the one that she needed to answer on her own, preferably before she saw the busty amazon, was where did Mimi stand with her? On the phone, Mimi had asked if they could meet somewhere and talk. Janet had immediately begun stealing herself for the worst. But now it seemed that ‘the worst’ might not necessarily be the end of the world. Janet mused as she watched the lasers and the streams of water do the dance of the very young. Before she had met Mimi, she would never have noticed the beauty in something like this. She had walked past this fountain god knows how many times before, but it had never grabbed her attention. It just hadn’t been beautiful to her before. She tried to think of anything that had struck her as beautiful before Mimi had come into her life, couldn’t think of anything, and then suddenly realized that in addition to seeing the world around her and its inhabitants as beautiful for the first time, she also saw herself in the same light. Her association with Mimi had done that! It had opened her eyes for the first time in her adult life. That did not mean that Janet should allow herself to be exposed to risk, she chided herself. How foolish she had been for trusting a stripper! In running the list of all the possibilities as to why Mimi hadn’t shown up as planned for their lunch date, Janet’s imagination had been wildly assumptive and extremely visual. Janet decided that security was high on her personal value system and because of that, she would do what she could to keep the space around her safe. She could not let someone near her that might compromise her safety and security. With that, she looked down the length of the walk way. Even through the distance and the dusk, Janet could make out the beautiful, busty form of Miriam at the pre-ordained meeting location. She was standing against the seawall rail, gazing out across the river. It would be difficult to go back to life without Mimi, no doubt about it. But Janet knew that it wouldn’t be life like it was before. Her time with Mimi had definitely been an amazing growth experience. But….. She looked so beautiful. Maybe the other girl would be able to tell Janet something convincing enough and compelling enough that the poor little girl would have to re-evaluate. The warm breeze from the river was catching Mimi’s shortish hair as Janet approached. The busty girl turned and smiled. “Hi,” she said, and it was not without some awkwardness. Janet replied with a cool, “Hi.” She was not ready to share any energy yet or let down her defense. Mimi dived right in with a rehearsed but heartfelt apology. “Janet, I am so sorry about Thursday. It’s my fault –” Janet cut in, sounding hollow, “Thursday is only half of it. Where were you for two days?” “I am a big girl now,” said Mimi, defensively. “I don’t report to anyone.” “That’s not the point, and you know it,” Janet barked, trying to keep her emotions down. “I don’t expect you to report to me. But a little notice if you can’t make a date, preferably before, but as soon as possible if not, would be appreciated.” “You’re right, Janet, I’m sorry. I really feel terribly about all of this.” “Mimi, it occurred to me in the past couple of days that I have been incredibly naïve. I have put myself into a position where I could get hurt – way more hurt than I can deal with. I’m feeling very scared right now. You are just not safe for me anymore,” Then she corrected herself, “If you ever were.” Then a moment of resolve, and Mimi blurted out, “Janet, I’m addicted to cocaine.” Janet stopped, taking a moment to mentally review what she had learned in school about the physical addiction of cocaine. Tears were now trickling slowly down Mimi’s stunning face. The girl continued, “I made the mistake of getting high a few hours before I was supposed to meet you on Thursday and somehow I passed out. I’ve had a rough few days since then.” Janet just looked into the tear-filled eyes of the busty stripper, revealing nothing in her own countenance. Mimi started again, “Look, I’m not looking for sympathy or anything. I just thought you should know. I was going to tell you earlier, but I just didn’t know how to do it.” The plump little care-giver decided to not be too hard on the other girl. Or maybe she was just letting some of that amazing charm get to her again, like she had sworn would not happen again. Whatever it was, Janet softened slightly, “Do you want to quit?” Mimi wiped her tears as best she could with the back of her hand. “Yes! I do.” “Mimi, why do you want to be with me?” Janet asked, a tinge of that hollow sound still in her voice. The busty girl sniffled. “I don’t know if I can put my feelings for you into words. I know that I love you. But there is something else that you do for me, something that I get from you, that I need. I don’t know how long I shall be needing it, but I know that I need right now, today, at this time in my life, and I need it more than cocaine.” Janet liked that answer. She took Mimi’s hand and the two girls began a lover’s stroll down the walkway, past a navy destroyer. She finally asked, “Have you ever tried to quit cocaine before?” Mimi shook her head. Janet continued, “Just do me one favor, Mimi.” And she waited until she had connected with Mimi’s deep eyes. “Please tell me immediately if you ever stop getting or needing that something from me, whatever it is, OK?” “And you, too,” said Mimi in answer. Just then a group of young navy men in uniform that had been walking toward the girls suddenly realized just how big the breasts on the taller girl really were. Gasps, an ‘oh my god!’, a ‘Jesus Christ!’, and an ‘oh mama!’ circulated through the group of six. One of them dropped to his knees right in front of the busty amazon. “Will you marry me?!” he exclaimed. Mitzi basked in the attention, lustful as it was, and moved her body in that certain way that only a woman who really knows herself sexually can, and more exclamations erupted from the crowd. “Sorry, boys,” she said. “I go the other way.” Her exact meaning of her statement whizzed by half of the uninitiated young men, but they all got the message of the rejection. The young man on the ground clutched his heart as she and Janet walked past him and the others. “Heaven help me, I’m dying!” cried the young sailor in jest. “Medic!” yelled one of his compadres. As they walked away from the boisterous group Janet turned to the other girl and was about to ask a question, but before she could, Mimi cut in with a giggle, “All the time.”

CHAPTER XXXIII

The vampire stepped into the din of the Bare Cage, flicking an I.D. at Quince, the bouncer. “Have a good time Mr. Ho,” said Quince. Marcus sat, and within seconds realized to his consternation that the pretty little girl sitting across the rear of the room from him was definitely noticing him. The look on her face was one of recognition, but uncertainty, searching. Obviously, she was no longer affected at all by his powers. He was about to bolt when Donna sauntered up to him. “What can I get you?” she asked. Caught off his guard, Marcus answered, “A bloody – um, no, uh, oh shit! Uhm, how about a dark wine?” “That was smooth! Have you been sniffing your own brew?” he thought to himself. It wasn’t often that the old vampire fumbled like that. His mind had gone blank with panic as he had contemplated the consequences of staying versus just getting up and leaving. The impulse that had made him stay was the appealing thought of creating another challenge for himself. And this one promised to be a doosy, as the girl that Marcus knew to be Janet crossed the rear of the room and stepped up to him. Janet’s shyness had been overcome by her desire to solve a little mystery – the mystery of ‘where did she know this guy from?’ She felt herself caught up in a queer déjà vu, as if she might have recently dreamed the face of this handsome young man. “Excuse me,” she said to Marcus. “Hi. You look awfully familiar. Do I know you?” Marcus smiled his charming smile. He had hoped to eventually have a chat with the lovely Janet. He certainly would have preferred different circumstances, a different place perhaps. But he had desired her since that first night that she had so timidly entered the Bare Cage. He had wanted Mitzi, too, however, he knew that he could never bring himself to kill either of them. As little interaction as he had had with the girls, he had watched them enough now to feel like they were part of his life. The vampire needed that….. But, since this girl was now unaffected by his little parlor trick, charming her would have to be done with good old fashioned personality. He said, “I don’t know. You look kind of familiar to me, too. What school did you go to?” “Maybe I know you from Portland Community College,” Janet said, answering his question, and still trying to solve the little mystery. At least for now, Marcus had to hope that she wouldn’t remember any of the other times that she had seen him. He steered her away from that direction by going along with her possible solution. “Oh sure,” he said jauntily. “That must be it. Well, it’s nice to meet you. I’m Marcus.” Janet returned to her shy self again. Blushing, she said, “I’m Janet.” Marcus smiled, letting the moment grow slightly awkward. Even without the aid of his special talent, he would still have the upper hand in this conversation. Glancing into his dark eyes for only a short moment, Janet could see absolute depth there, and she found herself at a complete loss for words. He let her suffer for just a bit more, then finally said, “So, Janet, what’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?” Then he chuckled at his funny. The girl giggled too, blushing even more, and tried to think of a properly witty answer. None came. Marcus saved her by continuing before the pause had a chance to grow too long. Still chuckling he said, “I’m sorry, you probably get that a lot in here, don’t you?” Janet nodded, still going along with the joke even though she was rarely approached by any of the club patrons. She was very glad of that. Lately, she had been getting her fill of positive attention from all manner of peoples around her, at work and elsewhere. “Would you like to sit down?” the vampire asked. The shy girl was, of course, not really comfortable with this proposition. But she hated the thought of rejecting this nice man. Sensing her hesitation he added, “It is alright. I do not bite.” Janet pulled out the chair next to Marcus and sat. She rationalized it by the fact that the guy was drop-dead gorgeous and seemed pretty nice. They both turned their attention to Kitty Licorice, who had recently just started her routine. Janet had grown to appreciate this particular dancer’s show, and now she watched attentively. She was still not turned on by the erotic nature of the dance, but her face showed the admiration that she felt for the way the girl moved. Looking at the dancer as if he was watching a passionate opera singer, Marcus asked, “So how do you like the show?” “I really like this girl’s dancing,” Janet replied. “Her next act is just fantastic.” “So you have seen it before?” Janet blushed, again not sure how to answer. She was saved this time by Donna, who was returning with Marcus’s drink. The beautiful young man whipped a ten dollar bill out of a leather bill fold, and handed it to Donna as he turned to Janet and asked, “What are you drinking tonight? Can I get you something?” “Oh, I’m not drinking tonight,” Janet answered timidly, expecting to again be coerced into something by the beautiful man. “You’re not?” he said. “Good for you! And neither shall I.” He turned back to the chewed up cocktail waitress. “I am sorry. Please take the money for this, but I do not want it. Could you bring us two mineral waters?” “Sure thing, honey,” said Donna. This guy was handsome, make no mistake, but if the waitress had found him hanging out at Janet’s table instead of the other way around, she might have tried to turn him off of the shy little girl like she had done with the other men. But Janet didn’t seem upset to be in his company, so Donna let it go. She’d keep her eye on it, though….. Janet found that she was still mystified by this attractive young man. She fancied him far too beautiful for the likes of her, but that was only because of her preconceived notion that most attractive people tend to be rather stuck on themselves. She wondered what this guy’s motivation for talking to her could possibly be. Was he trying to get into her pants? If he was, he was certainly being subtle about it. Maybe he was just a friendly guy. That idea eased Janet’s mind, and she resolved to approach the situation with that thought in mind. Mimi and Donna were there to protect her if it was anything else. Marcus decided to sit silent for a bit, to see if the bashful girl could come up with anything to say or ask. After a minute, he began to worry slightly that she wouldn’t pass his little test. Janet was aware of the silence, but she was no longer feeling awkward about it. She was enjoying Kitty’s show. Still she wanted to say something, preferably something cute and witty. This guy was gorgeous, and cute, and seemed pretty nice, and the girl felt bad about not holding up her end of the conversation. Finally, after Donna had dropped off their non-alcoholic beverages, she did think of something to say. “What made you decide not to drink tonight?” Marcus smiled as he answered, “Have you ever been sober while you talked to someone who was drunk? The conversation can only go so far. I did not want for you to have to go through that tonight.” As if he could get drunk…... “Good answer!” thought Janet, and she was immediately at another loss as she contemplated how thoughtful this man was with such an act. Marcus saved her again. “You strike me as the type of girl that enjoys an intelligent conversation,” he said. “I sure do.” “Man! Is he smooth!” she thought. “So what do you like to talk about?” Janet asked, trying to do better on her end of the intelligence. “Oh, just about anything,” said Marcus. “Science is a subject close to my heart. Philosophy, psychology, law, current events.” That last topic brought to Janet’s mind an issue that had been weighing heavily on her ever since Chad had been put into her care. She asked, “What do you think about that hypodermic needle scare going on?” The vampire whistled low and smiled. “You have brought up a real downer with that one. Definitely a sad case. And scary, too! Someone out there has some real contempt for themselves, and the rest of us.” Janet was only a little less laid back as she responded, “I’d love to get my hands on the guy that was doing that.” “Perhaps,” said Marcus, “But I am sure that you did not bring this up specifically to voice your vengeful sentiment. It sounds to me as though you have been touched by this personally.” “I know Chad Reeves, the first person to get stuck by one of the needles.” “Perhaps I am not as well informed about this as I should be,” said Marcus. “I am not familiar with this Chad Reeves.” “He’s a patient at Mt. Sinai where I’m a nurse. He’s not expected to live much longer – AIDS, that he got from the needle,” Janet was getting choked up. “Chad’s a really great guy, super smart, and I’ve watched this disease just destroy him. And he’s young, that’s the tragedy. It has been a painful, slow death, and it has turned him into a grumpy old cynic. And his health has taken a real bad turn lately.” At that, Marcus thought he would like to meet this Chad Reeves. It sounded like they might have fun comparing notes. But then, of course, not really. The young victim’s perspective would surely have all of the narrowness of youth. His cynicism probably stemmed from self pity. Marcus wondered about the source of his own cynicism….. “That is undoubtedly tragic,” Marcus said, with the perfect amount of sadness in his words. “This is great loss to the world, and I am very sorry for Mr. Reeves.” “Now there is this new serial killer in Portland,” said Janet. She couldn’t believe she was talking about such depressing and macabre subjects with a virtual stranger. She wanted to change the subject, but her train of thought seemed to be tail-spinning right along with this conversation. This charming young Marcus didn’t seem to mind, though. “Are you talking about the murders of late, where the victims were found cut to pieces?” asked Marcus innocently. Janet nodded. “Yeah. It’s just terrible. Now that guy must really be sick.” “Without a doubt,” said the vampire. “It is getting so that a body cannot feel safe anywhere. But tell me, do you realize that this is the second time you have referred to the unknown killer as a ‘guy’?” For the one hundredth time that night the chubby little girl blushed. “I guess it’s just a figure of speech.” “It is alright,” said Marcus through his beautiful smile. “I am just ‘bustin’ your chops.’ Statistically, chances are likely that both of the killers are, in fact, male.” “It’s probably just wishful thinking, but do you think that there is any chance that it is all the same guy?” she asked. “Anything is possible,” said Marcus, “But the probability of that is extremely low.” “You know, I heard that they may have a suspect for the needles,” said Janet. “You say they have a suspect? Who?” “Some guy named Bob Wilson,” she answered. “He’s disappeared! Gone underground the same day they found an infected syringe attached to the door of his work! I just wonder how a person could do something like that. What would make someone feel the need to intentionally spread a deadly virus?” “My dear, I’m afraid that that happens all the time,” said the vampire, calmly, but inside he was processing that bit of information. Marcus knew exactly where Bob Wilson was, and that meant that he knew exactly what a certain heroin junky had been doing on a dark, foggy night at the Public Safety Building a few weeks ago. “But what is the logic behind cutting somebody into pieces?” asked the girl. She had obviously been puzzling on this to some degree. “Maybe someday I shall get the chance to spell it out for you,” thought the vampire. Curiously, he had mused on this idea before, as it was, in fact, the thing that kept him from getting caught. This was one time when Ockham’s Razor didn’t cut away to the simplest truth. The easy way to explain the killings was pretty much the way that the cops had done it – a psychopathic serial killer; the Psicko Killer! But the truth was much more incredible. “You would have studied some psychology basics for your R.N., right?” said Marcus. “Do you remember what the non- logic of the criminal mind is?” Janet searched her memory. “The criminal mind rationalizes destructive behavior by feeling like society owes it something, or something like that.” “That’s pretty much it,” said Marcus. “But it doesn’t really matter how an individual rationalizes destructive behavior. Destructive behavior is itself inherently irrational. Now, how many adults do you know who use up more resources than they produce?” “What do you mean?” asked the girl. “Do you know anybody on welfare? Do you know someone who is unproductive at work when they are on the time clock? Do you know somebody with a useless job in the bureaucracy? Those people may not be killers, but they have the basic criminal mentality – ‘the world owes me something solely for the fact that I exist’.” “Wow,” was all Janet could say. She had never thought of it like that. The vampire continued, “Everyone in the world has a bearing on the progress, or the decline, of mankind. It may only be a comparative drop in the collective bucket, but now I ask you, is someone that kills so much worse than someone who just steals a little bit from their employer by being lazy? Or someone who gets their livelihood from tax dollars” Janet couldn’t answer as she contemplated this. “The answer is ‘yes,’ of course, but only relatively,” said Marcus. “The criminal mentality is still irrational and destructive at any degree, and in need of eradication on a global scale.” “Gosh, you sure give a girl a lot to think about,” said Janet. Marcus smiled. “You brought it up,” he said, as if to give her the credit. They had talked right through the rest of Kitty Licorice’s show, and were totally preoccupied as Mitzi took the stage. The busty dancer had been commanding the attention of everyone in the room, except for Janet and Marcus. Now they too turned their focus on the amazing amazon. Janet was happy that she and Mimi had ‘made up.’ But she had to admit, that even though she still thought Mimi was absolutely beautiful and wonderful, the magic spell that the busty girl had cast over the bashful nurse had been dispelled somewhere along the way. Janet felt pretty sure like it was for the best. And the other thing that was pleasing Janet just now was the fact that here she was, having a fine, intelligent, friendly conversation with a gorgeous young man who was obviously interested in her at least on some level and she was not freaking out inside about how she might try to ‘get’ him. She wasn’t the least bit interested in him in a sexual way. Oh, he was beautiful and charming, and doubtlessly had a myriad of other wonderful features, but Janet knew that she wanted only Mimi as her lover and romantic interest. The chunky little nurse admitted that she had completely crossed over to lesbianism. Well, maybe not. If and when her relationship with Mimi ever came to an end, Janet was sure that she would entertain the idea of dating boys again. With any luck, this fine specimen in front of her would be somewhere nearby on such a day. But until then, she wasn’t going to be the least bit tempted. It was only a tiny little bit of denial….. They watched Mitzi do her cheerleader routine to an old Cindy Lauper song. The rest of the crowd was getting quite rowdy. The horny little men just couldn’t get too much of the dancer jumping up and down, skipping around, doing the splits and shaking her pom-poms. Janet had to yell above the racket, “This is one my least favorite routines that she does!” “Everyone else seems to like it!” Marcus spoke loudly back to her. “Which of her routines do you like the best?” “Definitely the belly-dancing!” Janet shouted over the hubbub. They said nothing more until the show was over. Mitzi slayed them all just like she always did. The patrons of the Bare Cage offered up the last of their monies to coax some last minute attention from the amazing dancer before she scampered off the stage. Now that he could speak softly, Marcus turned to Janet. “So, how do you cope with her being a dancer?” For a second, Janet wondered if she should ask this young man how he knew that the girls were together; they had been extremely discrete. Then she wondered if she should bust him for being presumptuous. Her left eyebrow was cocked as she thought it over for a second, looking into his eyes. At about the time that she had decided she might just answer his question, she was also wondering if he was going to offer an apology, saying something like ‘don’t answer if it’s too personal,’ but he said nothing at all. His open smile expected a reply. “She was a dancer before we met,” the chunky girl said finally. “I can’t very well expect her to change for me.” “But would you if you could?” asked the vampire. “How did you know that we –” Janet found that she couldn’t finish that sentence the way she would have if she had been talking about a boyfriend. “It was obvious,” said Marcus, still smiling, only a little slyer now. “I know true love when I see it.” Janet was glad that he had at least acknowledged it. “Do you have a problem with that?” she asked. She had tried to put an edge of indignation on her voice, but had failed. Smiling, Marcus said, “I do not believe in Gender Dysphoria Syndrome.” Mystified by his answer, Janet could only offer up a “huh?” “Actually, let me take that a step further,” said the vampire. “I do not believe in gender, if you really wanna get right down to it.” “What do you mean by that?” asked Janet, more than a little bit confused. “I mean, if you strip humankind of gender and ethnicity, you are left with a world full only of individuals. It renders completely immaterial such issues as homosexuality and racism.” Janet thought that she might understand about the homosexuality with his answer, but it still left her with even more questions than she had started out with before he had spoken. She asked, “How can you call racism immaterial? People are dying everyday from some form of racism or another!” “Racism is not even real!” said Marcus. “What’s real is that some ignorant individuals in this world respond to their internal fears of the unknown with hate and aggression, causing damage and death to other individuals. Ethnicity has little to do with it, really. The real problem is lack of education and miscommunication.” Janet was stunned by the simplicity of the answer – the clarity. Why had she never seen it like that before, herself? She now had one burning question for the young man but she was unsure of how to word it. He smiled warmly as she tripped over her tongue trying to find the right words. She stammered, “Are you always able to – to… talk… to – explain –” “Articulate?” Marcus put in nodding, as if to coax the words out of her. “Yes,” she said flushing, “articulate. Can you articulate something down to – to… simplest… uh, simplest –” “Down to its essence?” asked Marcus still nodding. “Yes,” Janet said very flustered. “Can – can you articulate the essence of every single issue?” “Just about,” Marcus nodded modestly. “Oh my god!” Janet exclaimed. “How?” “Well, I have had a lot of time to think about it,” said the vampire. His statement didn’t register with the chunky girl. She was still reeling from the sublime profundity that seemed to bloom from the beautiful lips of the young man next to her. Janet decided on the spot that she liked Marcus – as a person, mind you! And she respected his mind, at least until he should be heard to say something stupid. Further, because he did seem to be such a nice, intelligent guy, she decided that she would give his previous question due consideration and give him an answer if she could come up with one. She had been bothered by Mimi’s profession, and maybe, just maybe, this guy could give her some insight as to how she might be able to deal with it. Janet said, “To be honest with you, Marcus, her dancing does bother me. I feel like she cheapens herself when she does it. And it cheapens our relationship, as well.” “Go on,” said the vampire. Whether she knew it or not, she needed to continue with her thoughts. “Well, it’s like, when she acts sexual in front of these men, it’s like she’s showing them personal stuff between me and her,” Janet continued. “It’s hard for me to explain.” “You do seem to have some difficulty expressing your feelings at times,” Marcus said tenderly. “But do not worry. You can learn how. Do you keep a diary or a journal?” “No, I’ve always thought of keeping a diary as only something for the primadonna-ish and the air-headed.” “It does not have to be,” said Marcus. “And it is a great way to sort out your feelings.” Janet pondered that for a moment. Perhaps, since a cool guy like Marcus was suggesting it, keeping a journal might actually be something good for her. “As for dealing with Mitzi and her dancing,” Marcus continued. “I have some thoughts for you, if you are open.” “Sure,” Janet answered. She absolutely was. “You love Mitzi. For better or worse, at this point of your life, you love her, and you choose her.” Janet was nodding; So far nothing really all that new or profound. He continued, “There is no changing her. She can change on her own, naturally, but that is all.” Just then, Janet saw Marcus lift his head slightly, as if catching the scent of something on a draft. Without taking his eyes away from hers, he said, “Perhaps we shall talk about this later.” Janet looked up to see Mimi walking out of the door from back stage. The busty amazon looked alive and brimming with joy, and she hurriedly crossed the distance of the night club as if she had been too long away from the object of her deepest desire. Janet stood, and nearly every pair of eyes that was still in the club looked on as the two voluptuous girls embraced in what had practically become an end-of-the-night Bare Cage event whenever Janet came in. The hug lingered satisfyingly. At length, Janet turned back to Marcus and made the introductions. “Marcus has impressed me as being very nice and intelligent,” she added. The vampire stood and extended a smooth hand. “Mimi, it is my pleasure to meet you.” “It’s nice to meet you, too,” she answered. As she shook his hand she felt assured that this gentleman was indeed as nice as Janet had said. He looked a little familiar too, and Mimi assumed (correctly) that she had seen him in the club before, though she couldn’t place him exactly. With a glance at the table, she noted that he and Janet had not been drinking. “Janet and I have been enjoying a stimulating conversation about current events and issues,” said the vampire, noticing her glance. “Janet stays up on that kind of stuff more than I do,” said Mimi. “What kind of stuff do you stay up on, my dear?” he asked with his charming smile. “Oh, I don’t know,” Mimi answered, a little off her guard. “I just live my life and have fun doing it.” “What an adorable child!” thought the old vampire. “That is perfectly fine,” said Marcus. “More people should have such an attitude. ‘Fun’ is such a wonderfully relative term. What do you two do for fun?” The question stopped both of the girls momentarily as they considered it. So far, their time together had been spent mostly making love and talking. They took too long to answer, and Marcus continued. “Apparently, you two need to spend more time together. I have a splendid idea. Perhaps the three of us can go out for a late dinner one of these nights? Would you girls be open to something like that?” Being adventurous, the invitation sounded fine to Mimi. And because Janet now felt relatively comfortable with this young man, she, too, exhibited her interest. Mimi’s first available night off was in six days, and the three decided to meet at the Bare Cage (a suitable common location) at nine o’clock. With the ‘date’ made, Marcus decided that he should gracefully exit while he was ahead. Following the girls home tonight would be foolish, and not really necessary. The vampire couldn’t remember the last time that he had anything so delightful to look forward to. He would stay all suicide attempts until after Sunday’s date. “Wonderful, then,” he said as he dropped some additional tip money on the table. “I look forward with anticipation to Sunday evening at nine. Until then, fair ladies….” The girls simultaneously echoed benedictions, and the vampire exited the Bare Cage. “What a –” Janet paused, not finding the correct descriptive word right away, “different guy.” “Of course he’s going to look forward with anticipation to Sunday,” said Mimi, giggling. “What man wouldn’t want to take two gorgeous girls like us out for a night on the town!” Then she noticed that just seconds after the charming young man had exited, she felt an overwhelming urge to do a line. Her mood suddenly went black, and her thoughts turned to who might still be in the dressing room that might have a little white lady. No, that was no good – she needed to get back to her own place. No! Instead of just giving in to the craving she would fight it! She would be honest with Janet and tell her what was going on inside of her. Janet would be her strength! Mimi grabbed the other girl’s arm firmly and said, “We gotta go now!” “What is it, Mimi? What’s the matter?” Janet asked as the girls hurriedly moved together out the door. She had seen the shadow cross Mimi’s face and was growing more and more concerned. Earlier, the girls had arrived at the Bare Cage together, in Mimi’s car. Now the busty girl nearly ran to where it was parked, holding onto Janet’s hand. Mimi unlocked the passenger door and got in, unlocking the driver side door from the inside. It was clear that she intended to have Janet drive. Janet got into the car and looked worriedly over at her lover. “What is wrong, Mimi?” The busty girl was taking deep breaths, eyes closed, in an effort to focus and calm her mental irritation. When she finally spoke, her voice hinted at the unease that her words couldn’t say. “Janet, I’m freakin’ out right now. I feel like I’m going to die if I don’t have some cain!” Janet immediately assumed her well-familiar role of nurse. “Relax, Miriam, it’ll be OK. Do you have any with you?” “At my apartment,” Mimi answered on a breath out. “OK,” said Janet. “You’re going to have to tell me how to get there.” (She had not yet been). “11th and Taylor,” said Mimi, her voice still masking torment, eyes still closed. “Southeast?” asked Janet, and Mimi was nodding her head quickly, almost impatiently. Janet continued as she sped off it the direction of the Morrison Bridge. “Now Mimi, listen to me carefully. You’re entering the beginning stages of withdrawal.” “No shit!” Mimi interrupted, her irritation flaring. “Shhhh! Relax, listen. I’m going to try to explain your discomfort and your craving to you.” Mimi continued her quick nodding, eyes still closed. “Normally your brain produces certain chemicals that aid in mood and brain function,” Janet began. “When you use cocaine your brain loses its ability to use those chemicals. To overcome the addiction, the clogged receptors must be cleaned out to allow your brain to use those chemicals again. “We will do this together! They say that nobody can really quit cocaine without going to a clinic, but I’m hoping that gradually ‘weaning’ you off of the stuff will work. Nobody expects you to be able to just quit cold turkey. I’m glad you told me how you were feeling though, baby. We can get through this together if we just stay open and honest and focused. How long has it been since your last fix?” The busty girl had calmed herself considerably, and Janet’s words had also made her feel much better. Dark, jagged images stabbed painfully at her mind’s eye, and she did her best to put the images out of her mind. “Last night,” she whispered. “Good!” said Janet, glad that it hadn’t been more recent. “Good job, baby! We can do this.” After what seemed like years of torture to Mimi, the girls finally arrived at her apartment. Janet handled the keys and also helped the taller girl up the stairs to the second floor. By this time, Mimi had started suffering from tremors. Once inside, Mimi moved clumsily through the cluttered efficiency to her dresser. Inside the top drawer was Mimi’s little plastic container that held the dwindling remains of her ‘stash.’ The urgency of the moment called for the use of the nearby spoon, and she hastily snorted two heaping spoonfuls into each nostril. Instantly, her tortured face smoothed over and she moaned, “Oh, mamma!” Janet looked on horrified. The reality of this unreal situation stunned her – her lover was really addicted to cocaine! This was not going to be easy. Did she really have the strength for this? For a moment she wanted to run away and never see Mimi again. Yes! She should get herself out of this dangerous situation. There were so many ways that this could all go terribly wrong! Only the picture of how life might be kept her where she was. Miriam wanted to quit, and that was the first step, wasn’t it? Somehow, they would both survive this, and then life would be perfect.

CHAPTER XXXIV

After nearly two weeks, Detective Henderson had finally succeeded in getting an appointment with Judge Travis Noonan. The cop was sure that the politician hadn’t been putting him off; he was just busy like any other hard-working public servant. Originally, Henderson had thought that he might forego getting an official statement from the judge. He had been hoping that something would break and give him a strong lead to follow. He had assumed that there was probably nothing more that the judge could tell him that he didn’t already know, which was unfortunately not much, so why bother the powerful politician? It wasn’t until the detective had drawn blanks on every other lead that he had decided to cup his balls and beseech humbly for an interview with the powerful politician. That, and also the fact that his own boss had asked him after the IRS lady was found cut into stow-able pieces if he thought that they should request the FBI to take up the investigation. Desperate times call for desperate measures. But first, Detective Henderson had to endure this dreaded conference call between Captain Rahal, Chief Lemmon and Special Agent Bill Rhodes. Why did Rahal and Lemmon have to be privy to everything that the FBI agent had to say? Agent Rhodes started by verifying the facts of the two homicides – forensic evidence, victim information, medical examiner’s reports, and many other details, some seemingly immaterial. Gene Miller, the pointless partner, had carried out the tedious task of collecting copies of the crime scene photos, various reports and other materials, and mailing the whole mess to Bill Rhodes at Quantico so he could review everything. Henderson was surprised at how quickly Rhodes had gotten back with them, but he still felt like this was pretty much a waste of time. “On the other hand,” thought Henderson. “What’s my hurry?” Of course, as far as he was concerned he could have been taking the day off. “Now,” said Rhodes to the other three on the phone line, “I don’t want anyone to mention anything about any of your current suspects. My profile has to be based solely on the facts of the crime; no bias.” “We heard you the first time,” thought Henderson. Rhodes continued, “Speaking first of the Peterson homicide, the crime scene has both organized and disorganized elements to it. The mutilation itself suggests a high level of aggression and mania. The location being so public hints that this specific crime wasn’t particularly premeditated or planned, however it would seem that the killer or killers, I will refer to them as the unsub, may have been ‘equipped,’ you might say, with the tools and the means to kill whenever the feeling struck them just right. “Notice the amount of blood throughout the compartment. You don’t get a mess like this just killing and mutilating a body. Judging by some of the smear marks, I would say that the unsub actually made most of the mess on the walls intentionally. Even though this looks more like a crime of opportunity, or more likely necessity in the mind of the unsub, you can see that he still takes the time and the risk of being discovered to basically write a message to you. It might be that the unsub considers himself an artist and this is his signature, but I would be more inclined to think that he is just being arrogant and saying ‘Look what I can get away with and you can’t stop me.’ “There is a fair amount of dirt on the floor of the elevator. According to the janitorial staff of the Bancorp building, the car had been vacuumed out at approximately 8:00 o’clock, roughly one hour before the discovery of the body. Therefore, it is possible that the dirt was tracked in by the unsub. Analysis of the dirt showed that it came from somewhere close to a high traffic thoroughfare. It also contained compounds consistent with being near or under a large body of water, specifically the Willamette River. So our unsub may have recently been down by the river. Judging by the amount of dirt, it would seem that whoever tracked it in there didn’t realize or care that the dirt was on him. “Now, about the victim. He’s your basic quiet nobody, and he wasn’t lighting any fires in the DA’s office. He was a smoker, and was known to occasionally enjoy a cigar, which apparently he was doing at the time of his death. One of the witnesses, a Travis Noonan, stated that he had given the cigar to Peterson before dinner, which is what Peterson was doing there in the first place, having dinner with Noonan and one James Bechard. I have no information on the exact nature of the dinner.” Henderson cut in sharply, “Bechard claims that it was just a friendly dinner among acquaintances, but I got the idea that there was more –” “Yes, thank you,” interrupted Rhodes. “To continue! Now, the condition of the body is troubling to me. The autopsy found no sign of defense wounds. Our victim was caught completely by surprise and subdued or rendered unconscious before he even had a chance to react. The medical examiner’s report suggests that the severings were done with a serrated-edged blade. For our unsub to be able to do this much damage in the supposed time window suggests a lot of strength, power and speed. Again, even though this is a crime of opportunity, our unsub has come prepared, I would say even experienced; he knows exactly what to do; he does it, and he even allows himself just enough time to leave behind his signature. Although, the fact that the severed limbs still bore their respective clothes does suggest that the unsub was aware of the short time and wasn’t gonna be bothered with removing them. “The other element of the crime that suggests a high level of organization and sophistication in the unsub is the dismantling of the building’s surveillance system. After analyzing the blueprints of the building I have come up with a reconstruction of the events. “But first, let me give you my analysis of the second mutilation case. I’m going with the assumption that both homicides were carried out by the same guy. ‘Cause if they weren’t then the only thing that I can suggest is that you guys check for something in the water out there! Uh, heh heh heh!” Rhodes laughed a compressed laugh and then stopped abruptly. “Uh, that was a little joke, fellas.” Henderson, Rahal, and Lemmon remained stoic on their ends of the line. “You guys still there?” asked Rhodes after a moment. “Ahem,” Captain Rahal cleared his throat. “Please continue with your profile.” “Um, right,” said the FBI agent. “So, the second body, Goulier, was found mutilated in a similar manner right in plain view. This one has a lot less gore; apparently this time the unsub doesn’t feel the need to leave that particular signature. However, the body being left out in the middle of a highly visible public place is again an indication of that arrogance on the part of the unsub. The placement of the victim’s name-tag directly on the pile of limbs speaks to a high level of aggression, not to the victim as a person, but to something else, probably her profession. I think that the unsub was lashing out with anger that he feels toward the IRS itself. The location of the body supports this. However, this one could not have, in all likelihood, occurred at the location of where the body was found. That would have been just too risky.” “Hell! Impossible!” thought Henderson. “Tell us something we don’t know!” “As I understand it, Goulier’s car still remains missing. If and when you find it, I think that you’ll find evidence to support that it was used to transport the body from wherever the homicide took place to the location where the body was found. “Again, no apparent defense wounds on the victim’s body. No signs of vaginal entry, and frankly, nothing on either victim to suggest that the homicides were of any kind of sexual nature, unless you count the fact that the female victim was naked. This doesn’t seem sexual to me, though; instead it suggests that the unsub was somewhere with the victim in private, and able to take his time. He may have been wanting to humiliate her by having her found mutilated and naked. Extensive victim-ology showed that Goulier was a divorced, single mother. Sources suggested that she may have been… kinda easy. Our unsub may have seduced her, then did the job on her after she got naked. “I see here that she had been recently diagnosed with AIDS. Police reports say that a few of Goulier’s past sexual partners that are now infected as well showed signs of bitterness during routine questioning. Now, I don’t want to tell you guys not to pursue all leads, but I gotta tell you, given the level of sophistication and the apparent high level of psychotic behavior, I really don’t think that this was committed by some guy that got pissed just because she gave him AIDS. If that was the case I think we would have found her cut and/or stabbed in the face or the genitalia, and left in her home, not cut into pieces and left out in the open. “It almost seems like too much for one man to pull off, and that is why I gave consideration to the possibility that we could be dealing with a team of two or more. That idea supports the theory that the jobs were hits, planned out in every detail. However, when you take into consideration the level of certain disorganized elements along with the shear psychotic mania of the murders, I think you realize how unlikely that possibility is. On the other hand, it could have been a team that engineered the crime scenes specifically in an effort to mislead the FBI. But because there is no evidence to support that, I’m going with the idea that it was one guy, who is a very talented killer. “So, again assuming that the same unsub pulled off both jobs, I think we’re looking for someone with extreme anti-social tendencies, primarily anti-government. He is going to have a high level of technical expertise. He’ll be charming if not handsome, in spite of the fact that he may go long periods of days without bathing or taking care of himself. He is absolutely a homicidal maniac. I think he has killed before, so you may be looking for someone that is ex-military – fought in either Vietnam or the Gulf. He’ll be strong, but not necessarily in good shape. I imagine that he’ll have pretty severe financial problems, probably something to do with the IRS. “This is kinda how I would reconstruct the sequence of events surrounding each of the murders. First Peterson’s – our unsub is depressed, and emotionally disturbed. He’s walking around town, down by the river, probably just thinking about how badly he would like to kill some poor slob that he blames for his miserable life. He’s probably thinking something like, ‘If one more yuppie bastard gets in my face and tries to tell me something I’m gonna rip him to pieces, and I’ll love it!’ “So, he ends up walking around the Bancorp building; it’s nice, and warm, quiet so he can think. He’s just killing time. “Now here’s Peterson. He’s just finished dinner and he’s smoking a cigar. I think he’s in a pretty good mood right now. Something that he’s doing, maybe even smoking the cigar especially if he is on the elevator, tips off our unsub and the guy attacks Peterson before the poor guy even knows to be scared. “The unsub cuts Peterson into Petersonettes, then exits the elevator through the ceiling hatch. Now, the unsub still doesn’t have anywhere to go until the elevator gets back to its parked position on the first floor. Once there, however, he can cross along the tops of all of the other elevators in the shaft and, if he is a good jumper, climb out of the shaft into the main security office on the second floor of the building. Now he re-initializes the digital recorder, effectively erasing any footage that might show him doing any of this, and sneaks out of the building unseen.” Henderson protested, “But there was a security guard in the office the whole time. How could the perp do all that right under –” “Maybe the security guard wasn’t accurate in his report,” Rhodes interrupted. “Maybe he was out having a smoke. Maybe he was in the bathroom jerking off. Or maybe this guard is your killer; these reports you’ve sent me don’t reflect nearly the amount of lookin’ up his ass that I would be doing if this were my case.” Alone in his office Henderson reddened. He was glad that Rahal and Lemmon weren’t there to actually see it even though they had just witnessed the trouncing by phone. He hadn’t included information about his interrogation of Jensen in the reports to the FBI. Henderson had also been meaning to investigate deeper into the Bancorp security guards, especially Dan Jensen, he just hadn’t made any real headway. Time management wasn’t his forte, although you had to admit that anger management was! “Now, as for Goulier, whether this was also a crime of opportunity or something with a little more planning is hard to say. But if I were to reconstruct it I would say that our unsub found himself in a private place with the victim. He may have arranged it somehow, or he may have just gotten lucky. If he did arrange it, then we need to go over every case file that Goulier was working on, because one of them might be our unsub. Anyway, he’s thinking here’s his chance to get this bitch for screwin’ up his life, or more likely, here’s a chance to get back at the IRS for screwin’ up his life. This may have all gone down at Goulier’s house, since her daughter was away with the father at the time. She probably has no idea what’s going through his mind; she thinks the guy is charming and is ready to get it on with him. Instead, he subdues her and pulls out his famous knife with the serrated blade. She never even has time to put up a struggle. He cuts her up, loads the pieces into the car, drives downtown to the federal building, and dumps the pieces when no one is looking. We might be able to figure out more when you find the car.” It seemed to Henderson that Rhodes said this last bit rather smugly. “Well, is that it?” said Henderson with mock heartiness. “Yeah, pretty much, for now,” Rhodes answered. “Thanks for your time,” said Captain Rahal, and Chief Lemmon issued a similar sentiment. Henderson was already hanging up. “Smug bastard!” He grabbed his suit jacket and bolted out of the office before Rahal or Lemmon could corner him. After all, he did have this important appointment with Travis Noonan. As he walked the few blocks from the police station to the courthouse, he prudently gave due consideration to the thoughts and opinions that had been presented by Rhodes. Henderson knew that he should probably stick to the conventional wisdom of the ‘expert,’ but he simply didn’t want to. His hunches had never let him down. Besides, it was still pure speculation on Rhodes’s part anyway! The FBI was only speaking from experience, but what did he really know? There were still so many other possibilities. To Henderson the murders still looked professional. They smacked of purpose, not random crimes of opportunity. And Henderson now felt sure that they were dealing with a team instead of just one single guy. Noonan’s office was located on the third floor and consisted of an outer office room where two girls preformed secretarial duties, and another private room that served as Judge’s chambers behind the front of the courtroom where Judge Noonan presided. “His honor will see you now,” said one of the hot secretary girls to Henderson after he had waited for about five minutes. The detective poked his head in the door. “Judge Noonan?” he said, rather timidly. It was not like him to tiptoe around people, but when you’re entering the domain of someone that could trash your career on a whim, a little humility was certainly prudent. And he had to face it – he hadn’t exactly been smooth with his investigation on the night of the murder. Man, this case sucked! “Ah, Detective Henderson, come on in,” Noonan said. The office wasn’t especially large, but it was certainly lavish and richly ornate. A second door exited to a hallway that led to the courtroom, a bathroom, and other judge’s chambers. Noonan gestured to a plush chair across from his desk and asked, “What can I do for you Darrel?” Whew! This was going to be a little easier than he had thought. The judge had addressed him using his first name; always a good sign. “Well, Judge, I just needed to get a little more information from you about the other night.” Henderson was also careful not to sound too official. This would go smoother if everything was kept informal. “Absolutely,” said Noonan. “I’ll help in any way I can.” “As you probably know, Mr. Bechard was extremely uncooperative with me on this investigation. I need to know, what was the nature of your dinner that night?” The politician cleared his throat. “Well, Darrel, Mr. Bechard is highly supportive of my campaign, and Greg Peterson, God rest his soul, had some political ambitions of his own. We were just politicking; it’s what we do.” Henderson wanted to be careful not to sound as if he was accusing Noonan of anything. “So Bechard wasn’t trying to bribe you or Peterson into doing anything,” (searching for the right words), “not above board?” “Oh, Bechard has undoubtedly pulled some crap in his life,” said Noonan, “but he’s always been a lot more careful than to just come right out and try to bribe a public official.” “You think?” said Henderson. “Yep. You’ll have to get up pretty early in the morning to catch old Jimmy Bechard with his hand in the cookie jar these days,” Noonan drawled, and Henderson didn’t ask what he meant by it. But it sounded as if the politician was giving pointers on how to catch a powerful crook! “So, what was the general mood of everybody during the dinner?” asked the detective. “Oh, Bechard was carrying on about all of his anti-politics bullshit, and poor Peterson was just glad to be there.” “Was there any point of the evening when Bechard was alone with Peterson?” Henderson asked. Noonan seemed to contemplate this question. “Yeah. They had a few minutes alone while I was in the bathroom.” “Ah-ha!” thought Henderson. “What was the general mood of the two of them after you returned?” “Well, you know, they were actually acting a bit more buddy-buddy when I got back. Bechard was eating Peterson’s leftovers!” “Has Bechard been in contact with you since the night of the murder?” “Oh, sure. Bechard and I politick several times a week. In fact, he told me that he thinks you, uh, suspect him on the Peterson murder. I tell you this as a friend, Darrel,” Noonan added confidentially, “Be careful in your investigation of Bechard. You’re a good man and I’d hate to see you get crushed by Bechard.” Bechard’s exact words in a recent phone conversation with Noonan had been, “That little shit Henderson has got a hard-on for me, Travis, and if he even looks at me cross-eyed I’ll have his assets!” “Thanks, judge,” said Henderson. “I sincerely appreciate your concern.” And he made the mistake of pausing to look thoughtful. Noonan slyly inserted, “That was sure a horrible shame about Peterson and the other lady. Just awful! As terrible as they were though, didn’t they look like professional jobs to you?” Henderson was hesitant to share any details of his investigation with this politician. “Oh, what the hell! It’s the judge for Christ’s sake. I can trust him.” And he said nodding, “They looked pro alright.” “Your boys never did dig up much forensic evidence, did they?” probed Noonan. “No,” said the detective bitterly. “Whoever it was knew a lot about covering their tracks.” “Do you have a psychological profile on the guy?” Noonan was now conducting the interview. “Yeah. More than one actually, and they all disagree, but they’re all weak. Opinions come pretty damn cheap when you looking at an apparent serial killer. The only thing we’ve been able to agree on is that the unsub has a beef against public servants, which may mean he’s some kind of anti-government zealot.” He had used the FBI agent’s word…. “The perpetrator, or the person who hired him, right?” amended Noonan. “Right,” agreed Henderson. He was glad to hear that Noonan seemed to share his opinions of the nature of the crimes. “Darrel, murders like these aren’t going to be solved with forensic evidence,” said Noonan as if he were an old hand at such things. “You’re going to have to go back to good old fashioned means and motive.” “Jesus, what an idiot!” Henderson smiled, hoping to mask his thought. “But that doesn’t narrow it down enough for me.” “Look into the nature of the crime itself, detective,” Noonan was talking out of his ass. “Say, detective,” he said, growing ever slyer. “Do you think there is a connection between these Psicko killings and the hypodermic needle scare last year?” “You mean, do I think it’s the same guy?” asked Henderson. “Sure,” Noonan said as if answering his own question to the affirmative. “I mean, how many anti-social sickos can one metropolitan accommodate?” “I don’t know,” said Henderson. “I see a lot of damn sickness in this town.” “Oh, sure you do,” said the judge nodding jocularly. “And they all pass through my court at some point or another. We both see far more than our fair share of the criminal element. But I think that even though the MO is a little different in each case, the psychological profile of the offender fits for both of them. Think of it in terms of a professional job. If the Psicko Killer was actually just hired by someone to kill Peterson and that IRS lady, couldn’t that same someone have also hired the killer to plant the needles?” “Maybe, but what would someone have to gain by planting AIDS infected hypodermic needles all over town?” “Well, think about it. You’ve already concluded that the person behind the murders has a beef against the establishment. Where have most of the needles been popping up? Government buildings, public buildings, even a few right here at the courthouse!” “Its possible,” said Henderson slowly, “But anyway we’ve got a lead suspect on the hypo case, haven’t you heard?” That was a laugh. It had been weeks after Bob Wilson had gone missing before Henderson had even heard his name! The detective saw a distinctly peculiar look flash across Noonan’s face for a quarter of a second. “Oh yeah,” coughed the Judge. “I heard about the news. What have you got on him?” “Well, nothing much,” answered Henderson. Had the judge really heard? Everything that the cops knew had already been on the news! “We really only want to ask him a few questions. Wilson came up missing after we found the needle attached to the side entrance of the Public Safety Building. There is evidence to suggest foul play in his disappearance. His keys were left in the door of his car!” “Hmm,” hummed Noonan. “It doesn’t sound like you’ve got your man.” “Well, no! We haven’t got him. He’s disappeared!” Henderson tried not to sound exasperated. “I would stick to just finding the serial killer, or better yet, the person that hired him,” said the judge as if the hypo case had also been Henderson’s responsibility. “I think that if you find the Psicko Killer, you’ll find the hypo vandal.” Henderson decided that he needed to leave before he got buried in shit. Apparently, opinions came even cheaper from politicians. The MO’s were a lot different and the psychological profiles contrasted tremendously! Still, Henderson would entertain the idea if for no other reason than to accommodate its source. It sort of fit with his own theories and hunches. “Thanks for your help, Judge,” said the detective. “I must be going.” “I’m glad to help, Detective. Just let me know if there is anything else I can do for you.” The detective breathed a huge sigh of relief as he exited the office. He had Noonan on his side! That would go a long way in dealing with Rahal and Lemmon and other department politics. What’s more, his hunch, his totally reliable gut feeling, was leading him down a path that ended at Bechard. It would be a treacherous path to follow; Bechard was powerfully connected. But Henderson had Travis Noonan on his side; Travis Noonan, who had been leading the parade for more police support and a larger budget for the department. Noonan wouldn’t let Bechard walk over the detective. He would be safe under Noonan.

CHAPTER XXXV

“I want this to end,” Chad choked between rasps. His dull eyes pierced through a thick layer of mucousy gunk at his father Carl. Audrey Reeves stood just behind the man, hiding her wet face from her son. Chad’s sisters Carla and Adrianne sat on chairs at the far end of the small room. They were both in their teens and old enough to be touched by this. Nurse Janet stood at the closed door next to Dr. Rosenthal. The sick patient had beckoned for her not to leave. Seeing that he had his father’s attention, Chad went on. “I want an assisted suicide!” he said with difficulty, and there were four distinct sobs from the girls in the room. Carl Reeves tried to mask his terrible anguish by nonchalantly turning away from the death-touched form that lay in the hospital bed. His eyes found the strangely comforting face of the doctor, and he asked, “Is that legal?” The doctor cleared his throat. He had a slow, resonant voice that seemed to connect the words that he said. “Hm! Well, uh, technically it is. Uh, since uh, 1997, I think it was.” “Listen,” Chad said. He went on, after a coughing fit where he held up his hand to signal that he had more to say. “I don’t want to have to say this again, so pay attention while I make my intentions clear. I’m counting on everyone here to see to it that my will is carried out.” He coughed between almost every word and everyone in the room could see red teeth past cracked lips, but they remained silent and attentive. “I would like to have all of you present when the doctor administers the medicine. I want it televised on as many TV stations as–” Doctor Rosenthal interrupted him. “Uhm, that may be against the uh, provisions of the uh, Death with Dignity Act.” Chad coughed and sprayed red foam. “Death with dignity?! I think it’s a little late for that! I just want death – release from this fucking disease. And like anyone else I want my life and my death to mean something! I want to make a statement with my death! I want to tell the world that there is something bad with it. Society has gone too long looking the other way if something was too ugly or too uncomfortable to look at. Well, they’re going to look at me God damn it!! They are not going to look away while I die for no good reason – by the crimes of someone else – for society’s sins!!!” “Chad, uh, you’ve got to uh, be reasonable,” drawled Dr. Rosenthal. “The uh, law has specific provisions uh, outlining how this all has to be uh, carried out. For one thing uh, you’ll have to be declared um, competent uh, to make such a request. If uh, you go on about wanting to uh, televise it uh, you will probably be um, denied.” The sick, dying youth had gotten strength from somewhere and he growled forcefully, “Make it happen!” Then he calmed slightly and emotion choked his voice along with the blood and mucous. “Please, Dad! Don’t let me die like this. Let my death stand for something. Please! Don’t let all of this suffering be for nothing!” Carl Reeves was at a loss for words, but not emotion. The grown man bit his lip back as the tears broke free. He was helpless to save his son – Chad, his firstborn son of promise. Carl was hearing the words from his son that he had never imagined in his life he would hear. Strangely, in his grief, the man’s thoughts flashed to a memory of when Chad was seven years old. The family had had a dog, a large black lab they had named Harley because little Chad at age three used to ride the animal like a motorcycle. Chad had loved Harley like any boy would love his dog, and spent many happy hours after school playing with the animal. Harley was very smart and well-behaved; he never chased cars…..until the day that some teenaged boys in the neighborhood fixed an old towel to the rim of the rear tire on their old, primer coated muscle-car, and prowled through the neighborhood. Harley had chased the towel, had caught it, and hadn’t let go for nearly half a block. He had yelped twice while being dragged and twisted by the whipping towel, and then lain motionless in the street as the old Chevy roared away. Chad had seen the whole thing, running as fast as he could after the car as it pitilessly dragged his dog down the street. Somehow, the crying little seven year old boy and his mother had managed to get the 100 pound animal into his little red Radio Flyer wagon, resting as comfortably as they could make him on some old blankets, and got Harley home. When Carl had gotten home from work that day he had found Harley still lying on the blankets in the wagon. Little Chad was distraught and begging for his Daddy to ‘please make Harley better.’ Harley was awake and whimpering, and unable to move his hind legs. It was painfully obvious that among numerous other injuries, the big dog had a broken back. Carl had tried to explain to his child that Harley wasn’t going to get better and that he was suffering. “It’s time for Harley to go play in Heaven,” Carl had told his son, not able to hold his own tears back. Chad was old for his age, and understood, and he actually knew what his father had to do. The boy insisted that he be present when his father put the big-hearted animal out of its misery. They had not put off their grievous mission. Chad tearfully pulled the Radio Flyer around to the back yard like a death carriage, and Carl went into the house to get his .38. “Goodbye, Harley,” Chad said, sobbing. “I love you. I’ll never have another dog. I hope I see you in heaven.” Then he went and stood a little way off, never taking his eyes off the suffering dog even for a second. Carl looked at the animal sadly, and Harley looked back up at him with that same sadness. “Good boy, good boy,” he whispered. “Good boy, good boy.” He raised the pistol to the dog’s head. “Good boy,” he crooned, tears streaming down his face. “Good boy.” And with a massive wrenching of bodily will, he squeezed the trigger two times in rapid succession. The shots rang out, echoing through the Oregon City neighborhood, startling everyone within earshot except for one little seven year-old boy, who saw the flame shoot out from the barrel of the gun and still the heavy, labored panting of the big dog. “Good boy, good boy,” Carl could still be heard whispering through his tears as the reverberating sound of the gunshots decayed. “Good boy.” The two of them had dug the hole in the back yard together, and buried Harley without ceremony. After that, Chad never played with his wagon again. Carl sobbed in the memory, and then a torrent of bitter tears beat down his face as once again the reality of this situation cut out another piece of his heart. What waited for Chad after death? Would it be heaven? Would there be God standing there with Carl’s mother and Harley waiting to greet Chad as he crossed over? It was a welcome, comforting, fantasy, but it seemed so pat, so trite, so warm and fuzzy that Carl rejected it vehemently. If it could end like that, surely it could end with a little more peace for those left down here. The pain of it blinded him, jaded him, and he said strongly, resolutely, “Chad, I and your family will do everything in our power to fulfill your wishes!” Something like peace washed over Chad’s face. “Thanks Dad. Now I have just one last thing. I don’t want to spend any more time here in this hospital! I want to have a few weeks somewhere alone where I can think.” Again Dr. Rosenthal interrupted, “Uh, I can’t advise that, uh, Chad, your condition is too uh, critical –” “Shut up!” Chad snapped, interrupting the doctor back. “Once again, you’re not seeing the big picture! I am going to die!! It doesn’t matter where I am or what I do. I can’t stop it, and neither can you! I’m leaving this goddamn hospital, just as soon as I have a place to go and be alone. I’ll need some care, though, I know that.” Chad softened and looked at Janet, who had been softly sobbing through the entire episode. “Janet, will you accompany me?” The chunky care-giver was not sure how to answer with one of her bosses present. It wouldn’t look good to go against the will of a doctor. Janet was vaguely aware that Doctor Rosenthal was simply doing everything he could to rack up revenues for himself and the hospital, all in the name of looking out for the best interest of the patient. Hell, he might even be eligible to receive a kickback from the State or some pharmaceutical company (or both) for carrying out this Death with Dignity procedure. Janet hesitated to answer Chad’s plea. “Please, Janet!” he said pathetically. “Take me away from all this. Get me outa here. Please!” Audrey said, “Chad, why do you want to spend your last days away from us?” “I’m sorry, Mom. I don’t know why. I just need some time to think, alone, not here!” Chad did know, though. His darkness had finally spread to that one last part of his heart that he had reserved for his family. Dark and jaded thoughts now jabbed and corroded the love and fondness that he felt for his parents and sisters. He had no more energy for them. Chad could only hope that he would be better after a few weeks of solitude, if he lived that long. He turned his pleading eyes back to Janet, and mercilessly chipped away some more at her heart. “I – I – just don’t know,” Janet stammered through tears. Chad softened, “Well, think about it, OK?” “Where do you want to go?” asked Carl. “Get me a condo on the beach or something like that,” answered Chad. “Book it for three weeks. Let’s set up my televised live Suicide Extravaganza for the 31st of October; seems fitting,” he added darkly. Doctor Rosenthal put in, “Uh, there’s uh, a lot of uh, legal paperwork to uh, push through for uh, an assisted death.” “Make it happen,” growled Chad, and he put his head back against the pillow and closed his eyes. “I will have my tragic death scene.”

CHAPTER XXXVI

Desperado drummed his fingers impatiently on the door of the van through his open window. Both he and Tim sensed, and hoped for, action soon to come. Tim had parked his black van on an inclined street of large stately houses. The position from this hillside commanded a fantastic view of the downtown area and the metro beyond. Tim watched through high-powered binoculars as the strange, white- haired man stopped further down the hill to check his instruments. After all of these weeks of ceaseless stalking, Tim could now tell that the white-haired man, still only walking, had roamed an ever shrinking circuit around the city. This neighborhood had, more or less, been at the center of that tightening circle. Tim knew that this was the system that the wizard (as he had designated the strange, white-haired man) patiently employed to track down vampires. One of the four houses on this block could be the domicile of vampires! Desperado was itching for some action. He turned his head, and catching a whiff in his nose as of the combined odors of old food, old food container, spilled soda, dirty laundry, gun oil, garlic, arm-pit, and butt-crack, Desperado said, “Does this van smell like a poo-cave, or what?” Scanning each of the houses on the street through his high-powered binoculars, Tim saw the front door of one of the houses open. Someone was walking slowly through the doorway of the last house on the block, walking onto the front porch, over to the porch swing. And then Tim got a good look at the person’s face. It was an old man. “Drat! That old guy ain’t no vampire!” said Desperado. “Of course, the vampires aren’t going to be out yet,” said Tim. “It’s still way too light out.” Tim turned his focus further down the street, back at the wizard. The wizard was still several minutes walking time down the hill, but he had resumed walking intently in the direction of the van. Tim started to wonder if his strange quarry was heading to the house with the old man. It was an older home, but immaculately well-kept; just the type of place where vampires would live! The old man rocked on the front porch swing, and presently Tim spotted an elderly lady making her way down the street. She must have walked right past the black van and was now approaching the front walk of the house. Tim and Desperado could just hear the sounds of greetings between the two seniors through his open window, and then the old woman joined the old man on the swing. The shades of orange from the west reached across the ever-darkening sapphire sky. From where Tim was, he could see the glaring of the setting sun reflecting off of the mirrored downtown skyscrapers. The vampires would be waiting for that annoying shimmer and its source to fade away. But would they be emerging from this house?! Doubts invaded the mind of the vampire slayer as he watched the elderly couple enjoying the dusk together on the porch swing. It was at times like this when Tim’s mind would stray to thoughts and memories of his adventures. There were still so many un-answered questions. Could things possibly be not as they appeared?! Just what had happened that day in Detroit? Surely, his memory served him well. But what was the function of this odd-looking man with all of the amazing gadgets? Tim had had the Kibbutz under surveillance for a year, and then this guy had just come out of nowhere and waltzed into the place as if it had been a theme park! He had to be a powerful wizard. Regardless of all the unknowns about the stranger, Tim still couldn’t think of any other way to explain all of the extraordinary things that he had seen since his sister had joined the ‘cult.’ The front door of the house at the end of the block gaped again into shadow! It was a little darker now and the sun was only a glow behind the hills. Tim and Desperado were having a little more difficulty seeing who it was that was exiting the house this time. The form was wearing dark clothes, and Tim thought for a second that the person was wearing a black cape! He was certain that he was seeing a vampire as it emerged into the night after a nice day’s slumber! Tim and Desperado scrambled around in the cab of the van. “Hand me the infrared scope!” “Where is the shotgun mic?” “Do you think the old couple is in danger?!” “I think we should just shoot now and ask questions later!” Desperado’s fingers caressed his shotgun. Shaking with excitement, Tim quickly checked on the funky white-haired man. The wizard still approached as if in no hurry. He was maybe one block further down the hill from the house in question, and closing. Straining through the binoculars and the waning light Desperado watched as the form that he was convinced was a dratted bloodsucker stepped over to the elderly couple. Tim was frantically digging through the piles of gear, gadgets and garbage looking for the shotgun mic, and finally locating it. Bumbling from haste, he stuck in the earpiece, powered the gadget and pointed it though the open driver’s side window toward the house. “….to meet you, too,” said the voice that must have belonged to the old woman. Tim saw the old man climb slowly from the swing, and then heard what must have been the voice of the old man say, “Well, Mark, have fun.” Through the binoculars Desperado saw the old man embrace the dark form. The old man’s voice rang again through Tim’s earpiece, “Are you OK?” “Better than I’ve been in a long, long time my old friend,” a smooth, young male voice said. Tim and Desperado watched in anticipation as the dark form stepped down the three front porch steps and into a little more light. The disappointed slayer could now see that it was just a young man in a dark leather trench coat, or maybe this dude was a vampire? Tim decided that it was possible. “Dude! Are we stormin’ the house, or what?” asked Desperado, fully itching and expecting to be on the attack. “No!” said Tim with an air of authoritativeness. “We don’t know anything for sure. Besides, if that kid is a vampire, he’ll be his strongest right now. No, we should at least wait until daylight.” “Good answer, kid. I was just testing you,” said Desperado. They watched as the young man climbed into a shiny new black Cadillac SUV. The wizard was just crossing the street to the house and now he seemed intent upon the vehicle. Moments later the SUV backed out of the driveway and sped quickly down the street. The white-haired stranger stopped on the corner of the sidewalk, methodically checked his blue crystal, then turned and walked back down the street after the fading SUV. Tim and Desperado both gaped! That kid had been a vampire after all!

Something was scratching at the back of Marcus’s mind as he stepped off of the front porch. He felt an uneasiness that was quite foreign to him. He really was excited by the prospect of spending an evening with the lusty and busty Mitzi, or Mimi as she had been introduced to him, and the delightfully sweet and delicious Janet. But at the same time, he had awoken from his day- sleep feeling rather apocalyptic, and now, as he fingered the key chain remote to unlock the Cadillac SUV, he quickly scanned the area around the front of the house and up and down the street, still feeling on edge. Everything looked OK….. But for some reason the image of the beautiful blue-skinned being that always haunted the vampire’s dreams kept parading before his mind’s eye. Marcus climbed into the luxurious vehicle, grabbed the wheel, closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath of focus. He felt as strong and as powerful and immortal as he ever did. No problem! So why should he suddenly be feeling like Judgment Day was at hand? It didn’t help that his vivid-as-life nightmare earlier had been especially horrific and painful. Just before waking from his day-mare, he had reached up and touched the smooth scales on the beautiful face of that blue being. The vampire had again been decimated by the hideous hordes of shadowy forms whose decomposed faces looked all too familiar. As immeasurable pain racked his entire being to the core, he had stroked that beautiful, sympathetic face, leaving a smear of his own blood on the blue cheek. “Release me,” he had pled weakly, not knowing why. As if this strange blue being had the power to do that…. He had awakened from his day-sleep in his plush sub-cellar room deep in the ground under the house, the image of the blue- skinned being emblazoned on his vision. Looking out of the east-faced front window of the house, he had been just in time to see the last glorious glow of the setting sun reflecting off of the mirrored skyscrapers of downtown through the trees. This was as close to the light of day as he could safely get, but what a wondrous sight! The colors of this twilight world – the leaves in the trees, the downtown buildings, the bridges spanning the wide river – all seemed to stand out with a vibrancy that radiated life and energy. Alas, the vision had lasted only a few minutes before fading into dusk. And as satisfying as the sight was, it made Marcus long to see another sunrise. He had seen plenty of sunrises in the first years of his life, but they had all been sorely unappreciated, except one. He carried with him, in a special place in his heart, the faded and worn memory of that one special sunrise that he had shared with his precious Maria – the last sunrise that he had ever seen. Marcus backed the large SUV out of the driveway and accelerated quickly down the street. He would need to feed before he rendezvoused with the girls. Deep in the undergrowth, under a freeway cutting over the west hills, Marcus found what he was looking for – the littered encampment of a homeless wino. The derelict was barely coherent, floating numbly in a whiskey-soaked fog. Marcus left the man in an even deeper fog, with a gashed wrist. The homeless man would remember little of the feeding, but he would live. Marcus had stayed only long enough to stop the bleeding. The blood of the derelict was less than satisfying, but at least the vampire would not have to meet up with the girls with fresh blood on his hands. He was about ten minutes late and the girls were already there waiting for him inside Janet’s Mustang when he pulled into the Bare Cage parking lot. The trio decided to eat dinner at McCormick & Schmick’s, a fine seafood restaurant very near the river, and traveled there together in the Cadillac. Mimi was dressed a little more casual than the other two. She had on a long sleeved spandex shirt with gold swirly patterns, perfect for showing off her amazing breasts. A beautiful gold chain ran around her waste through the belt loops of skin tight designer jeans. The toll of coke rationing over the past few days showed in her face, but she still looked great. Now, as she sat here in this beautiful vehicle with her lover and this charming man she noticed that she was feeling a little better all of a sudden. Janet looked especially ravishing and sophisticated in a crushed velvet pants and shirt outfit. Her hair and make-up had been done with care, and notwithstanding her extra weight (or perhaps because of it) she looked head-turningly stunning. And Marcus looked sharp and immaculate, as he always did, in starched slacks and turtleneck shirt tucked in with a belt. Over that ensemble he wore his long leather trench coat. Through dinner Marcus managed to keep the girls talking about themselves, and their lives. When he learned how they had met he mused to himself about how he had inadvertently orchestrated that coincidence as well as their encounter at the Bare Cage. However, the girls did not tell him all of the juiciest details of that first morning at the hospital. Marcus was not at all surprised to learn that, previous to meeting Mimi, Janet had been staunchly heterosexual. “What was it that opened your mind to the idea of being romantically involved with Mimi?” he asked. The chunky little girl blushed only a little. She had had some time to think about this. “In spite of the way that I was raised, it seemed the natural thing to do.” She then went on to tell Marcus and Mimi about her upbringing. Janet’s life began to fall apart when she was just entering puberty and her father died in a tragic logging accident. Her mother was already in poor health, and the little family consisting of Janet, her mother, and her older brother was devastated by the loss. They survived meagerly on the income that her mother brought home from an assembly line job and the social security ‘benefits’ provided from the death of her father. By the time that Janet was sixteen, she had taken it upon herself to care for her mother who had become bedridden. Her brother had joined the United States Marines. Janet took over for providing for herself and her mother by cleaning offices at night. And all this, while she finished her last year of high school, blessedly a year early. Naturally, she had had absolutely no time left for any kind of social life. Shortly after graduating from Benson Polytechnic with high honors, Janet’s mother also died, and with her brother stationed abroad, Janet was all alone in the metro. Janet’s father had been a very manly man, outspokenly anti-gay. Her mother was a womanly woman and a devout Christian. She had also drilled home to Janet the significance of the gender roles. In a town with a lot homosexual activity (Portland is sometimes referred to as Little San Francisco) Janet’s parents had put a lot of importance on raising their two children with strong heterosexual values. Janet confessed to not having been to church in a year or so, even though she still prayed daily and considered her relationship with God to be growing and developing – maturing. She acknowledged the joy and comfort that she received in her daily life as a result of having Jesus in her life. However, there were some facts about her own upbringing that Janet could not relate to Mimi and Marcus, as she was not consciously aware of the whole story. Individually, Janet and the rest of her family were sorely uninformed of the truth, and in fact, they would probably never know. Her father had had male lovers all throughout his ‘good’ marriage to Janet’s mother. This he had kept securely hidden from his family, masking his guilt and shame with strong anti-gay sentiment, and he took his secret to the grave. Her mother was so horribly sexually repressed that she had become frigid after the birth of her first child. That little Janet had been conceived at all was a miracle! The woman had been haunted all her life with a legion of sexual taboos, and she allowed herself to feel no pleasure. It had seemed to the woman that virtually everything in the world stimulated her sexually and the guilt that she felt from this was tremendous! Naturally, as she nursed her young, she had fought to keep that warm, delightful sensation from invading her body. Her attempts to repress the pleasure had made her sick to her stomach, and the guilt made her feel self- abhorrent! She had eventually stopped nursing Janet at only few weeks old. The subject of the birds and bees had been broached with her children only to the extent that she had made it clear that sex outside of wedlock was a deadly sin, and that feelings of passion were also terribly damning and destructive. And Janet’s brother was now experimenting with homosexuality as well. Though, for him the shame of this was also primary. Throughout his pubescence he had been very careful never to masturbate. But his sexual taboos were so copious that he hadn’t even had the confidence to tell his mother about his relationships with girls. His ejaculations in the night were a dark secret that he had kept to himself and abhorred. And now, though he allowed himself the guilty pleasure of intercourse with men, he was largely abusive, both to his ‘lovers’ and himself. He had grown sadistic, and masochistic. He believed that his father would judge him harshly and be horribly ashamed of him if he was alive. But Janet was unable to speak of any of this. Even though she was not consciously aware of the truth behind her family, she was absolutely a product of the dark secrets that were buried deep inside of her parents’ tortured corpses. Partially a product! For in spite of all this, Janet had grown into a strong, self-sufficient, compassionate woman. Marcus sensed the memory of the hot pain that had forged the precious metal of this girl. The fires had been hot, yes, but they had burned away much of the impurities, leaving behind the mostly pure bullion, now impervious to the heat. Indeed, that is the only way. In that particular way, Mimi’s childhood had been quite opposite. As she recounted her own upbringing to Janet and Marcus she admitted to having a much easier time of it. Her parents had stayed married right up until a couple of years ago. Apparently, unbeknownst to Mimi and her sisters, her parents had agreed when the children were still quite young to stay together until the last of the children had graduated from high school. It had been a virtually loveless marriage between the parents, but they tried hard to give Miriam and her sisters all of the love that they could. At first, the divorce totally pulled the rug out from under Mimi’s life, but then she gradually realized that she had seen it all along – the lack of love between her parents. Her parents had remained on very friendly terms after the divorce, however, even while engaging in other relationships. Mimi had always felt a twinge of guilt over the situation. The marriage had suffered and endured through the years only to serve what the adult participants had believed to be the best interest of the children. It seemed to Mimi to have been a horrible waste of a life. She knew that her mother was a deeply passionate woman, just like Mimi had grown into herself, and the loss of those twenty-four years of her life to a loveless marriage seemed like a tragic sacrifice indeed. In describing her upbringing to Marcus, Mimi also neglected to mention a few things – like the drug use for one. And she described her exhibitionism and free sexual nature without going into too much detail about her teenage promiscuity. But Marcus, naturally, left out more than the girls could possibly imagine as he told them of his background when pressed. “Not that I am trying to be dark or mysterious, ladies,” he said. “But the story of my life is not something I can properly tell you in one little dinner.” Of course, the girls thought him to be vastly dark and mysterious. At length, the attractive trio finished eating, and decided that they would like to go somewhere to go dancing. Following the democratic process, they voted on a popular nightclub inside the Hilton that was known to have live music. They all continued chatting as Marcus piloted the Cadillac through the downtown Portland streets. Outside the Hilton, he turned the vehicle over to the valet and walked into the nightclub with Janet and Mimi on each arm. Club Banzai is a lounge on speed. The décor is rich; leather, wood, glass. Brown and hunter’s green is the color scheme. There isn’t much about the place that is overly ‘hip.’ The lighting is blessedly low, and there isn’t a bit of neon to be seen in the place. But it is generally packed, and the crowd is not in the least sedate. The draw of Club Banzai is the house band that plays there Tuesday through Saturday. The band is called Flash in the Pan, and the name was conceived by the band as a private joke and smear toward that band that came out of Portland with some national recognition in the early eighties called Quarterflash. Flash in the Pan is a six piece show-band, four guys and two girls, and their show is definitely tight. The well-paid members were recruited especially for the Club Banzai gig by the club’s manager. They play ‘Top-40’ hits from the fifties forward, and their repertoire is extensive. It is a Club Banzai challenge for club patrons to try to ‘stump the band.’ What really gets the crowd hyped up, however, is the band’s propensity for occasionally playing certain hard rock and heavy metal songs that are ‘forbidden’ by the club management. Marcus the vampire, Janet the nurse, and Mimi the amazon headed straight for the semi-crowded dance floor and began dancing, (it was a good crowd for a Sunday). Mimi and Janet did not do anything to try to disguise the fact that they were together, but their ‘dance floor’ escapades didn’t cross the line into bad taste, after all, this was all quite new to Janet. She did her best to follow Mimi’s lead, and to relax and have fun. She was through with feeling guilty! To Marcus their carrying on was reminiscent of European girls. The old vampire was moving casually to the beat of the music, looking as if he were trying not to expend too much energy. Other people on the dance floor glanced at the voluptuous, titillating girls and then at Marcus, thinking that they were some kind of chic threesome. The trio danced until the band went on break and then got a booth and ordered mineral waters. None of the three would be drinking tonight. There was no need for it. They sat in the booth and looked at the rest of the people in attendance this night. Of course, there were quite a few of the obligatory singles hanging out in the club. The thickly-varnished mahogany bar was occupied mostly with older men, probably business men from out of town and taking advantage of the time away from their wives to try and score on some strange. A few women, attracted for whatever reason to that kind of man, were in the process of making it happen for a few of the out-of-towners. Just across the way from the trio was a table of six giddy women having a ‘girl’s night out,’ and across the dance floor from them was a table of young men, obviously military judging by the ‘high-n- tights,’ but dressed in civies. No doubt in a few more beers the predacious young chaps would begin to smoothly close the gap between them and the table of women. Further back in the club were more tables of guys, tables of girls, tables of couples, tables of singles. A wedding party was in the far corner – all kids, too young to know when to stop drinking. The dance floor was crowded even while the DJ provided music in lieu of the breaking band, whose members were now out in the club area, schmoozing the crowd and scamming on girls. The manager of the club was also out among the crowd glad-handing and making sure that the scantily clad cocktail waitresses were keeping the club patrons properly drinked. And the poor bartenders never even got a second to breathe! Marcus could sense, or perhaps rather smell, the testosterone and pheromones in the air. He supposed that it smelled like attitude. Most everyone was here for the purpose of attracting someone else of their sexual preference, whatever that may be, and preferably fitting their individual criteria for a ‘good catch.’ Or perhaps they had already attracted their ‘good catch’ to them and was now flaunting them in public, or attempting to endear the person further, or just engaging in general socialization. But the smell of that attitude wafted up from the crowd, mixing with the scent of cigarettes, booze and warm bodies. So many essentially lonely people trying vainly to find a cure for their loneliness, and sabotaging their own efforts with that attitude. But then, Marcus supposed that Darwin was right – there was certainly enough heterosexual coupling and procreation in the world to perpetuate the species, maybe even too much, but then, Marcus was certainly in favor of over-population. It was all happening the way it was supposed to, wasn’t it? Still, there wasn’t enough happiness….. The heads of the women at the ‘party table’ ducked into a tight huddle as they whispered and giggled. Eyes from the table shot over to Mimi and her breasts. Marcus caught the scent of jealousy mixed with titillation. His trademark sly smile seeped onto his face as he mused at how the women were in denial of their bi-curiosity. An attractive couple entered the area looking for a booth of their own. The girl was tall and slender with long, straight blonde hair. She had an excellent body with perfectly fake tits and looked like real life Barbi doll. Her face was without flaw and her bright blue eyes were as empty as they were beautiful. Behind her, and holding her hand, walked an annoyed looking beefcake. He was maybe 5’ 9”, a full inch shorter than his beautiful date with her platform heels. His boxy jaw and poor complexion told the tale of steroid abuse, and he was extremely muscular. A tight, short-sleeved polo shirt made with some kind of stretchy material exhibited his huge, puffy muscles. His proportion was perfect. As the couple walked by the threesome, the girl looked down at Mimi’s chest. They all heard her as she turned to her boyfriend, (who had hardly been able to not gawk at the amazon’s amazing breasts), and said, “She had hers done way too big!” Marcus mocked her tone in jest for the girls, “How dare you have bigger breasts than mine!” The girls giggled and Mimi boasted, “Mine were bigger than that before I had them done.” Presently, the band came back on stage and took back from the DJ the job of providing music and entertainment for the insatiable crowd. The beautiful trio went back out to the dance floor. And the vampire danced. The threesome gradually migrated on the dance floor until they were almost directly in front of the stage, where they got swept up by the contagious enthusiasm of the band. Even the ancient Marcus let himself be momentarily joyful and vulnerable! The handsome bass player of the band caught Janet’s eye and winked at her. He was a tall, muscular, surfer looking dude with long blonde hair. He had a sort of crooked, innocuous smile and his dark eyes laughed as if harboring a private joke. He had been flirting shamelessly with just about every girl in the place, and Janet did not take offense to his harmless flirting with her. The girls took a moment to dance together just for the bass player, who appeared to enjoy their titillating exhibition. But much to the old vampire’s amazement, Marcus sensed that the young musician was only pretending, playing along for the show. It was all in good fun, but this sensible musician was obviously not really excited by the idea of a ménage a trois with these girls. He would have probably been more open to a one-on-one with Janet, before he realized that she was actually with the busty amazon. Marcus also sensed the strong mixture of pheromones released by the handsome musician. Girls all around the room, including Janet and Mimi, and even some men, also felt the effects of the strong attractive essence. “God, I could just dance all night long!” exclaimed Mimi as the threesome walked back to their booth. Janet was exhausted and Marcus was in need of a new diversion. They began to people-watch, the girls sitting together on one side of the booth, and Marcus alone on the other. “Look at all the women throwing themselves at that bass player,” said Janet, as she watched women groping him from the dance floor. A flick of his long hair elicited a scream from the group of women that flocked in front of him. “They’re all but attacking him on stage. How does he have such power over them?” The fact that she had felt that same power from Mimi did not escape her. “Janet, darling,” said Mimi. “If a guy plays the guitar it doesn’t matter if he looks like a total toad! He’ll still get laid by all the gorgeous girls he wants. And if the guy happens to be a hottie stud muffin like that guy, then he’ll just get laid even more.” Janet was more serious though. “But Mimi, you have that kind of power over people, too.” The busty amazon hefted her breasts. “I just have different stage props.” “There needs to be something else for the average nobody to use to attract people,” said Janet frowning. “Not everybody has a stage prop!” “You are right Janet,” said Marcus leaning forward on the table. “There is something else. There are different types of attraction and different results from each as well. Say hypothetically that that blonde bass player has all that charm on stage, but is really a jerk when you get to know him. Would he have any lasting meaningful relationships?” “No,” answered the girl, and Mimi shook her head in agreement. “Not that I am suggesting that a lasting meaningful relationship is all there is to strive for. Everything is, of course, relative. For instance, say hypothetically that you allowed yourself to fall for his charms, and the two of you engaged in a relationship just long enough for him to get you into bed. Then, shortly afterward, he kindly tells that he is not ready to commit to anything monogamous and basically dumps you. Would that make him a jerk?” Janet looked thoughtful, and Mimi was already shaking her head again. Mimi said, “No. He’s just doing his thing. A girl should know that band guys are like that.” “That is a generalization that remains to be verified,” said Marcus tactfully. “But you are right that he would not necessarily be a jerk for doing such a thing. Just about everybody is lonely to some degree or another and we all do whatever we think is going to cure it.” Janet asked, “Is there a cure for loneliness?” She looked intently into the eyes of the vampire, fully believing that he would have the answer. A look of sadness clouded those eyes, and Marcus replied, “Amazingly enough, that is not my area…..” Ah! My sweet Maria! “Love,” said Mimi simply. “Love everyone and love yourself, and others will love you.” “That is as good an answer as any,” said Marcus. “A modern day philosopher was recently quoted as saying ‘your quality of life is determined by the quality of your relationships,’ or something to that effect. And it would make sense that one’s most important relationship would be with oneself.” The girls nodded in agreement. This all looked good on paper, but….. “Still,” said Marcus, his sly smile returning. “It is funny how we base so much happiness on something as fleeting as love.” “What do you mean?” asked Janet. “I mean, love is fleeting and fickle, like a butterfly that flits and flutters from one blossom to another. Love of self is the only love that you can guarantee,” said the vampire. Seeing only questioning looks from the girls, he continued. “Let us use that bass player again in another example. This will be fun, and not difficult, because you have both undoubtedly seen in real life what I am about to illustrate.” Marcus pointed out a thirty-something couple dancing a sterile slow-dance as the bass player crooned out a beautiful love song backed up by the band. The man, who had probably never been much to look at even in his twenties, was now heavy with receding hair. The woman was pretty in a maternal sort of way and quite heavy herself. Although they were slow-dancing together, the lack of passion between them was painfully obvious. “Do you see that lackluster couple out there slow-dancing on the edge of the dance floor? Most likely they are married with children. No doubt, they are employing the services of a babysitter tonight so that they can enjoy a night out together. Statistically, it is probable that there is or has been infidelity in their marriage most sacred,” (this he said scornfully) “And the way they slow-dance together only serves to illustrate that probability and increase its chances. Is there any doubt in either of you that that young bass player could ‘steal’ that woman away from her husband?” The girls weren’t sure how to answer because of how Marcus had worded the question, but they both believed that if the young bass player felt so inclined, he could definitely have the woman. “He might even be able to convince her to give up her children in order to be with him,” Marcus kept on. “But those people are ‘in love’ for whatever that is worth.” “Are you saying that you don’t believe in love?” asked Janet. “Not at all,” said Marcus. “I definitely believe in love, whatever it is. All that I am saying is that romantic love is a very fleeting and fickle thing that we should not hold stock in for our happiness. Love of self is the only love over which we have control, and it is in love of self where we should seek happiness.” “I think I see what you’re saying,” said Mimi. “Guys of every make and model promise me all their worldly wealth and more just because of my fantasy tits. I used to wonder if men loved me for me or because of my boobs. Eventually, I stopped caring, and that was when I discovered that I could get any man. It didn’t matter if he had a girlfriend, was married, or gay, I could get him! I went through a phase where I would flirt with any guy that I knew was taken just to see how far I could string him along away from his girlfriend or wife.” “Are you entirely certain that you are out of that phase?” joked Marcus. “Actually, I know that game rather well. I have been guilty in the past of playing it myself. I called it the Alpha Male game. But, I think in your case we would have to just call it the Alpha Mimi game.” But Janet was still serious. “That’s just lust, though – not love!” “Lust is the fool’s gold of love,” affirmed Marcus. “But it is also a prime ingredient of passion. Other than self love, love does not have much to do with attracting people to you, and even looks and talent are secondary! Here let me show you. Take my hands.” Marcus held out his hands across the table intending one for each girl, and they both lightly held one of his hands for just a few seconds. Each girl felt a distinct wave of warm erotica pass through her body and culminate into a tingle between her legs. Janet’s nipples hardened almost instantly, and Mimi’s would have as well, except that they already were. “Oh my god, Marcus!” giggled Mimi. “How did you do that?” asked Janet. She was almost emotional. “It is really a simple trick, and it is all chemistry,” answered Marcus laughing. “But do you see how easy it is to evoke the sensations associated with ‘love’? I could break up just about any couple in here like that.” “That’s some powerful stuff,” said Mimi. “But I can do the same thing with my tits.” Marcus wasn’t about to try to set her straight just now. “You undoubtedly have great power over people,” he said. “How about if you give us a demonstration?” Mimi sensed a friendly challenge. “You’re on, big boy. This should be fun. Who do you want me to smite?” Janet and Marcus surveyed the crowd. They’re gaze landed on a young couple hanging out in a dark corner. The girl was a spicy hot Latino vixen. Her hair was big and curly and long, and her dark-skinned face was striking and beautiful and heavily made up. She had a curvy little body put on display by tight clothes and very high spiked heels. The boy was a handsome young lad, dressed preppy, and apparently wanting nothing more than to please his date. From the looks of it, he was trying to cheer the girl, woo her perhaps, and entice her to have a good time. Perhaps she was experiencing discomfort from a bad menstruation period, or maybe it was chronic, but whatever the reason, she was exhibiting a foul temper, and treating the young man with disdain. Still, he seemed determined to change her mood. He seemed to be on cloud nine just being in her presence. He opened himself for more abuse. “There you go,” said Marcus. “Steal him away from her.” “Hah!” said Mimi. “Like taking candy away from a bitch.” “Just please don’t get clawed by that girl,” said Janet, trying to sound witty, but concern showed in her voice. “Don’t worry,” said Mimi nonchalantly. “Try to look like you’re together,” she added to both of them. The large-breasted girl sashayed across the room, letting her breasts bounce slightly with each step. Many eyes all around the room followed every movement of her body as if she had been the first female body they had ever seen and now the eyes could dispose of their useless virginity. She stopped at the bar and purchased another mineral water, requesting that the bartender not open it for her. Then she took up a table just a little way from the booth where the disquieted couple sat. The young man was saying, “Oh, come on, Julie, let’s just try to have some fun tonight. Please, come dance with me!” Julie put up her hand to the young man and moved her head from side to side as she said, “I don’t think so, junior.” Mimi made a show of trying to open her mineral water. The damn cap was just too tight for her. She was actually turning it the wrong way. Presently she caught the young man’s eye. With just a smile and a pleading, helpless look from Mimi he was crossing the short distance to her table. For the moment at least, Julie seemed glad to be rid of him. “Can I get that for you?” he asked. “Oh thank you so much,” she said, handing him the sabotaged bottle. “You are so sweet! My name is Mitzi. What is your name?” The young man grunted on the bottle. Damn, the lid was sure on there good! His first attempt was an embarrassing failure. “My name is Anthony.” “Well, Anthony, thank you for taking time to help me. You are so gallấnt.” And she put the accent on the second syllable of ‘gallấnt.’ Anthony’s second attempt at the lid broke the seal, and he loosened it a bit more for her. Mimi locked eyes with the young man as he handed her the mineral water, and without taking her eyes from his, removed the lid and sipped sensuously on the neck of the bottle. She let the bottle form a little suction on her full lips and they didn’t want to let go as she gently pulled the bottle away from her mouth. Anthony flushed and swallowed. “Uh – I should get back,” he said, now flustered. “Is that your girlfriend, Anthony,” Mimi asked, innocently. “Uh, yeah,” he said, and couldn’t hide his frustration. Mimi beckoned him a little closer by crooking her finger and whispered in his ear. “Let me tell you a little secret, Anthony – she doesn’t deserve a great guy like you. If you ever get fed up with her negative attitude, I would love to talk to you and get to know you.” As she finished, Mimi suddenly felt a surge of irritation prick its way across the inside of her skull. Somehow she managed to keep her sexy smile turned on, even though the discomfort might have made her face twitch just slightly. It would be time for a sniff very soon! Anthony did not notice because he was still trying to get blood back to his own head after listening to the busty girl’s sexily whispered invitation. God! What was he doing with that bitch Julie when he could be hanging right now with this sweet and sexy amazon. Of course, there were times when Julie could be sweet and sexy, and she could be so-o-o-o sexy! (Young Anthony had a thing for the spice and fire of Latino women). But anything could set her off, too. Anthony had only been dating her for three months, and he constantly felt like he was walking on eggshells around her. Certainly he didn’t have anything seriously invested in this relationship enough to keep him from just walking. He swallowed hard and cleared his throat. “Well, thank you, Mitzi. That’s very nice. Very nice!” “God! Those are nice!” he thought. “Uhm, maybe I’ll catch up with you soon.” “Maybe….” “I-i-it was nice to meet you,” he stammered. “It was nice to meet you, Anthony.” And Anthony walked back to his waiting, glaring girlfriend. Mimi heard her say, “As if, homeboy! Give it up. She’d crush you!” He loved a Spanish accent, but hearing her talk with urban Latino speak was one of Anthony’s biggest turn-offs. He went back to trying to cheer her, but she just wouldn’t have it and now his heart wasn’t in it. He turned around to catch a glimpse of Mitzi, but she was no longer sitting at the nearby table. However, it didn’t take Anthony long to spot her, walking like a goddess across the club. For a second he fantasized about that incredible woman that he had just met. He had never met anyone like her. Never! He decided that he couldn’t let her get away. He turned back to Julie, who was just finishing one of her high-speed long- winded rants. She was saying, “….and you can’t even get that right! I swear to god, Anthony! You’re such a loser!” “You know what, Julie?” Anthony didn’t raise his voice, but he was forceful. “No!” And he got right up, leaving her sitting there. Mimi sat back down at the booth where Marcus and Janet now sat together looking at her expectedly. She found herself, strangely enough, feeling a little better. “Well?” said Marcus. “He was a little too whipped,” said Mimi. “Maybe not,” said Janet. Anthony was crossing the bar. He approached only slightly tentatively, but he was greeted with open smiles from everyone in the booth. “Uh, hi,” he said with a breath. Mimi was her glorious outgoing self. “Hello again, Anthony. These are my friends Janet and Marcus.” Then she turned to the other two and said, “This is Anthony. He is the sweet guy who helped me.” “Good to know you, Anthony,” said the Marcus. “Hi,” said Janet. When Anthony had met Mimi a few minutes ago and helped her with the cap on her mineral water and listened to her whisper in his ear, he had felt that maybe, just maybe, this unbelievable beauty was within his grasp. Now, seeing her there in all her glory among her ‘entourage,’ he felt as though he was squinting into the sun. He was normally a fine, well-adjusted young adult. Indeed, he was often referred to as the ‘life of the party,’ but just now he was feeling very much in awe, not just from Mitzi, but her two friends as well. Wit escaped him. He never got the chance to recover. From behind him came a whirlwind that resolved itself into Julie. “I want to go, Anthony. Take me home!” she commanded. “Goddamn it!” thought Anthony as he realized what he would be missing, but he had to obey his master. He came to himself enough to sincerely say, “It was a pleasure to meet you all.” Then he turned regretfully toward Mitzi and said in a small voice, “I have to go.” Disgusted, Mimi ignored him. As innocently as she could, she looked past him to the Latino girl and said, “Oh, I’m sorry. Does he belong to you? Your puppy was trying to follow me home, but here he is – safe and sound. Bye now.” The Latino spitfire took the dismissal, but not before she spat out, “Bitch!” She grabbed Anthony quite forcefully by the arm and yanked him after her. The three of them repressed their mirth only for a moment before bursting out into laughter. “That’s really sad!” giggled Janet. Marcus became serious first. “It is pretty easy to see it when you are on the outside looking in, but oppression comes in many forms and it is all too easy to let yourself be put into a state of subjugation, and I am not talking only about relationships here.” The girls nodded in agreement but they hadn’t really considered what he had just said. Mimi said to Marcus, “OK, grasshopper, show us what you can do.” “Sure,” said the vampire. “Upon whose relationship would you like the havoc wreaked?” The girls looked the club over again and Janet pointed out another rather unattractive couple. “How about them?” Marcus frowned. “Oh no! Way too easy. Give me a challenge.” Mimi pointed to the barbi-girl and the beefcake. “Think you’re up to that?” And Janet nodded her agreement enthusiastically. “Are you talking about the girl or the guy?” asked Marcus. If he was joking, the girls couldn’t tell; his delivery was dead- pan. Janet laughed anyway. “The girl, silly.” Marcus’s face showed mock fear. “You are trying to get me beat up, I would say!” The girls continued scanning. There was a very beautiful girl on the dance floor dancing with an older gentleman. “How about it?” asked Mimi, pointing to them. “Still too easy,” said Marcus. “She would bounce him like a bad check when I showed her this.” He pulled out his wallet and flipped his thumb through the bills to show the girls the uncountable number of C-notes that he just happened to be carrying on his person. “Jesus Christ, Marcus,” said Mimi. “We should be asking you what you do for a living!” “I will be happy to tell you in a bit,” he said. Then, in a mock malicious growl, he added, “But first, find me a victim!” The vampire was suddenly aware of his hunger. Again! For just a second, at the sound of Marcus’s voice, every hair on the back of Mimi’s long, graceful neck stood up, then the chill dispersed. She dismissed it as some kind of coke craving! The girls’ focus turned to the far corner of the room, where they had been subconsciously trying to avoid. There was the post-reception wedding party celebrating a Fall marriage ceremony. All young kids, the tipsy males dressed sloppily in their ‘all- the-latest’ tuxedos and the bride’s maids wrapped up in not-too-sexy formal dresses. The bride was a beautiful tan brunette who was quite occupied with showering gouts of affection upon her strapping, handsome, sandy-haired new husband. Her eyes shown with the look of a woman that knew that she had absolutely found her soul-mate The girls had been avoiding the wedding party altogether as if not wishing to tread upon such sacred, holy ground. But Marcus saw their hesitant gaze and said, “Perfect!” before either one of them had even suggested ‘yea or nay’ one way or the other. “You don’t have to –” Mimi started, but Marcus stopped her gently. “It will be alright,” he said reassuringly. “I shall not damage anything that is not already broken. If they are truly ‘in love’ then I will not have any power over them. And if they are not, it is better that they find out before any children are involved.” He grinned sardonically and added, “It’s a nice day for a white wedding.” Marcus left both girls biting their lips as he got up and crossed the room, and Mimi became suddenly aware that she was again feeling quite rotten. She had some cake with her and she wanted to go the bathroom very badly, but the stalwart girl was determined to put it off as long as she could. The vampire sat down at a table very near the wedding party and within minutes two of the bride’s maids were talking and flirting with him. They had had a lot to drink. Marcus asked the girls innocently about the newlyweds. The groom, he learned, was loaded. Or, at least, his dad was. The girls said that the father was ‘CFO or VP or something like that’ of some ‘insurance company or credit union or something like that.’ The groom, according to the girls, was gorgeous and hunky and a ‘total package.’ Marcus had his doubts, both about the groom and these girls. The only thing that Marcus could get the girls to say about their best friend Lyvia was that they loved her dearly and were ‘so happy for her.’ There were so many ways that the vampire could go about doing this, and to be quite frank, the young bride really didn’t stand a chance. Marcus was engaging in some potentially dangerous activities for a vampire, however. Normally he wouldn’t be doing this. He wouldn’t be purposefully exhibiting his powers to two young girls, and he wouldn’t be out in public with two young girls to begin with. And he wouldn’t be grooming them to be able to handle the truths that he was contemplating bringing to light for them! This was pretty high-risk for an object lesson. Oh well; fuck it! He said to the bride’s maids that now sat at his table with their beers, “Please, go get the young bride. I would love to meet her and give my congratulations on her nuptials.” “I have very nice nuptials, too,” slurred one of the girls drunkenly. “Wanna see ‘em?” And her girlfriend giggled. “What a cutie!” said Marcus patronizingly. They beckoned to their newly-wedded girlfriend and finally got her attention. It took them nearly a minute to pry Lyvia away from her new hubby, but finally, there she was, in all her bridal loveliness, standing before the seated Marcus. One of her friends said, “Lyv, this is, uh – what was your name again?” He looked up, deep into Lyvia’s eyes – deeply into her. “Hi,” he said richly, extending his hand. “I’m Mark. I just wanted to give you my congratulations on your marriage.” The fresh new bride looked back into those bottomless hazel eyes, and felt as if her innocence had suddenly returned. Not just that, but she was also suddenly feeling quite randy! She and Ron had just done it in the limo less than an hour ago, and now as she looked back on it, it seemed that she couldn’t remember what it had felt like. Lyvia wanted to know what making love would feel like. She felt as a virgin again. Curiosity and overwhelming desire were causing her body to tingle. As she looked into his deep eyes, Lyvia suddenly knew Mark. He was everything that she had ever wanted in a man and a lover. He was her age, he was educated, he believed in exactly the same things that she did. He talked to her in just the way that she wanted to be talked to. He was strong and emotional – passionate! He loved to ballroom dance. He was a very romantic lover. He would work for her and provide her with a wonderful life. He would bless her with beautiful children. And he loved her; she could see it all in his eyes. An abrasive and bitter reality brought her back to the moment. She had just married Ron! He was a good man, a handsome man, and his dad’s wealth was comforting, but Mark was clearly superior. Deep in her gut she had feared that this would happen, that after she had married someone, her real soul-mate would show up. God! What a mess she’d made of her life! What a tragic mess! Marcus mused sardonically without showing anything on his face. What a push-over this girl had been! He had charmed her with hardly any words at all. The girl must have had some serious commitment issues! Marcus brought her out of her dark reverie. “Lyvia? Are you alright, my dear?” “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said. “Uhm, thank you.” She hadn’t let go of his hand. She held it now with both of hers. Again she looked intently into his eyes, and said, “Uhm, Mark?” She paused, and Marcus simply matched her intent gaze to show that she had his undivided attention. “What do you do if you’re committed to somebody and then you meet someone….” She couldn’t finish for the quiet choking sob that rose out of her. “Do you really want me?” asked Marcus brazenly, but tenderly. Lyvia cocked her head slightly to the side and said, “I really do! I don’t know what it is about you, but I feel like I’ve known you forever.” “Lyvia darling, we just met.” “I know, but I just feel something special about you,” said Lyvia. “You have to believe in love at first sight.” “Will you come with me?” asked the vampire. “I will,” said Lyvia for the second time that day. Marcus took her hand and led her across the club, back to the booth where Janet and Mimi now sat together again. Her groom was too drunk to quickly notice her absence. Marcus said, “Lyvia, my love, this is Mimi and Janet.” The girls all exchanged greetings, then Marcus continued. “Do you desire me, Lyvia?” asked Marcus. Lyvia was overcome with desire. “Oh yes, Mark. I do!” Janet and Mimi both let their mouths fall open. Marcus continued, “Janet and Mimi both belong to my harem, and I would like for you to be a part of us as well, if you wish.” At this point the charmed girl would have walked a mile across broken glass and hot coals for this man Mark. She was senseless with desire; craving him almost as mindlessly as a vampire might crave blood if it had gone a few days without. His outlandish offer seemed only sensible to her right now. She would become part of his harem; she would become part of him, and the idea of it excited her even more. Nothing else mattered. “Yes! Oh yes!” she said. Passion and excitement coated the words. Janet sat stunned, mouth agape. Mimi smiled slyly at the girl and said, “OK, what is he paying you?” Lyvia did not understand the question. Marcus smiled, “You see my dears, love is so easily impersonated by raging hormones. And people use that imposter as the basis for life decisions. At this point of our lives, being that we are all so young, we are almost completely ruled by hormones. Just about every motivation we ever feel comes from one of those little body chemicals. If you do not believe me, simply ask any woman who has undergone the tragic medical procedure of a hysterectomy. Even with hormone replacement therapy, they never feel quite the same. “Love is fleeting enough even when it is between two people who have self love and level heads. For anyone else it is as illusory as what this poor girl is experiencing right now. Venus – God’s little joke on man.” The vampire turned to the confused Lyvia. “I am sorry to have used you so egregiously. You are free to go.” Lyvia didn’t want to be free. She wanted to be egregiously used by Mark for the rest of her life. But she was perceiving him differently all of a sudden. He might not be the one after all, and besides, she was married now, to Ron, a fine man, a handsome man. She looked into Mark’s eyes, looking for any trace of the love that she had seen just minutes ago. It was gone. The previously fathomless eyes now held nothing for her. She walked away, saying nothing to any of them, trying to sort out her feelings of confusion, heartbreak, guilt, regret, sadness, and horniness. What had come over her? She had been ready to leave with that guy! The three of them watched her go, the girls stunned, the vampire feeling apathetic. He turned back to Mimi and Janet and added, “But if you are going to make a righteous mistake, there is no better way to go down than love. The bittersweet feelings of heartbreak are, in my opinion, one of the greatest joys of life.” “Hear! Hear!” Janet cried. Mimi was still recovering from amazement. “I can’t believe that you had that girl ready to leave her husband to join your ‘harem’! How did you do that?” “It was simple,” said Marcus. “She was deeply infatuated. Most everyone has an internal profile of his or her ideal mate. That is not a bad thing. Imagine that it is very much like a questionnaire, the idea being that when you meet someone, you get to know them and gradually complete the questionnaire. At some point, you will know whether the person is compatible with you or not, and at every point along the way, you can decide how close you are going to allow yourself to be to that person. “But Lyvia looked at me, felt certain feelings, and her imagination filled in all of the blanks on that questionnaire with exactly the right answers. She felt certain that she had found ‘the one,’ if such a thing even exists, which I strongly doubt! “So all I am saying is make sure that you have the real thing. Take the time to consciously and actively complete that questionnaire honestly and without bias. A love relationship between two people that is not built firmly on the foundation of individual self love can easily be broken asunder by fool’s gold. That is not to suggest that two healthy people with plenty of self love are going to stay together forever, but at least their individual happiness will not depend on the status of their love relationship.” “Why couldn’t two people stay together forever?” asked Janet. “I am not saying they could not,” said Marcus. “I am merely saying that the probability of it is low. Imagine that it is fifty million years in the future. The three of us are somewhere, doing something, and we can remember this moment. By this time, we have traveled and explored all of the Milky Way Galaxy and probably countless other galaxies as well. We have met innumerable other beings both great and sympathetic. Think of all of the individual growth experiences that we have each had in this fifty million year span of time. In all that time, can you really imagine having only one love relationship?” The girls looked back at Marcus with matching stares, mouths slightly agape. Marcus’s profundity had struck again. “Wow,” said Mimi finally. After a moment of thought Janet said, “Yes, I think I could.” Marcus smiled, “Then child, I wish that for you.” She was still so young. However, who was he to say that it could not happen? Janet laughed, “Child?! How can you call me that? I’m older than you.” The vampire just smiled at her, his eyes the only hint of his 500 plus years. The three individuals were quietly contemplative for a time. Mimi was becoming aware that she felt better whenever Marcus was nearby – not all better, but markedly improved. Janet was brooding on everything Marcus had said. It all made sense, and her relationship with Mimi so far had obviously survived only by good fortune. “Better late than never,” she thought as she resolved to turn the situation around. Not that their relationship was bad or unhealthy, but Janet really wanted it to be ‘the real thing.’ And Marcus was again experiencing that end-of-the-existence sensation; strongly like he had before dinner. Mimi broke the silence. “Marcus, how did you get to be so smart?” A smile spread very wide on the vampire’s face. “I do not know. Just lucky, I guess.” And the mood lightened again. Janet was through brooding, but she did have another question for Marcus. “Marcus, can you explain why Mimi and I are together?” “You mean you have not yet figured that out on your own?” he replied softly. “Well, I think I can maybe figure out why I’m with her,” said Janet. “It has something to do with my being raised with a lot of sexual repression and her being raised with a lot of sexual freeness, right?” “That works,” said Marcus. “But I can’t figure out why she would want to be with me,” said Janet without a trace of self-pity in her voice. “Aw, Janet! I love you. I need you!” Mimi said. “I know that you feel that way,” said Janet. “And it’s enough for me, really. I love you, too – in ways that I never even imagined I could. But I can’t help wondering what it is that you see in me.” Marcus said, “I can answer that.” And he instantly had both of the girls’ undivided attention. “At least, I shall tell you what I think,” he amended. “There are a lot of elements that go into play for Mimi’s attraction to you, Janet, not the least of which is that you are an outrageous beauty. Your beauty shines through your eyes, and the rest of you, as if from a bright source of light from deep inside. You have a subtle sexiness in everything you do that is undoubtedly a result of your unconscious rebellion against the sexual repression that you were raised with. That sexiness is compounded by the fact that you seem to be quite unaware of it. You have experienced a lot of pain in your life. You have handled that pain well, and managed it, and from that pain you have grown strong and pure. “But there is something about Mimi and her upbringing that draws her to you. She has not experienced a lot of pain in her life, so she has not had a lot of the growth in some areas that you have had.” Marcus held up his hand flat, palm side down and drew an imaginary horizontal line in the air. “Imagine a joy versus pain scale with a zero point in the middle. Now say you have an experience in your life that rates as a negative five on the pain scale. After that experience, you are now capable of experiencing joy at the rate of positive five. If the most pain you have ever had to experience was a negative three, say, then the most joy that you can have is a positive three. Is this making sense to you? “Have you ever experienced a painful period in your life, and in the midst of your pain, you remembered how your life was before the pain? You might have been thinking something like, ‘gosh! I simply did not know how good I had it back then,’ right?” Both girls nodded affirmatively, Janet a little more fervently. Marcus went on, “That is an example of having more joy in your life than you know how to feel, and then experiencing a new level of pain that opens you to being able to feel new levels of joy. Does that make sense?” The girls still nodded. “You can feel no particular level of joy in your life until you have already experienced pain of a conversely equal level. So you see, pain is very useful! No joy without it, if you follow me! And also, there is no growth without pain.” “God! Are you trying to make us masochistic?” joked Mimi. “Welcome to my nightmare,” said Marcus, joking back. “Anyway, Janet, my guess is that Mimi is drawn to your ability to experience the joys of life at a higher level. It may be that she will be dealing with something in her life in the near future that is extremely painful, and she will benefit from someone that has already experienced, endured, and become a better person from the hot forge of pain.” Again the girls were dumbstruck, only this time they exchanged shocked looks. How had he known? “Who needs the psychic friends network with you around!” exclaimed Mimi, stunned, laughing. And then it hit her again – the wave of irritation and depression, only this time it didn’t recede. It was time. “Wow! All this talk about pain and joy is making me think of Chad,” said Janet. “He’s always talking about pain and the pleasure that he gets from it.” “That is not exactly what I am talking about here, of course,” said Marcus. “Oh, I know,” said Janet. “It’s just Chad. He’s been through a lot! And now he’s just waiting to die.” And quietly she added, “He should have died a long time ago. He’s suffering.” “So am I,” Mimi said just as quietly. Her eyes were closed. Shall we get out of here,” said Marcus, and he stood abruptly and held out his hands for the girls. And the trio exited Club Banzai. As they waited for the valet to bring the Cadillac, Mimi asked, “How are you doing that?” Marcus replied innocently, “Doing what?” He was still holding each girl by the hand. “You’re making me feel better,” said Mimi. “I am not doing anything,” he said. “Why do I get the feeling that I’ll get the shakes if I let go of your hand?” “It is all in your head, my dear,” said Marcus. “Don’t tell me it’s all in my head,” Mimi said, a little too harshly. She was feeling better, but still far from one hundred percent. She asked, “Janet can you feel that?” Janet had been quiet, but now answered, “I’m feeling a little nauseous.” Marcus tried to joke, “Boy, what a pair you two are! And all we have had to drink all night was mineral water.” “Seriously, Marcus,” said Mimi. “We both felt that trick you did with your fingers. We both saw what you did to that girl. And right now I should be coming apart from withdrawal! Now, how are you doing this?” “I will tell you later,” answered the vampire. “Right now we need to seriously consider how we are going to deal with your withdrawal symptoms. You know they will get worse before–” “Worse before they get better! Yes, I know,” said Mimi testily. “Have you considered rehabilitation?” asked Marcus. “Who’s got the time or the money for that?” Mimi retorted. “You were just going to quit cocaine on your will power alone?” Marcus replied back. That stopped Mimi momentarily. She hadn’t told him yet. “How did you know it was coke?” she asked a little more meekly. “Never mind. You can tell me later. Anyway, I was going to try. Janet said she would do anything to help me.” “And I will make the same pledge to you as well,” said Marcus. For another second Mimi was mystified, and Janet was too. They could not figure out what might motivate a man such as Marcus to offer his help. Mimi mused on the riddle. Surely he wasn’t trying to get a piece of ass out of her. He had already demonstrated just how easy it was for him to score. It couldn’t have anything to do with money; he was carrying more cash in his wallet than….well, anyway, it was a lot! Being unable to solve the puzzle, Mimi turned her focus back to the present problem. The reality of it was that she would probably be unable to dance while she was trying to quit coke, if she was ever able to dance again period. She dreaded the idea of having to get a ‘real job’ but she supposed it happened to the best of them eventually. It would be worth it. Marcus broke her reverie. “So, I suppose you will be having to take about a four week leave of absence from the Bare Cage.” “That’s just was I was thinking about,” said Mimi. “What about you, Janet?” asked Marcus. “Can you take some time off from the hospital?” “Probably not,” answered the nurse. “Now is a really bad time with Chad Reeves –” Then a thought came to her and she said absently, “You know, it would really be good if we could just get out of the city for a while.” “It would be good, especially for Mimi,” Marcus agreed. “Do you have any place special in mind?” Janet shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know. The beach, or the mountains, either one would be fine.” Mimi temporarily forgot her irritation. “I’d love to get a cabin in the woods, by a lake and a mountain.” Marcus said, “I can do you a cabin in the woods; beautiful woods as I recall. The lake is a few miles away, but there is a nearby creek; in the mountains, near Sisters. What do you think?” Again, the question of Marcus’s motivation nagged at the minds of both girls, but for some reason they trusted their Marcus. Janet asked, “What, exactly, are you proposing?” Marcus replied, “You were the one that said that we should get out of the city. Were you not including me when you suggested that?” “Gosh,” said Janet. “I wasn’t even seriously considering it. It was more like a daydream – a longing.” “Well,” said Marcus. “Take this offer seriously. I have a cabin, running water, generator. The nearest neighbor is seven miles away, and the nearest town is eight miles away. Hell! By now there may even be coverage for your cellular phones.” “All the comforts of home, eh?” said Mimi, seeming to follow the sales pitch. Then she added more enthusiastically, “Sounds lovely!” “What about work?” asked Janet. She always was the practical one. “You will think of something,” said Marcus, and indeed, Janet already had a scheme planned. But did she have the cohunes to do it? “How long do you suppose we’d be gone?” she asked. Marcus knew that Janet wanted to do it. This would be the final test of her transition into spontaneity. “That will depend on how long it takes for Mimi’s withdrawal symptoms to abate. It usually takes a few weeks for the blocked dopamine receptors in the brain to open up again.” “Is that what I have – blocked dopamine receptors?” Mimi asked. “That’s exactly what’s physically wrong with your brain, and causing your discomfort,” said Janet. “After they become un-blocked will I stop craving coke?” Marcus frowned in thought. “Mmmm, you will not suffer from withdrawal symptoms. The craving is something you are going to have to deal for a while – one day at a time.” “Well, I say we do it!” said Mimi. “Let’s go to your cabin and escape this dungeon for a while.” “I’m game,” said the vampire. “What about you, Janet?” Janet was nodding, but she said, “There is just one thing. We’ve got to bring Chad.” Marcus and Mimi were not really aware how bad Chad’s condition was, so Janet’s request didn’t seem outlandish. When Janet explained to them that Chad had begged her just that morning to take him away, having him along on the getaway seemed quite logical. The trio decided that they should leave as soon as possible. The girls didn’t know about the time constraints that Marcus was subject to. Marcus looked at his watch. He had six hours ‘til dawn. It was a four hour drive to the cabin. Marcus played his hand to the girls. “Say, do you girls want to leave right now?” “Now?!” Janet asked. This was the final on her test. “It has to be either now or tomorrow night,” said Marcus. “What are you, a vampire?” Mimi said jokingly. Marcus chuckled, “There are no such things as vampires.” It was just the answer that Janet would have expected the sober young man to say. He said, “Well? Will it be now or tomorrow night?” “Now!” both girls said, almost together, and they laughed. Even Mimi was as cheerful as she could be.

CHAPTER XXXVII

Marcus took the girls around to each of their apartments where they each speedily put together a bag of clothes and things. “If you do not bring it, we will buy it,” Marcus had said, so they each just grabbed a few essentials. The vampire decided to forego grabbing anything for himself from the house. There was nothing that he needed anyway. Marcus wasn’t big on the idea of showing people the location of his main domicile. If someone who knew where he lived turned out to be a security risk, it might become necessary for that someone to become missing or dead. The vampire hated doing that just to protect himself. It was better for people to simply not know. Finally, came the tricky part – getting Chad out of the hospital. But as it turned out, Janet, wearing her nurse’s uniform, walked right into the area where she was due to be on shift in seven hours, put the very willing and enthusiastic Chad into a wheel chair, and wheeled him right out of the hospital. Nobody who noticed her even said anything. She was worried about getting into trouble for this later, so Chad called his parents on Janet’s cell phone as the SUV sped out of the metro, and Carl promised to handle the hospital and Janet’s bosses. Carl and Audrey expressed their wishes that Chad have fun and asked that he please call them every day. Janet wasn’t sure if she would still have a job after all of this was over, but she decided that she didn’t care. For many numerous reasons, this act of spontaneity seemed to her like the right thing to do. Mimi had snorted just enough coke to keep her tremors and irritation under control for the drive to Sisters, Oregon. She could suffer wonderfully with all of the nasty withdrawals after they got to the cabin. The beautiful busty girl sat in the back seat of the SUV with Janet. Chad was riding shotgun, slightly reclined, and for the first time in a long time, he felt truly happy. The prospect of being able to spend his final days in such a pleasurable setting seemed to lift a burden from off his head. However, he did feel distinctly jealous of Marcus and his vibrant (and no doubt potent) handsomeness, and wondered what he was to Janet. And if that sharp- looking young man was getting anywhere with that chic with the mondo mams then Chad was even more jealous, he mused. But whoever this Marcus was, he seemed to be springing for this excellent adventure, and Chad did not wish to bite the hand, so to speak. Chad was overjoyed to just be out of the hospital and with one of his last favorite people in the world. It didn’t matter that he would never be able have her in the romantic way that he longed to. He was content to be her friend, and for her to be happy. No, it didn’t matter.…. too much. Janet was the only one of the group that wasn’t wired, but she quickly acquired her second wind and took part in the road- trip conversation. Internally she was musing over the strange circumstances that she suddenly seemed to find herself in. If someone had taken her aside earlier that day and told her that before the night was over she would be kidnapping Chad from the hospital and riding in a car with a man that she hardly knew to a cabin in the mountains, she would have accused them of smoking crack. Marcus was, of course, quite used to being up at night. The vampire was going to be in a little trouble if he wasn’t able to feed before he bedded down for the day. Luckily, his old friend Scott would be at the cabin. Marcus had called him while the girls had been packing, to let him know that they were on their way. Scott would be a willing donor. Mimi was also a night owl and at the moment tweaked. It would be at least an hour before she would be able to sleep, probably much longer. Chad hadn’t been sleeping very well lately, no matter what time during the day or night that it was; plus he was so excited to be going on an adventure that sleep, for the moment, was far from him. He mostly listened as the others continued their conversation from the club. Presently, Marcus said, “Hey, listen. I should tell you a little bit more about the cabin so that you can know what to expect. First of all, the place belongs to me, and you are welcome to most everything there. There are two bedrooms and two full bathrooms, and it is all quite modern. I have a caretaker that lives there; he is an old friend of mine named Scott. He will get anything that any of you might need. You probably will not see much of me during the day. Just occupy yourselves with whatever you can find to do.” At length, the conversation lagged, and the girls began to doze in the backseat. Chad asked, “So, how did you meet Janet?” “I met her at the club where Mimi dances.” “Did you do ‘em?” He was acid-testing Marcus. The vampire chuckled, “No, my friend, I did not do them.” “Why not? Didn’t you see the hooters on that bitch?” The vampire’s tone was flat, neither angry nor self-righteous as he answered, “Do not refer to her as a bitch, my friend.” Chad’s retort was sarcastic. “I’m sorry. Did you not see the large amounts of breast tissue on that person of female persuasion?” Marcus said, “Chad, I understand that you – ” “You don’t understand shit, my friend!” Chad interrupted mordantly, rasping. As was to be expected, he was losing containment of his anger. Marcus said smoothly, “Please, let me finish. I understand that you are quite a prick. Do not worry. I will not hold it against you. I will thank you to remember that we, Janet, Mimi and myself, are doing what we can to make your last hours of mortality as pleasant as possible, or perhaps you would prefer it back at the hospital! Now, as for what I do not understand, my young friend, I am all ears, so to speak. How about if you make me understand.” Chad’s fury had somehow been pinched off. Shame of his tantrum had replaced the anger. He muttered, “It’s just that….” Chad stopped and frowned. The vampire gave the sick young man an out. “Maybe you would prefer to talk about what is bothering you later?” “Yeah,” mumbled Chad. He still felt grateful to be here, and now he felt properly chastened as well. But his dark mood wasn’t far away. His outburst had awakened Janet from her dozing, and now she reached from the back seat and tenderly rubbed his bony shoulders. “Chad, you’re going to like Marcus. He has a lot of amazing insight.” “Oh, he does, huh?” Chad said with a trace of sarcasm. “Well, Marcus, what can you tell me about death? That’s the only subject that really seems to concern me any more.” “I am afraid I do not have anything to say that would take the fear of the unknown out of it,” said the vampire truthfully. “Tell me anything then, oh, wise, sagely guru of life,” said Chad, the sarcasm sneaking into his voice. Marcus looked down in the center of the dashboard at the display of the map showing I-5 and the relative position of the SUV according to the GPS. They still had two hours to go. “Damn! This is going to be a long drive.” “Do you see what I mean, Marcus?” asked Janet. “Chad isn’t really that bad. It’s just this damn illness. It’s made him so negative.” “Oh, so you’ve been talking about me, huh?” Chad put in. “Janet has voiced to me her concerns about your well-being and happiness,” said the vampire. Finally, Chad was at a loss. He didn’t quite know what to say to that. He still watched his behavior where Janet was concerned. On the other hand, he didn’t want her pity either. He breathed a deep sigh. “I’ll be alright, Janet,” he said quietly. Knowing that Chad could die anytime, and also recalling that Chad had also previously confided with Janet about his losing the faith, Janet wondered just how he would be alright. She had been appalled at his notions of spitting in the face of God. She also felt that in her capacity as the official care-giver that Chad was in her charge, and that she was responsible for him. His behavior would be a reflection on her. She said, “Well, anyway, please don’t take offense from him, Marcus. He’s only being difficult because of the discomfort.” “No need to apologize, dear,” Marcus answered sounding jovial. Then his voice darkened as he took the opportunity to be just a little bit provocative, “I never take offense from anyone that I can crush.” Chad was spinning from the confusion of several emotional reactions to Marcus’s statement – mostly anger tempered with tolerance by virtue of endearment to Janet. First, he was enraged by this young Marcus who could say something so callous, and challenging, and pious, and mean, (and the list went on in Chad’s head) to someone on their deathbed! It was like kicking somebody when they were already down. Why, if Chad had only been like he was a year ago – whole, healthy, athletic, they would all see who would be crushing whom! Chad suddenly felt very picked on. Secondly, Janet had just patronized him terribly. That by itself made him feel two inches tall. His first impulse was to lash out at her, but he stopped the eruption quite early. He simply couldn’t bring himself to be the least bit hurtful toward Janet; she had meant no injury to him. And he truly loved her – it didn’t matter that it was probably nightingale syndrome. Chad would have liked to have thought of some way to tell Janet rationally and without rancor that her patronization made him feel bad, but all of the inner turmoil from the barrage of various emotions left him temporarily unable to think clearly. And he was also wondering why Janet hadn’t said anything in reaction to Marcus’s statement. Marcus was going to just get away with saying it! Janet had taken Marcus’s statement as it was intended: a dark joke at the Chad’s expense. Surely Marcus didn’t really mean anything malevolent by it, and Chad had certainly earned the remark with his own biting sarcasm. But what they didn’t know was that Marcus really had meant it. In the abject wisdom of his objective perspective, Marcus had utter tolerance for the idiotic offensiveness of anyone. Marcus knew with a tragic, immensely qualified surety that everyone dies. If some person insisted on being a pain in the ass to the vampire, it was generally no big deal for him to end their existence prematurely. And if that was not an option, (as was rarely the case!), then Marcus was surely able to come up with some other solution. It wouldn’t have surprised Marcus if Chad, after learning that he was a vampire, asked Marcus to kill him. Of course, first there would be the obligatory begging and pleading to please turn him, then after Chad finally got it into his head that Marcus wouldn’t turn him, the sick lad would ask him to end it pleasantly, which the vampire certainly could and probably would do. Janet said to Chad in a pleading voice, “Please be happy Chad. We’re doing this so that you can be happy for your…..” She couldn’t finish, and tried to recover by adding, “What can we do to make you happy?” As Chad organized his thoughts and feelings, his mood darkened abysmally, sinking down deep into a moor of self pity. He had thought that getting out of the hospital would make him happy, but here he was feeling miserable. What would make him happy? Having his life back – that would make him happy. Getting revenge on the bastards that did this to him, yes! Both of those scenarios seemed so unlikely, especially the first, which was downright impossible; a pipedream. A pipe-mare! Chad answered her question with a mumbled growl, “You can kill the bastards who did this to me.” Marcus’s left eyebrow raised and a cynical grin brought the corners of his mouth up imperceptibly. “‘Bastards’ as in plural?” he queried. The vampire had been contemplating deeply about what he had witnessed all those weeks ago. Should he tell them what he had seen? Wait a bit….. Aghast, Janet put in, “Oh Chad, No!” “It’s not like it was a conspiracy,” Chad explained, a frown carved on his face. “But there are more people to blame for this than just the mother-fucker that planted the syringe.” “Like whom?” asked Marcus. He could tell that Chad liked his interest. “Do you happen to know where I was when this happened to me?” Chad’s voice was a growl. Talking about this was difficult for him, and he didn’t wish to cry. He tried to disguise his emotion with passion. “I saw the news report,” Marcus replied. “Do you know what I was doing there?” Chad quizzed. The question should have been rhetorical; Marcus had no way of knowing what Chad had been doing at the courthouse. But Chad waited until Marcus said, “What?” Apparently, the sick young fellow wanted to make sure that he had the other man’s attention. “I was paying a fuckin’ ticket!” he exclaimed as if amazed by the absurdity of it. “Goddamn tag lights! I shouldn’t have been there. I never should have been there.” A sob escaped from Chad as he ranted. Marcus and Janet both remained silent as the sick young man struggled to keep his tears held in. “So the way I see it,” Chad continued after a moment, “The fuckin’ cop that stopped me is……partially responsible. And the judge that enforced the fuckin’ ticket – both of those motherfuckers need to die slowly and painfully.” “Oh Chad,” said Janet in a whisper. “No. No!” Chad went on mumbling softer now still sounding astonished. “Goddamn tags lights! Christ! Like that equipment is so crucial to the operation of a fuckin’ car. Why would a cop stop you for something so stupid? And he wrote me a ticket for fuck’s sake! I fixed ‘em. It’s not fuckin’ brain surgery! I was just trying to do the right thing. I was just trying….but that asshole judge wouldn’t give me a break! It’s their fault. I wouldn’t have been there if it weren’t for them.” By the tone of his rasping voice, and the hideous mask of hatred on the sick young man’s face, it was obvious to Janet and Marcus that Chad’s feelings on this were not trifling. “And so you want for them to die,” said Marcus as if to verify. Janet was almost in tears herself. “You can’t just wish death on those two men.” “Why not?” Chad found some power from somewhere inside himself to put behind his voice. “If it weren’t for them, none of this would have happened, and I’d be living my life.” “Killing them wouldn’t make you well, Chad,” said the girl. “The shedding of innocent blood is the greatest sin!” “Innocent?” scoffed Chad. “They’re far from innocent.” “I don’t think that you’re the one who should make that judgment,” answered Janet, starting to sound a little self-righteous. For the first time Chad raised his voice to Janet. Speaking venomously his hissed, “I think I’m just the one to make that judgment.” The ruckus caused Mimi to come back from where she was on the edge of sleep. She listened to the conversation with her eyes closed, saying nothing. “Chad, it upsets me to hear you speak as if another person’s life means absolutely nothing to you. Killing is never a solution! Life is too valuable, even the lives of those men whom you blame. They probably have wives and children, parents and other loved ones who love and depend on them – people whose lives would be miserable without them.” Chad was only a little sympathetic. “I know you can relate to that and I’m sorry. But those men are as guilty as sin and as far as I’m concerned their families are guilty by association. I would kill them all if I were able to!” “Chad, please! That’s total madness! I don’t want you to lose your immortal soul,” said Janet. “Tell him, Marcus. Talk him out of this nonsense!” “I can not do that, Janet,” said Marcus. “For one thing, it is not entirely nonsense.” “How can you say that?” exclaimed Janet, and years of past Sunday school lessons began to pour out of her. “Life is too precious to waste even one. Killing is an abomination before God! There must always be some solution other than killing. You’re both just talking like this because you’re men!” “Maybe,” said Marcus calmly, finally getting a word in edgewise. “But I doubt it. The fact that Chad and I may be feeling the effects of more testosterone than you does not change this logic.” “What logic are you talking about? What could rationalize killing?” asked Janet. “Preservation of self and loved ones,” answered the vampire simply. “It is a right, and a duty!” “But there has to be an alternative to ending a life,” Janet persisted. “Most of the time there is,” said Marcus. “But sometimes there is that one person whose own perception of reality differs so much from the rest of society that they can never be educated to overcome their irrationality. They become a threat to other innocent life.” “But you’re talking about criminals, aren’t you?” asked Janet. “Not policemen and judges.” “I would be talking about anyone with an irrational mentality.” “According to whom?” she asked. “According to the laws of the nature,” said Marcus. “Nature’s laws are not a subject to relativity.” Janet asked, “How could a policeman and a judge fall into the same group as criminals?” “Very easily,” answered Chad caustically. “Well, we could just confine them,” said Janet. “We wouldn’t have to kill them.” “Perhaps,” said Marcus. “Let’s see how committed to the idea you really are. What fate would you wish for a rapist and murderer?” “Life imprisonment with no parole,” Janet answered matter-of-factly. “That is pretty harsh if the subject ever successfully completed rehabilitation,” said the vampire. “Which is doubtful, but still possible.” Then he asked slowly, “Now, what if he had attacked Mimi?” As Janet pondered that question a cold chill ran down Mimi’s spine. It opened a crypt in her mind – a recent memory that she had written off as a nightmare and quickly buried. Only now the memory materialized like a ghost in the front of her mind quite real, quite vivid, and hauntingly familiar. What had happened that night with Rodney? It had been very dark in that alley. She had been way too high. The thought of that wind and the force of Rodney’s body being jerked away from her started another slow moving, nearly paralyzing chill that crawled along Mimi’s scalp, down her back, and slowly to the tips of her four limbs. ‘Find me a victim’ he had said at the club earlier that night. Marcus had spoken it innocently and in jest, but it suddenly struck Mimi that that could have been the same voice that had forcefully told her without jest that horrible night to get away. What had gotten Rodney? Marcus’s question had also stopped Janet momentarily. She finally admitted that that would make things different. “But that’s not the case with Chad and the cop and the judge,” she said. “I just don’t care,” Chad was saying. He was glad that someone was finally taking his side. “So what is ‘the case’, as you say, with Chad and the cop and the judge?” asked Marcus. “Well, it is really the fault of whoever put the syringe there in the first place,” said Janet. “The cop and the judge were just doing their jobs.” “OK,” nodded Marcus. “That’s true. But what if I could show you that their jobs as public officials are not really necessary and are quite possibly damaging to society? Would they still be, in your eyes, guiltless for setting in motion the causes that brought about the result of Chad contracting HIV?” “I don’t understand,” said Janet. “You will, my dear,” said the vampire. Mimi had started trembling during this last bit of conversation between Janet and Marcus. She was feeling a fundamental fear for her life that wasn’t based on any rational analysis of the perceived facts. It was fear of that horrible power that could strike with seeming indiscrimination at any unsuspecting target. The power had brushed by her before – taken Rodney – but as far as she knew it might just as well have chosen her. Riding along in the car, Mimi suddenly felt out of control and at the mercy of that awful power. But then, it had saved her from Rodney, hadn’t it? Janet noticed the trembling of the busty amazon and asked, “Mimi? Are you OK?” “Oh my God,” she said, her voice sounding like a little girl’s. She didn’t really want to know, but she felt curiously drawn to ask the question as she was not herself in control. “It was you in the alley that night, wasn’t it?” Marcus said nothing. Quiet panic swept over Mimi. Without thinking she fingered the latch of the rear door. Of course, it was locked. She could have unlocked it, but that was silliness as the vehicle was still speeding down the highway. She felt trapped! “Oh my God!” she whispered hoarsely. Noticing the big girl’s state of unease, Janet put calming hands on Mimi. “What’s the matter, baby?” asked the nurse. “What are you going to do to me?” Mimi directed her question at the dark form that she saw sitting in front of her, driving the speeding SUV. Her voice was flat, resigned. “Mimi! What are you talking about?” asked Janet, now trying to remain calm herself. It was getting ready to come out – all of it. Janet was as ready as she could be. Mimi’s panic would pass once she realized that her life wasn’t in danger. And Chad’s surreal existence could easily assimilate this bit of truth. Marcus used his ability to secrete some calming pheromones. It would help a little to counteract the smell of fear that permeated the inside of the SUV. In his most soothing voice Marcus said, “Mimi, darling, get a hold of yourself. You are not in danger.” The busty girl gulped down some breaths and did her best to put a lid on her internal bubbling panic. “Just tell me one thing, Marcus,” she managed weakly. “That was you! Yes?” Marcus replied slowly. If this wasn’t well received, he would have to take all three of them. Not a problem initially; there were no other cars on the road just now. He would stop the SUV quickly and incapacitate Mimi and Chad, then feed on Janet with deepest apologies. He would feed on the others as well and try not to kill any of them at first, at least. He hated the idea of keeping them prisoners, but this was survival. Even without the will he was still compelled to live. “Yes,” he said. Janet repeated, “What are you talking about?” Calming only a little, Mimi began babbling shakily, “The night that they – that they found me, and brought me to the hospital? I – I had been running! Something had got Rodney and it told me to run….. and it was Marcus!” Now Janet was getting very scared, not so much for Mimi’s story but for her incoherence. “Mimi,” she said. “Slow down. I don’t understand.” Chad had no idea of what was going on; to him it was like turning on a movie half way through. His attention and curiosity was piqued! Again with his most soothing voice, Marcus said, “Mimi, calm down. Relax. You are safe. Take a deep breath. Slow down, and tell your experience as you remember it.” Mimi wanted badly to believe that she was safe. Her frazzled logic circuits tried to put the puzzle picture together in her head. She started with the memory of that night, going back to a point before the terror – someplace safe. More composed now, she began again, her voice almost trance-like, “I had just finished dancing at the club. I was going with Tina to a party at the Bismarck when Rodney startled me. I wanted him to give me some coke, so I sent Tina on ahead and we went back into this dark alley, but he just wanted to fuck me or something and he held me with a knife. Then something lifted him up onto a fire escape and I couldn’t see what happened to him, but this terrible voice yelled ‘get away’, so I ran and ran until I don’t remember. The next thing I knew I was in the hospital bed with you, and I thought that the whole thing had been a bad trip. But it was Marcus.” “Who is Rodney?” asked Janet. “I used to score coke from him,” said Mimi, still in her trance. “Rodney was going to rape and kill you that night,” Marcus put in to clarify. “I know,” said Mimi, but even as she said it, the realization of it popped her out of her trance, and it struck her, “You saved me!” “Yes,” said the vampire. Mimi was dizzy with relief. What ever power Marcus had used against Rodney, she needed not fear it. It hadn’t been such a random act after all. It hadn’t been after her. Janet was also trying to put the puzzle together. “You two knew each other before?” “Not exactly,” said Marcus. “I had seen Mimi dance. She did not know me.” Curiosity quickly brought Mimi back to her full composure. “How did you do that? What did you do to Rodney? You never told us how you did that trick with your hands. You’ve been kind of dodgy about who you are and what you do. I think it’s time you came clean to us, Marcus.” Marcus tenderly addressed Janet specifically as he said, “My dear, you must first understand that I killed Rodney. I know that probably seems unthinkable to you, as you have probably never listened to such a confession. Please, do not fear me. Do any of you question exactly why I did it?” The interior of the SUV was as silent as death. “Does anyone blame me or believe that I should have spared him?” Janet said, “I don’t think anyone blames you, but how are we not supposed to fear you?” “Well said,” declared the vampire. “That is the price that I must pay.” Chad joined back in finally, “Have you killed anyone else?” This was it. “I hate killing,” said Marcus tiredly. “But I have to – I am a vampire.” The muted noises of rushing wind against the SUV and thickly treaded tires on asphalt were the only sounds to be heard for a long moment. The girls, having already witnessed the strange, unexplained feats of the vampire, believed him. A surreal, numb fear paralyzed them, but their minds both considered this new fact with surprising rationality. Chad suddenly broke the silence with a laugh. “That’s funny. That’s hilarious! You must be crazy! You must be one of those depressed little internet kids with a screen name like ‘Knight Shadow’ who likes to fantasize about being a vampire because they’re a loser and they never got over their teen angst and they like to suck blood for cheap thrills and a chance to vomit. This whole thing is a dark joke. We’re all merrily riding along to a secluded cabin in the woods with a psycho! It’s like a lame B- movie plot.” Marcus grabbed the hand of still laughing youth and held it firmly. “Hey!” exclaimed Chad, but his belligerence was cut short as he watched Marcus’s open-mouthed smile. The sharp canine teeth of the beautiful young man were extending, growing to a hideous length. For a second, Chad had the absurd thought that it was a ‘Hollywood’ special effect, but the pain of those fangs entering his wrist sent that thought fleeing. Marcus was careful. First, he only sucked for a second on the sick young man; Chad would need his strength after all. Second, he secreted into his victim only a few pain blockers and endorphins. The vampire did not wish for Chad to enjoy it too much. For Chad the pain was nominal. Spending the last year under hospital care had already heightened his tolerance for pain and discomfort. He had had plenty of poking, prodding and cutting. But the sudden flow of life being drawn out of the puncture wounds in his wrist by this being that was most assuredly a vampire seemed to put a different spin on the idea of death. It had always seemed to Chad that Death was some hateful shadow that lurked over him, waiting for a moment of weakness to take him. Suddenly the shadow and mystery was gone. Death was this beautiful and charming young man, and he wasn’t hateful or waiting for a moment of weakness at all. Death seemed simply to be waiting for Chad to get ready. Death wasn’t such a bad guy after all. Marcus pulled a cloth handkerchief from nowhere and quickly clamped it down on Chad’s wrist upon removing it from his mouth. Wordlessly he indicated to Janet that she should hold it there for the sick young victim. Seeing that he had the grotesque attention of everyone Marcus spoke. With a storyteller’s flourish, he began at the beginning.

PART II

NIGHT I

I do not know exactly when I was born. Since 1498 I have lived as a vampire. I think I had lived before then for about eighteen years. My father was Vincenzo Lancetta, and his wife, my mother, was named Galora, but I only learned of them later in life, after I had become a vampire. They never had any knowledge of me or my fate, because I was not raised by my biological parents. Actually, I was not really raised at all. At some young age, earlier than I can remember, I had apparently come to be ‘owned’ by a band of gypsies. The gypsies had always maintained to me that I had come to be without parents. In those days there were many bands of nomadic gypsies that traveled through Italy and surrounding areas. Some of these bands of gypsies, called comprachicos, indulged in a fairly horrific art-form, using children. They would start by taking a child, extremely young, and working them as a slave. The spirit and emerging will of the child had to completely broken. My earliest memories are of collecting firewood, picking fruit, weaving, and other chores around the camp, with very little rest. The comprachicos also had me stealing for them at every opportunity. I was a perfectly mindless slave. I performed without question. That was my life at my earliest recollection. You must understand right now at the beginning that something about vampirism has given me nearly perfect recall of all of my life’s experiences. Every memory can be re-played in perfect reality in my mind’s eye. There is much that I would choose to forget if I could, but the best I can do is to not think about it; to not focus on the pain. I would like to think that I have learned what I need to learn from all of my painful experiences. Still, re-living them is vastly unpleasant. That is one of the reasons why I rarely share memories of my life with anyone. I think that I was about eight years of age when the comprachicos placed me inside of a large grotesque vase. It was bent with twisted appendages meant for my arms and legs. There was a slat on the bottom to accommodate my bodily elimination functions, and of course, a hole for my head. I couldn’t move inside of the vase, and for the next ten years I just sat there in that vase while other young slaves of the comprachicos fed me incessantly. There were also many other vase children in various stages of development. And that was the art of the comprachicos; one of their forms of art anyway. The idea was for the vase children to grow into the shape of their vase. We were fed extremely fattening foods, and in that way our most physically formative years were spent. At nineteen or twenty years of age, a vase child would be broken out of his or her vase, now a wonderful freak. The comprachicos would put their works of art on display at ghastly circuses, and they could fetch large prices from the eccentric elite who desired to own one of their abominable ‘works of art.’ To say that growing into a vase was uncomfortable would be a gross understatement. I was forced to sleep in that upright position. The growing pains would have been unbearable, but I was given opium. My spine bent and folded to fit. My hips and legs followed the twisted contours that had been fashioned into the vase. I was frequently beaten by the gypsies and I eventually lost most of my teeth. They wished to mar my face; that was part of the ‘art.’ But they would never risk injuring me to the point that my value was compromised. They were very careful and shrewd and they knew precisely how to create the ghastliest freaks that fetched top dollar. Quite often we would be loaded into a wagon as the band of gypsies would travel to some new place to make camp. I saw a lot of northern Italy while trapped in the vase. I saw it, but I was unable to experience it, so I learned very little of life outside of the camp. I viewed myself as sub-human, believing without question what I had been told by the gypsies about my existing without the benefit of parents, and for that matter everything else that they ever said to hurt me and damage my self-image. So pathetic I was that I felt special if they took the time to talk to me at all, despite the fact that they were never anything but abusive. They called me Spignuglini. It was not until many years later that I adopted the name Marcus. As it happened, I was often placed next to another vase child – a most beautiful girl named Maria. For eight years we sat near to each other enduring all of the conditions of life as vase children. From the beginning we were together, so to speak. She became my life companion, and I loved her deeply! During terrible times she was my strength, and I hers. We knew nothing of physical love; in our vases we weren’t able to experiment even a little bit with such things. So our love grew, not being complicated by the confusion of physical affection. I lived through those ten hard years only because of her love. We talked, and we got to know each in ways that few people ever get the chance to. Keep in mind that neither one of us was very experienced or even knowledgeable. In many ways we were both retarded, if I can use such a word literally. We were but babes, even in our teens! But together we explored both our natures, unfettered by the biases that experience and knowledge can sometimes create to cover and corrupt a personality. At some point, we became aware of a startling fact. Our captors, the core leaders of this band of gypsies were all vampires. I think there were maybe nine of them all together, but in that ten year time span their number both increased and decreased. The leader was an especially sadistic and destructive vampire that they called Tarino. Years later I realized that they were all relatively young vampires. I believe Tarino was the only one of the group that was older than one hundred years. I was in the habit of watching and listening to everything that went on around me, and Tarino and his vampires did not attempt to hide from us the fact that they were vampires. I watched and learned how vampires lived. I saw the way they behaved and discerned the way they thought. I had never been subjected to the scary bed-time stories of monsters and demons and any of that what-not that children are so often exposed to. From my earliest recollection I was living a scary bed-time story. For me to see that there were ‘people’ that came out only at night, and sucked the blood of others was nightmare-ish certainly, but I soon accepted it as a natural part of life. I did not know why at the time, but for some reason they never fed upon me. Oh, they often threatened me with it, but it held only a little more menace than you might find in threatening a child with a spanking. Still I wasn’t about to test them. I could see the way that the other ‘non-vampire’ gypsies of the group feared and respected them. And anyway, I did not have any way to act up or misbehave; I was quite contained in my vase. At first I had no idea or concept of the life-span of vampires. I didn’t understand that they could not just die – at least, not of old age. I just thought that they were very mean people that hated the day, loved the night, and killed a lot! So I didn’t understand why there would be other, non-vampire people willing to endanger their life by traveling with vampires. It seemed that the vampires killed without discrimination. Their ‘slaves’ would help in ‘harvesting’ victims, abducting both children and young adults alike, the latter usually used as victims for the vampires, and the former often groomed to become vase art. All this I watched from inside my own vase, as my body grew abnormally, defectively, in order to fit into the cramped confines of my hideous vase. I was too young, and too uneducated so to speak, to know how to feel about what I witnessed. Any empathy that I felt for any of it, I felt through Maria. Where I did feel sympathetic, great emotion and passion in the form of anger and rage to be precise, was whenever they hurt Maria. I was careful to hide my emotion as best I could, for I felt certain that they would separate us if they learned of our strong feelings for each other. Maria saw no ugliness. Well, I mean she saw it; of course, she saw it. And she was not in denial about it. But she preferred to focus on the beautiful. She had no more education or experience in the world than I had, but it was just in her to see the lovely. I’m not really prone to sentimentality, except, perhaps, when it comes to the sun, and, to my Maria. My only real memories of enjoying the light of day are with Maria. Perhaps it is good that I can’t view another sunrise, for I think I should prefer to keep pure that cherished memory of us together, watching the dawn sky lighten, and the glorious brilliance of the virgin day intensifying from the horizon. “Someday,” I had whispered in Latin just loud enough for her to hear, “I will be strong enough to break out of this vase on my own, and I will break you out of yours, and we shall escape together from these people.” “Ah, Mia Luce Bella” as she called me, which means My Lovely Light. “You are my hero, whatever.” But we had seen other vase children broken out of their vases when their time had come. It was not a pretty sight. Usually, the newly created, deformed, dwarfen ‘freak’ had not the strength to walk. And the smell – God!! And even as they learned to stand upright and walk again, they were never fast, as their legs had often been twisted quite effectively by the grotesque mold that had been made to form them. And they would be carrying on those twisted legs a squat, hunched form that was grossly obese! So I was not sure how I would ever be able to do as I had promised. Though I wanted to so badly. The years in that vase dragged on slower than all of my centuries as a vampire. After nearly ten years, I knew that my time to be broken out of the vase was coming soon. My arms had grown into the bent protuberances through which they were stuck and my elbows just emerged allowing me limited use. My legs also protruded from their twisted adjutages just above the knees. Inside my vase I stood maybe four feet tall, and though I couldn’t see my body I knew that I was undoubtedly fat, filling in all of the warped contours. The vase felt like my shell, and I could feel the slight pressure of my body against the inside of that shell. Curious… that it never occurred to me to feel self-conscious. I spent at least a season trying to strengthen my legs and stand on them whenever no one was looking, and eventually I was able to just move under my own power. The first thing I did was close the distance between Maria and myself, and touch her face. It was the first time we had ever touched. My first idea was to try to smash my vase into Maria’s, hoping to break both of them with the impact. But we were both scared to try. It was sure to make a loud noise, and everyone in the camp would come running. There would trouble then, no matter if I was successful in breaking out of the vase or not. We both stewed on it for weeks, and eventually an idea that had been in the back of my mind crept like a criminal into my conscious. The vampires had strength – a lot of strength. Even the female vampires seemed to be stronger than a regular man. I knew nothing of the blood-lust; Maria and I both thought simply that they liked the taste of it. I had seen enough vampires created that I had an idea of how it was done. It seemed that if you drank the blood of a vampire, then you would become a vampire. And so my idea was to drink the poisoned blood of a vampire. It would hopefully make me strong enough to break free of my vase and safely escape with Maria. I would never drink the blood of anyone else though. And I would never kill anyone. It did not occur to me that such an act might forever ban me from the light of day. Obviously, I had no idea of the true consequences of drinking the blood of a vampire. Understand that we had never been exposed to any traditional vampire folklore, religion, or virtually anything of the ‘real’ world. Of course, we did know that the light of the dawn would destroy a vampire. We had witnessed several executions from our vases. Watching a vampire die in the sun was an extremely horrible event to behold. I do not know what a vampire would have to do to warrant such a decree of death from Tarino, but I know that it was an easy thing to incur his wrath. The condemned vampire would be stripped and shackled by his wrists and ankles. Thick, heavy chains would connect each of the shackles tightly to four evenly spaced steel rods that had been driven deep into the ground in an open clearing in the forest. Bare in mind that it would require at least eight other vampires or strong men to restrain the struggling vampire. This would all be done shortly before dawn, and the other vampires would, of course, take their cover for the day. The doomed vampire would then wait, splayed, for the first rays of the sun. There would be the most violent struggling you could possibly imagine. Once I saw a vampire free his wrists by ripping his own hands off. He was in the process of chewing his feet off when the first light of day streamed over the hill. The sun burned the writhing and screaming vampire layer by layer into nothing! But it seemed to me that ceasing to be a vampire would be as simple as not drinking people’s blood anymore. I knew that if I should be successful in drinking a vampire’s blood, I would do it only to acquire the strength to free myself and Maria. Staying a vampire was utterly unappealing to me. Truthfully, I should have been quite safe from myself with such an idea. Vampires are generally not stupid, and it would be quite difficult for anyone to drink any blood from any vampire without the vampire’s volition. Even still, the opportunity presented itself. One quiet fall evening, dusk, as the glow on the western horizon was waning, a female vampire came to attend to me. Viviana was darkly beautiful, and Tarino had only recently ‘turned’ her. She was also a recent addition to the camp, and not real familiar with the general routine. Her task this night was to shave my head; all our heads were kept shaved to prevent lice and ticks. Normally the chore was reserved for one of the adult slaves of the camp, but for some reason Viviana was performing it this night. At that time there were maybe a dozen or so vase children of various ages in the group. I was the oldest. I was most certainly going to be extracted from my vase soon. Tarino would put me on display for some time, eventually sell me; the band of nomadic comprachicos would travel on; I knew that I might come to find myself unable to be with Maria. If I was to be a free man I was going to have to free myself, and it seemed better to make the attempt while the measures taken to imprison me remained un- escalated; such was my logic. We had been set on the edge of the gypsy camp which was deep in a thick, lush forest. Two wagons separated the little clearing where we sat from the rest of the camp. No one need see me do the deed. Viviana scraped the sharp edge of the blade painfully across my scalp without the benefit of oil or water. As she did so, she steadied my head with a firm hand under my chin. And it was then that I executed the irrevocable, fateful act that absolutely changed the course of my future utterly. As Viviana ended a swipe with the blade, I ducked my head and bit fiercely into the fleshy part of her hand between her thumb and forefinger with all of the teeth that I had left in my head. She ripped her hand away cursing, leaving an innocuous little chunk of it in my mouth. The blade went high as she prepared to slash. Her malevolent eyes shone like burning coal, and she was probably about to end my existence right there. Maria came to my rescue with one word: “Tarino.” That stopped Viviana. She knew that the fearsome leader would not be happy if his wonderful and valuable work of art was damaged or destroyed. Viviana also wisely thought it prudent to hide her insignificant injury from her lord and lover. The incident might upset him, and she did not wish to invite his wrath. For a moment she looked around, not sure if Maria might have said it because he was actually approaching, but he was not there. Her anger with me did not subside, however. Viviana’s eyes narrowed to slits as she looked down at me. “Spignuglini!” she hissed. “Lei sono la mosca che mangia il mio merdi!” which is to say, “You are the fly that eats my shit!” Then she spun and walked away. I remember wondering dully if she would ever come back and finish shaving my head. The taste of her flesh in my mouth was simply like that of raw meat. I had no taboos about eating the flesh of a person. I swallowed without chewing, doubting that my silly idea would even work. But something did work! That night I slept – deeper than I ever had, and I found myself awake for the dawn. To say that I felt strange would be grossly understated. My beloved Maria was also stirring and so we watched the sunrise together. She said, “Is it not the most beautiful thing, Lucio?” And I answered, “Yes, it is. I wish that I could stare into it.” Maria said to me then, “Lucio, il mio amore, guarda fisso alla vita.” “Lucio, my love, stare at life!” All through that day even as I was awake, I felt weary, sluggish, deeply drowsy. I remember vaguely feeling new pressures against the inside of the vase. Through the course of the morning I began to feel a strange irritation. Even in my drowsiness I felt very restless. I had a strange hunger, but for what I did not know. Later the truth of that hunger was to be a tremendous shock to me. My mouth tingled and twitched and I found myself clenching my jaws and grinding my remaining teeth. My mental acuity sharpened and every memory of my life, painful and forgotten, paraded before me vividly in a seeming hallucination. The day slipped on as if it were a dream. It was to be the last day I would ever know. Maria was the only other vase child in the group that had seen what I had done and knew what I was about. She was worried for me, but not nearly as scared as she should have been. We simply did not know….. I scarcely remember that next evening. As the day had worn on I had become increasingly mad somehow. Mad from the discomfort, mad from the peculiar hunger. I remember Viviana coming back at dusk to finish my shave, at least I think she was there to finish. She may have had another purpose, as she brandished the blade with a look of malice. As she approached I was overcome with an extraordinary rush of wild strength. In a convulsion that served largely to alleviate much of my discomfort, my arms broke off from the vase the twisted appendages through which they had grown. Before she had a chance to react, I had grabbed her, holding her somewhat awkwardly by her upper arms. The blade lashed out as best as she could manage, but it only scratched harmlessly against the vase. In another paroxysm I lifted my shoulders inside the vase and stretched. I remember hearing a slight cracking sound, and then a sort of a snap, then shards of kiln baked clay fell away from my neck and shoulders and clattered softly to the ground. God! It felt so good to stretch! Viviana’s eyes shined with irrational fear, and in her own defensive convulsion she managed to free herself and raise the blade! Before she could bring it down to slash, however, I struck the side of her head with the twisted tube that had once held my left arm, but that had now slipped down to my diminished forearm. The blow stunned her enough for me take hold of her again, this time by her head. Vaguely, I remember violently twisting her head to the side while gracelessly pulling her to me. And what I did next seemed simultaneously so natural and so extremely foreign to me, yet I swear the act was completely involuntary. Using my last remaining teeth, mostly molars, I bit deeply, ferociously into her neck, grinding through flesh and tendon! This time her flesh tasted sweet! Satisfying! Waves of pleasure rippled through every part of me, rewarding my tortured body. And I wasn’t even yet sucking!! I knew that I was completely mad. I was rigid with the feelings of pleasure from having just tasted the blood of this woman. Amazingly, Viviana was still alive, but limp, and I let her fall from my grasp to the ground. She made no scream, no cry, no sound. Then the funniest thing happened as she lay on the ground. I saw the blood issuing forth from the gigantic wound in her neck, and somehow I knew that I was not to allow that blood to simply soak into the ground. I had to have it for myself! Yes!! I had to drink it! Still quite clumsy, I frantically tried climbing out of the remains of the vase. In my haste it tipped over and somehow in the course of getting my large bulk out of it, it broke again into large pieces. I did not even pause to enjoy my freedom, or to take notice of the stench or the fact that I was naked. I pounced on the motionless she-vampire and began to suck all of the remaining blood out of her through the gaping hole in her neck. As I drank, the clouds in my mind cleared. All began to make a sort of sick and dark sense. The blood was delicious, not because of any effect that it had on my tongue, but more of the effect that it had on my body. I felt my strength growing, but it was more than mere brute strength. It was a strength over which I had precise control. Maria looked down at me horrified. Surprisingly, the whole affair had not issued loud reports that anyone else in the camp had heard. No one came running, at least not right away. The rest of the vase children made no sound. They looked on the scene like Maria, with varying degrees of horror and vindication. More blood! I was filled with the strange notion that I should try to get as much blood out of the now lifeless Viviana as I could. In the course of my sucking and chewing and grinding, her head had become detached. I now shook it over one of the larger basin shaped shards of the vase. I squeezed as if trying to harvest the juice from the inside of a melon and continued squeezing even after the skull had cracked and popped. Satisfied that I had gotten all of the fluids out of the head that could be gotten, I turned to the body. Positioning the bowl-shaped piece of vase under the body’s neck stump, I proceeded to squeeze the body – to try to wring it out like a giant bundle of damp laundry. It was about then that Ennio, an old gypsy man-servant, happened upon the scene. He was an old, faithful servant to Tarino, hoping that the vampire would someday turn him, though at the time I did not know why he should wish for such a thing. To be honest, I do not see why any rational person would want to pay the enormous perpetual price necessary to be a vampire. The old man’s night-vision was poor, and he carried a torch. I can imagine that seeing me out of my vase and engaged in such an activity was quite startling for the old man. He froze and a gasp escaped him. He must have not had any ideas for a quick and effective reaction. His hesitation was my advantage. With a speed that must have belied my squat frame and obesity, I was upon the shrinking man. “Ciao, Ennio,” I said calmly and I bit into his neck just the same as I had Viviana’s. Ennio was used being fed upon by the vampires, so I suppose that that is why he was slow to react. By the time it dawned on him that he shouldn’t be the meal of one the vase children it was too late for him. As his body began to weaken and relax, I reached up without looking and carefully took the torch from his weak grasp to prevent it from dropping. And so it was that I enjoyed my second meal as a vampire. Still no alarms. I was yet undiscovered. With Ennio drained to death, I put the torch into the immobile hand of the silent, horrified Maria and turned back to my little dish of drippings from the first corpse. Tipping the broken chunk of vase back I drank the dark concoction of blood and bodily fluids and was rather surprised to find that it not only tasted terrible but was also quite unsatisfying! It was my first lesson as a vampire. For best results, the blood or flesh had to be fresh – still alive! A third passerby happened upon the scene. This time it was a vampire called Seppio. “Spignuglini!” he shouted. “What are you doing out of your vase?” Seppio looked about and saw the two corpses, but his cognitive reasoning could not put the puzzle together quickly enough. He advanced on me slowly, unaware of my newly acquired speed and strength. “Spignuglini! Tarino is going to cut off your skin in strips and make you eat it! You are a bad little Spignuglini!” Seppio said. One of the shards of the vase was rather long and pointed on one end. It had also broken off with a sharp edge. Again, with speed and agility not fitting my appearance, I grabbed it from the ground and stabbed it into the advancing Seppio. It ran completely through his abdomen, its bloody tip sticking out his back. Stunned, Seppio stepped back, a look of shock stamped on his face. The surprised look was quickly replaced, however, with rage, and he came at me again! I grabbed the torch back from Maria and swung it at Seppio, catching the injured vampire on the side of the head. It was enough to ignite his hair and then his clothes, and within seconds, he was a screaming inferno. The rest of the camp came to life now. A confused panic set in, and there suddenly came shouts and screams from everywhere. I glanced past the wagons that served to partition the vase children off from the rest of the camp, and saw Tarino emerging hurriedly from his wagon. I would need to keep him occupied if I had any hope of escaping, so I ran some of the distance toward his wagon, and when I felt close enough, hurled the torch at it. Thankfully, it caught fire and the already excited gypsy camp went into a frenzy. I ran back to Maria, who in the confusion had been calling out “Lucio! Lucio!” It was her name for me because she felt that I was her Bringer of Light. I grabbed her vase by the ‘arms’ and pulled her into the dark forest. I had managed to drag her vase for only a few hundred yards before I stopped, temporarily spent. We listened quietly for any sounds that we might have been chased, but all we could hear were the distant yells coming from the camp. Using a large rock, I carefully freed Maria from her vase. She cried from the relief of the discomfort, but like me, she was permanently damaged, deformed, her spine bent and hunched, her frame squat, her form grossly obese. And both of us were stark naked. It was the first time that I had ever seen her outside of her vase, and if the situation had been different I might have paused with her right there to experiment with and experience my beautiful Maria. But we needed to get out of danger, and besides, we would have time for all of that later, after we were safe and sound. As was expected, she could barely walk even with assistance from me, but we had to get further away from the gypsy camp, and so we moved, slowly, deeper into the forest. I felt simultaneously overjoyed and filled with regret. The situation felt most dreamlike. As we walked, Maria spoke fearfully, “Lucio, what happened to you?” “I do not know exactly,” I said, “But you do not have anything to fear from me. I love you.” “Lucio, I fear that you are a vampire.” “We are free now, I do not have to be a vampire.” “But you drank blood, Lucio. I saw you drink it. You were mad with passion. And you killed Viviana and Ennio, and Seppio too, likely.” I was silent for a bit. She was right, as usual. Maria was quite often right. I had drunk the blood, and I had enjoyed it! Enjoyed it, nothing!! I had relished it, savored it – not just drinking the blood, but the act of killing as well. I had made war! I had destroyed life and been enraptured by the act! If I had known anything about psychology or human behavior at the time I might have realized that I was simply feeling the effects of the power and the strength going to my head, but at the time I knew nothing. Confusion set in. “I do not know what to do,” I said. “It’s OK, Lucio,” she said, looking into me with her beautiful eyes. “Their deaths were necessary for our escape; I believe that. But you must not take such pleasure in ending their lives.” She was right.

NIGHT II

All night long we walked, and ended up covering only short distance from the camp. I felt deathly tired. We both knew that I would need shelter from the dawn, and together we combined our observations of the measures that the vampires had taken to protect themselves from the sun. Tarino had had a large wagon that he had stayed in during the day – the one that I had set on fire. A few of the other vampires also stayed with him, though it was known that the wagon was his. Neither one of us had ever seen the inside of it, however. The other vampires had all just seemed to disappear during the day somehow. There were a few other smaller wagons in the gypsy camp that may have served to shelter the other vampires – we could not be sure. So exactly how much shelter from the sun did I require? We were to soon find out. A glow was forming on the eastern horizon, and I remember feeling rather anxious. As fortune would have it, we came across a small farm. At the time we knew very little about the way that people lived outside of the gypsy camp. Here was a real house! And a shelter for animals – goats and chickens, and a burrow. Several plots of land around the farm were heavily grown with neat rows of various plants; tomatoes and wheat. We circled the edge of the farm and found a wooden trap, a hatch, in the ground. It covered a large hole in which potatoes had been stored for the coming winter. Thankfully, it had been excavated rather deeply. There was easily room for both of us down inside that recess, even with all of the potatoes. Once inside and settled, snuggling closely together for warmth and comfort, I fell once again into a deep sleep. Maria was able to stay warm next to me as I was quite feverish, something that always happens when a vampire is regenerating. And I was regenerating. By the time that I woke up from my coma that next evening, I was significantly transformed! I was no longer hunched and shortened by a curved spine. My arms and legs had grown straight and strong. Even my teeth were coming back in! I was mostly restored. I say mostly because of a rather startling thing that had occurred shortly after sunrise. As I lay deep in an unawake-able sleep, a thin beam of sunlight had leaked in through a crack in the wooden hatch that covered the potato pit. As the sun rose and started its journey across the morning sky, that beam also traveled along until it finally must have come in contact with my right foot. I did awake then, screaming, to an other-worldly pain and saw that half of my foot had disintegrated! Scrambling, I cowered to get away from that tiny innocuous little shaft of sunlight to only slightly deeper and darker recesses of the pit. And that was my first experience with sunlight as a vampire. It was not to be my last. The accelerated rate of this healing did not seem out of the ordinary to me for some reason, but Maria was quite astounded even with her lack of experience. Noticing that she was, of course, unchanged, we both knew the reason for my amazing restoration. By nightfall, even my foot had begun to grow back! It was also during that first day that the nightmares started. And I have had ever-worsening nightmares every single day since then. In my first nightmare, I was pursued by Viviana and Ennio. They killed me slowly and painfully – repeatedly, while a strange and beautiful blue-skinned being watched. The vividness of the nightmare alone seemed enough to drive me to madness. But that night as I arose, my head pounded with a strange pain, a passion, a hunger that I knew was the blood-lust. My uneducated, un-mature, uncontrolled little mind could think of nothing but drinking hot blood! I would not, however, allow myself to desire the sweet life-blood that pulsed through Maria’s veins. Maria had fed herself on potatoes throughout the day. I remember now, as I awoke, that she was expressing something about continuing on, perhaps finding something to cover our nakedness. “Maria!” I said to her helplessly. “I have that terrible hunger!” She looked simultaneously terrified and deeply saddened, if that is possible. “Lucio, what are we to do?” And I did not know. For a time I was caught up in a tremendous feeling of fragility, vulnerability, smallness. We were two tiny children lost in an enormous world. Amazingly enough, it was Maria that broke free of her own helplessness first. “I love you, my bringer of light. Let us climb out of this pit, and go out into this big world. Together we will survive.” I felt encouraged. Being in love, I felt determined to provide for my beloved Maria. But before we were able to go and enter the wide and wondrous world, we were to have a rather relationship shaping experience. Just as we were about to crawl out of the pit, we heard the light footstep of a small person approaching. We froze as the wooden hatch opened and the glow of an oil lamp illuminated a young boy as he dropped into the shallow entrance of the pit. He held a basket in one hand and the lamp in the other. He was about to fill the basket with potatoes, but he caught sight of us in the dim light of the lamp and dropped both. As I remember him, the boy was a handsome young Italian lad in his early teens. His aghast gaze was on my beautiful Maria. If he feared me I do not know, but he seemed absolutely horrified by the gross, defective, naked form of Maria. At the time, I did not understand why the boy should be so horror-struck. If anything, I felt that he should have feared me. The boy stood for a moment paralyzed with fear, staring with revulsion at Maria. She tried to make a friendly gesture, started to say a soft and beautiful “hello.” The boy bolted, scrambling out of the hole and running away, yelling an alarm. Maria grabbed at my arm as I moved to go after him. “Lucio!” “He’ll expose us!” I hissed, but I had no idea what I would do with the boy if I might catch him. And slipping from Maria’s soft grasp, I tore out of the pit after the boy. He was very fast, and I suppose that it was fortunate that I should have caught up with him at all remembering that the toes of my right foot were momentarily missing. He had gotten to the edge of the field before I caught him. He yelled loudly, and we were easily within earshot of the cottage. I clamped a hand over the boy’s mouth to silence him. “Hush,” I said, none too calmly. “I mean you no harm!” But even as I said it I became aware of two powerful sensations. The first was a particular smell emanating from the boy. I would later come to recognize it as the actual smell of fear. The other was my own sensation of overwhelming hunger – hunger for the blood-life of this boy. God! How I desired him! And I knew that his blood was mine for the taking….. except for one thing – Maria. I knew that she would never condone it. It was this sane thought alone that prevented me from biting into the neck of the trembling boy. And then I was wracked with the terrible question – why did I so strongly desire blood? In planning my escape from Tarino, I had mistakenly thought that drinking blood was a simple conscious choice of vampires. I was slowly coming to realize that vampirism, along with several other extraordinary side-effects, came with the absolute most powerful physical addiction ever known. The term ‘withdrawal’ does not even begin to describe the pain and discomfort that afflicts a vampire trying to abstain. And should said vampire succeed in going a few days without feeding, he or she would only succeed in driving themselves completely mad! And then they would only end up feeding and most likely killing someone anyway. However, for the moment, I was still able to rationally choose to not feed on the boy. I held him firmly, trying vainly to calm him. He was most distressed, and I…. I was completely at a loss. Suddenly from the cottage emerged a large shadow that quickly resolved into a man. He carried a long, broad blade. Behind him scuttled a short, thick Italian woman. I noticed for the first time at that moment in the waning dusk that my vision was much more acute than it had been…… much more! I promptly let go of the boy as the man approached. Guilt must have been etched onto my face. The boy ran past the man and into the arms of the woman. It was the first ‘normal’ family that I had ever seen. The man bellowed, “Who are you?! What are you doing here on my land?! Where are your clothes?!” As I tried to answer (an attempt that came out mostly as stammering), Maria came into view some distance behind me, moving as fast as she could. She called sweetly, breathlessly, “We are very sorry, senor. We will leave without delay.” But the man grunted with revulsion, “Good God in heaven!” The woman took in the sight of Maria waddling up behind me and screamed in horror, “Ay Christo! It is a monster! Michael!” The boy cowered behind her. The man yelled menacingly and brandished his blade. “Demon! Be gone!” I was stunned to realize that even though I was naked, the man wasn’t rebuking me at all. Out of a distinct fear of the unknown, he was defending his family against my beloved Maria. He may have thought that I too was a victim of this squat, distorted, unholy being that had attacked his farm. Without a doubt, the man believed that even if he and his family should survive this horrid night, their farm would be cursed with bad crops for years to come. The hostility also shocked my poor, sweet Maria. Neither one of us had consciously anticipated this kind of a reception from people outside the gypsy camp – from people in the ‘real’ world. Perhaps deep down we knew that there would be problems, and that is why we surely would have preferred to have avoided detection. But for the moment we were both discovered. Maria began to cry tears of her own fear and frustration. She was not a monster or a demon. She had not attacked these people. She wanted only to see the beauty in the world and to love all things. It was becoming clear to her that she had been physically cursed by Tarino and that most people would see her as an object of extreme ugliness, hideousness, a monster. And so she cried. I had heard Maria cry before, and it always had the same powerful effect on me. Along with sympathy for her, her tears always filled me with rage that was directed at whatever I perceived as the source of her grief. I believe that you may now have an idea of what was to inevitably happen, so I think I shall, for this story, forego the gory details. Let me point out, however, that I did stay my rage until the man moved with the blade to a posture of malevolence toward my precious Maria. I took him then, with very little difficulty, right in front of his wife and son. They turned tail and ran as their protector fell. I fed heartily as Maria wept great tears, then I, too, turned and hunted down the mother and the son, feeding on them and killing them as well, and never was I out of earshot of Maria’s sobs. I remember noticing then that my teeth had come back completely, and that my canines had elongated into fangs. Relaxed, they would sit up in my mouth looking quite normal. But with a simple facial-muscular reflex they could extend to about three times their normal length making the act of puncturing skin and flesh much easier. After, I felt my hunger satiated. In fact, I couldn’t even really remember the power of the hunger, and I wondered how I could have been so weak. I felt enormous guilt over ending the existence of the family, but I did not even think to clean their blood off of me before going back to try to comfort my beautiful, distraught Maria. She was still weeping near the engored corpse of the man. Shamefully, I knelt, head bowed, a few paces from where she sat on the grassy ground. “Lucio,” she said after a moment. “Again, you have killed.” Tears began to fill my eyes. “I feared for you, Maria.” “You drank blood,” she continued sobbing, but not accusing. “You delighted in it.” “He was going to do you harm!” I was silent for a moment, and then I said softly, “The hunger is gone, Maria.” “I fear it will return, Lucio.” At that I sobbed uncontrollably. I knew that she was right. “Maria! I am a vampire! I am a killer! I am shamed before you. Maria, for your safety you must leave me!” But even as I said it I wondered where she might go and what she might do for any kind of safe and happy life. And further, the idea of my own life without her seemed like such a dark and dismal abyss that I knew I could never face it! She said the obvious, “I have nowhere to go. I am a monster. I am more banished than a beautiful killer. I should not be!” It was self-pity, yes. But I could think of no sensible argument. Except one. “No, Maria. You love all. Wisdom would never see you as a monster. I love none but you. Wisdom will see me as a monster. It is I who should not be.” “Lucio, we must both die,” she said. “How shall we do it?” But we both knew that no matter how much sense it made that we should both end our existences, neither of us was ready to try to end it on our own, and we knew that we couldn’t kill each other. Whatever pain that our future lives would have in store for us, we both felt that it wouldn’t be as much pain as taking death on face-to-face right there. And for Maria’s life, we were right. I, being doomed to forever be the speaker of the obvious and self-evident, said, “Maria, I could never kill you. I love you! I shall not live without you.” “And I love you, Lucio. I shall always be with you. I need you.” Please, give me pause, as this memory is held close to my heart….. So, I edged closer to her as she said that last phrase; ‘I need you.’ That alone was enough to make my evil existence bearable and necessary. I vowed to forever protect my precious Maria. In a swift movement of passion she was against me, in my arms. Then we fell to the ground and kissed for the first time. I was instantly erect, and Maria was instantly receptive. We had seen others performing the act of sex, and we were aware of the basics. And so we made love then, the blood of the mother and the son smearing on our naked bodies, and the corpse of the father only a few feet away from us. It was as splendid a first time as any two lovers who are truly in love can have. It was tender, passionate, exploratory, and we both spoke words of love and passion throughout the entire time. Surely, you have memories of your own first times that are equally splendid, so I shall not cover the common details. I only felt that I should speak briefly of the uncommon elements of my first time with Maria. She is the love of my life. Afterward, as we lay there in each other’s arms completely satiated, Maria said, “Lucio, if you must kill, make sure that those you kill deserve to die.” “I do not know how to make such a judgment,” I said meekly. “You must learn, my love,” she said. The next day as I slept, there were five hideous corpses hunting me down, executing me. And the mysterious blue watcher. We stayed at the farm for a few days and nights. We probably would have stayed longer except that the hunger eventually crept back into my head. I even tried drinking the blood of some of the farm animals, and it was then that I learned that not only does the blood of animals do nothing to satisfy my hunger, but also tastes terrible. I can live only on the fresh blood of a human. We grabbed as much food as we could carry. I had taken some of the clothes of the farmer, and we managed to alter some of the woman’s clothes to fit Maria. I had also removed the three bodies to the edge of the farm where I hoped that wild animals would scatter the remains. We set the few farm animals free and stole away once again into the night. We would survive one day at a time. And so we did.

NIGHT III

Back then, I found that if we stayed on the move, much like the gypsies, the two of us could stay relatively anonymous. I found that I did not always have to kill to feed. I learned to bleed my victims only enough to satisfy my hunger. Without communications technology, I was little more than a rumor that traveled around the land of sixteenth century northern Italy. I would often steal the money that I found on my victims, and in that way, I was able to provide for my beloved Maria. I never fed on Maria. God, but I loved her! She was purity in a strange world, paired with me – ultimate evil. She loved me and never condemned me for my odd addiction. We both knew that I could have restored her health and normal form by turning her into a vampire, but my precious, pure Maria was never to kill. That price was too high for her. So she lived all of her years with her deformity. In those early years with Maria I pushed myself to the harsh limits with my hunger. The hunger would drive me purely mad; completely insane. I later heard it referred to as the gray madness, because it could strip a vampire of conscious thought and will. To this day I still deal with gray madness. I will feed regardless. I can either do it rationally and choose my victim, or I can wait, let the gray madness cloak my mind, and endanger myself and those that I might happen to care for. How it was that I was able to avoid feeding on my beloved Maria I do not know. She was a wonderful mate. She would keep me safe during the day as I slept, and I would protect her in the night. In the beginning there were times when I would dig a shallow ‘grave’ in the early morning, and Maria, god love her, would ‘bury’ me – cover me with the earth. Then she would ‘pray’ over the grave all day until I arose. We made love often back then. We were deeply in love, and though we were never married, we wanted to have children. We wanted to have a family – like both of us had been denied. But in this we were also denied. I have learned since that all vampires, both male and female, are sterile. It was a terrible disappointment for my beloved Maria, Maria tempered my insanity with her love, and at night, I did all within my power to provide for her, protect her, and please her. Our love deepened and grew every day, and it was only because of who we each were. We really had no concept of the future. We tried to learn from our past. And we lived and loved only for the moment. I have had many loves since Maria – wonderful women every one of them. But Maria, my beloved first love, is the love I miss above all. And of course, at the time, I had no idea of what the years had in store for me. Maria was all that I knew, and all that I wanted to know. That wonderful period of my early life that I shared with Maria was the happiest time of my life. And we had both experienced enough pain in our lives to be able to appreciate the tremendous joy that was being together. That joy was tainted only by my blood-lust. After several years we ‘settled down.’ I had acquired a fair amount of money over the years by stealing from my victims, and we were able to purchase a small cottage near Florence, Italy. The area was populated enough that I could carefully and discreetly feed, while remaining a virtual phantom. In addition, Florence was ideal for us because the area was more tolerant of the ‘out of the ordinary,’ and we were certainly, by appearances and else-what, out of the ordinary. At Maria’s suggestion, I began to take measures to disguise my appearance while I was on the hunt. I tried several different disguises over the years and somehow managed to never get found out. Many, many years later I became quite talented at it. Shortly after we became settled in Florence, Maria shared with me her desires to learn of her roots. Like me, she had been snatched away from her home at a young age, though, not so young that she had no memory of her parents. Maria had dim memories of a beautiful, matronly mother and a rough, manly father, in a cozy little farm cottage near a village, but she could not recall her surname. She longed to see her parents again and get reacquainted. Initially, I advised against the idea. “They will not know you,” I said. “I fear, my love, that they will not accept you. That rejection might be painful.” Maria was her usual sensible self. She had already played such a scenario out in her mind. “Let us just find them first. I only wish to see them, see where they live, see how they are. We can decide how to proceed from there.” And so it was that my search began. It was to be a labor of love, and I did not know where to start. Actually, in truth I knew exactly where to start, but I was loath to go back to Tarino and the gypsy camp. I knew that going back there would be extremely dangerous for me. I employed every trick that I knew to alter my appearance, bid my beloved Maria ciao, and set out into the night to track down the nomadic gypsies. I traveled by night, of course, planning my journey carefully to facilitate my need to be fully protected from the sun during the day. I now knew the land of northern Italy quite well. Many ‘places of sanctuary’ were known to me – caves, pits, hollow trees, crypts, tombs, and cellars. And if worse came to worst I could always dig a quick shallow ‘grave’ in some secluded part of the woods. It was not difficult to find the camp. I had only been away from my lovely Maria for a few weeks. The gypsies had taken up a location on the outskirts of Vicenza, and Tarino was in the process of selling off his latest batch of human vase art. I spied on the camp for only a few nights, re-familiarizing myself with the routine, seeing who was still there. Tarino had a fresh batch of young vase children. It was sickening! I remember feeling as though I had never left. I was looking for Cyllia, an old gypsy woman that had been part of the camp for as long I had been able to remember. I was hoping that she would be able to remember something. As luck would have it, I learned that she was spending some of her days in town near a market square telling fortunes. I went out into the evening as early as I dared in hopes of catching her still at the square. As I hurried along I wondered about what information she might be able to tell of Maria – or myself! I really did not think that she would be able to recognize me; I was so greatly changed from the Spignuglini vase child that had lived at the camp a decade before. Plus, I had disguised myself even further. My hair was long, not shaved, and I had lightened it with powder. That and a trimmed goatee helped me to look a little older. Vicenza at night was alive with early renaissance bohemians displaying their art, reciting their poetry, and orating their newly reformed views. I would feed later if necessary; just now I wanted Cyllia. I saw her seated near a corner on a cobblestone street, a short way from most of the crowd and activity. She was the same old women that I had remembered – long, straggly, grey hair; narrow, wrinkled face; large matronly breasts. Her upper body seemed to grow out of the mountain of layers of long, plain dress that cascaded around her. Cyllia was in the process of counseling some young couple, and another small group of young people looked on and listened with rapture. Nearby I spied two other tough-looking young men from the gypsy camp, no doubt Cyllia’s escorts. I waited in the shadows until it looked as if she might be ready to journey back to the camp for the night, then I sauntered down the street, doing my best to look like some kind of lost soul. My pleading eyes met hers as I passed, and she fell for it. She said, “Would you like to know your future, young fellow?” I played skeptical while trying to let my eyes show despondency. “I would love to know my future,” I said. “But, respectfully, dear woman, how do I know that you can tell it. There are a lot of charlatans plying your trade.” “Perhaps I can prove my abilities,” she crooned. “I may be able to tell you something about yourself, eh? Come. Give me your hand.” I squatted down in front of her and extended my hand, which she took into both of her bony, wrinkly hands. “What a beautiful young man you are,” she flattered. She massaged my hand lightly, a sensation that was not entirely unpleasant, even though her skin felt like cool parchment. Then she looked deep into my eyes, and stopped suddenly. For a moment I was sure that she had recognized me and I made ready to spring. But then she said slowly, “You look so familiar.” I could see that she had not been able to place me – not yet, anyway. I pretended to ignore her statement. I said, “Well, tell me something, then, dear woman.” With a seeming effort she pulled her eyes away from mine and looked down at my palm. A look of puzzlement flashed over her old face. She said, “Strange. Your hands reveal nothing about your past, but your eyes reveal great pain. Yet, in the midst of that pain, you have found contentment. And there is something else….” she trailed off, and then took to sniffing the air, unobtrusively smelling me! At the time, I did not know what she might be trying to do. Again I pretended to ignore her seemingly odd behavior. “Good then,” I said. “I am convinced. I believe that you can tell my future.” This brought Cyllia back to business. With a sly curve of her old mouth she said, “Ahh, but that’s not how it works, young fellow. You must first pay for the invaluable information that I am about to impart to you. I pulled two pieces of gold from my purse, as I knew that that would be at least twice as much as her normal fee. She immediately took the meaning of the gesture, but she maintained her coyness for a moment longer. She said, “That is more than is required for the telling of your future, young fellow.” I held the gold to her and said in a whisper, “I have need of other information from you, senora.” Only then did she take the gold. “I hope that what you need is information that I can tell,” she whispered. “Are you a friend of the friends?” At the time I did not know anything of the mafia, and I admitted as much to her. “I know nothing of such things,” I said, discreetly glancing in the direction of her bodyguards. “Do you remember a young girl in a vase named Maria?” Again she gave me the piercing look. Certainly, she was close to recognizing me if she hadn’t already. And again I readied myself to bolt. But she was not for alerting anyone to what she might know. Nodding slowly she answered, “I do remember a girl in a vase named Maria.” I asked, “Do you happen to remember anything of where she was from before she came to be in a vase?” The old gypsy fortune teller drew in a deep breath as she organized the memories of years in her head. “Ah, little Maria,” she said. “What a little beauty. The master pinched her after he had killed her mother. We were camped out near a village called Delano not far from Rome.” So now I had a possible location, if the old woman was telling me true. I was distressed to learn that Maria’s mother was dead, but she had already steeled herself for that possibility. We both knew that it was quite likely that both of her parents might be dead, but at least we would know if the fates were willing. “Do you have a name?” I asked. The old woman shook her head solemnly. I drew in my own breath, quite shallow, and asked, “And what can you tell me of the boy vase-child Spignuglini?” Cyllia’s sly smile returned briefly. “Yes, you would like to know about him, would you not?” Then she turned serious. “The master paid for that one.” My face must have registered confusion as the old woman continued flatly, speaking as factually, without emotion, “The master doesn’t always abduct his children. In fact, only rarely. He is a cunning businessman and sometimes provides families relief from….. a burden.” My confusion was replaced by horrific shock. I had been a ‘burden’ to my parents, whoever they might be. My parents had sold me! Waves of various emotions bombarded me – bitter dejection, subdued rage, utter despair. As I remember it, it seems to be the first time in my life that I really felt self-pity. It would not be the last. The old woman continued to massage my hand as she filled in what details she knew. The young Spignuglini’s father had been a poor laborer named Lancetta from the village of Ralione. He and his young wife had been blessed with twin boys, and they had simply been too poor to provide for both of them. The infants could not be told apart. The observant and shrewd master had approached the young parents with an offer to buy one of the infants and they agreed on a price – five pieces of silver, and the master picked out the one that he wanted. Senor Lancetta never even told the master the name of the infant man-child, so he had designated him Spignuglini. So, Tarino had wanted me more than my own parents. I felt a strange bond with the vampire, even while I hated him – hated him most passionately for all of the pain that he had caused Maria, and myself. But I now knew where I might go to find Maria’s kinfolk. And at the time I had absolutely no desire to track my own family. I said, “Grazi, dear woman,” but her bony fingers tightened on my wrist and hands as I tried to rise. With desperation saturating her voice, she cried, “Master, please! Embrace me!” She knew! Flustered, I stammered, “Please, senora, I – I do not! I know nothing of – ” “Please, master,” she cried even louder, and her bodyguards became alert. “My time grows short! Tarino continues to put me off! You must!!” With more force than I thought would be necessary, I managed to pull my hand away. I said, “I cannot! I do not know what you speak of.” And I turned and ran. I heard the two young toughs begin to chase after me, but a command barked from the old woman stopped them. T’was for the best, I suppose. I was not ready to raise alarm in Tarino. I would have only to hope that Cyllia would not go back to the camp and tell Tarino his ‘future.’ It took me only four nights of foot travel to return to my waiting Maria. She did not cry when I told her what I had learned. And for the first time in my life, I kept a secret from my precious Maria. I did not wish to burden her with knowledge of my own beginning. Of course, I suppose it must be said that all things transpired as they should have. Had I not been sold to Tarino, I might never have met Maria, the love of my life. The whole experience has made me who I am. And all of this experience, for better and for worse, I pass on to you, as a contribution toward the person that you will become for knowing this story. A few days later I left for the village of Delano. This part of the search would be a little more difficult. The only thing I could think of to do was ask around. Luckily, Delano was a small village. Spending only a few hours in the early evening making inquiries, I eventually learned of an aging widower whose wife was believed to have been killed by a vampire. I only say ‘believed’ because even in the early sixteenth century, people were in the dark about the existence of vampires. Many people believed in vampires, only a few knew first hand. And there was a lot of silly and erroneous folklore surrounding the whole topic. For instance, because the woman was believed to have been killed by a vampire, the villagers expected her to rise again as a vampire herself. To prevent it, they had decapitated the corpse, and driven several wooden stakes through its chest. Wooden stakes were also pounded into the ground where the woman had been buried, so if she did happen to rise in spite of their precautions, she might run into one or more of them as she was digging her way out of the ground. Purely ridiculous, yes, but these are the fruits of ignorance. Vampires throughout the ages have taken extraordinary lengths to keep their existence a great secret. And I would say that given what is reported in history books today they have been largely successful. But I will talk more of that later. The gentlemen widower’s name was Fredricko Peralte. He was quite old and ill and close to death. He lived in a tiny one room flat, where he stayed mostly in bed. No one tended to him. I talked to him inside the small room only long enough to learn for a fact that he had indeed lost his wife, Rosita, and his three year old daughter Maria. The incident had occurred twenty-three years before. It all fit, and as I listened to the old man speak so forlornly of his beloved wife and small daughter I was able to pick out some very striking resemblances, and I knew that I had found Maria’s father. I said to him, “Senor, Maria your daughter is alive.” The old man stopped and squinted up at me from his bed, trying now for the first time since I had entered the room to actually get a good look at his visitor. I repeated, “She is alive and wishes to tend to you in your final days.” He stammered, “Maria? What? Where is she? How is it that only now –” I said, “She has long been a prisoner of malevolent peoples. She has freed herself and created a happy life for herself. Maria now longs to be reunited with her family. I must prepare you, however. She has been afflicted.” Tears welled up into the red eyes of the old man, and he was at a loss. It was decided that since Fredricko was physically unable to travel to Florence, I would hurry back myself and fetch Maria. Time was truly of the essence as death was flanking the old man. I made it back to Florence in only two days, running all night, and Maria and I immediately set out to return to Delano. As we journeyed, Maria grew increasingly nervous and apprehensive. She admitted to being nervous about being reunited with her father. Over the years she had grown accustomed to the cruelty that people can so automatically dish out, but cruelty from her father would doubtless wound her to the quick. I tried to calm her fears, but I was not even sure myself. After six long nights of uncertainty and travel we arrived at the door of Fredricko Peralte’s flat. We had spent the day ‘camped out’ just outside of the village so that we could time our arrival at dusk. Maria was too absorbed to notice that the townsfolk in the immediate area had noticed us and were rippling with quiet excitement. And then we entered the tiny flat. He lay in his bed in the corner, just as I had left him. Maria moved toward him timidly. He squinted in the dim light and said, “Maria?” Emotion poured down Maria’s face and she said softly, sounding like an angel, “Yes, papa.” Fredricko reached out with his arms to the daughter that he had long thought was dead. His voice cracked as he said, “You look just like my beautiful Rosita.” And tears streamed down his rutted face. They talked for hours. They talked while Maria prepared a small dinner and served it. My Maria had been completed by the reunion. Unfortunately, I found that I, too, was hungry. My plan was to run into the night to nearby Rome and find an easy victim. So I left my beloved Maria and her kind old father to continue their catching up of all the lost years. Stepping out of the tiny flat I walked casually down the dirty street of the village. I was immediately aware of a moderately sized group of men that had congregated only a short distance from Fredricko’s door. They were armed with the usual assortment of farming tools and looked malicious. At sight of me they began moving toward me, so I began walking briskly in the opposite direction. They began moving faster so I broke into a sprint. Naturally, I wanted no part of that lynch mob. One of the men yelled something to the effect of “Its running away! Give chase, men!” It was clear that somehow they had learned of my terrible secret. It was the first time that I had ever been chased by a mob. By and large, they were rather easy to elude. But as I sat panting in the cradled branches of am immense tree, momentarily safe, I began to fear for Maria and Fredricko. Surely the mob would eventually go back to town and harass them. At the same time I puzzled over another big question – how had they found out?! An idea came to me even in my inexperience. I needed an ally, someone with a little pull to speak on my behalf. I snuck back to the village and entered the chapel. Thankfully, I found a priest. He was a small, fragile man, and I fancied that he had probably opted to not take part in the lynch mob because of his size. He shook with fear at the sight of me and brandished a small crucifix. He stammered, “Stay back dark creature of evil!” I cried, “Please, merciful father. I need help. A mob of men is after me. I think they mean to do me and my family harm. I am not a creature of evil. I am just a boy.” The priest immediately relaxed a bit. He believed erroneously that a vampire could never enter a house of God. However he had another test for me just to be sure. “There are vampires about, young child. Take this crucifix.” I did, and when he saw that the beautiful silver cross did not burn my hand he was quite satisfied. The lynch mob was just straggling back into town as we walked out of the church. Again, when they saw me they became quite agitated and moved as if to take me. With some effort my friend the priest got the attention of the excited men and began to address them. To be heard, he shouted, “This man is not a vampire! Whatever rumor was started about this individual was a falsehood.” There were a few arguments from some of the men, but eventually the priest succeeded in abating their fears, and the mob dispersed. Afterward, I asked my friend the priest how such a rumor might have gotten started. He admitted that the rumor had been started by one of his fellow priests. Apparently, his associate had come into the church with a story about overhearing two strangers in the village talking amongst themselves about some vampire that they had been following all the way from Vicenza. The other priest had seen them stalking me. I am sure that all of the blood left my face when he told me that, and he asked if I was alright. I said, “Oh, I am fine. It is merely that all this business about vampires is quite disconcerting.” I thanked him and left. I sat on the floor of Fredricko’s little flat, brooding. I had been followed all the way from Vicenza! Obviously, Cyllia had indeed reported back to Tarino, and they had set someone on my trail. They would know where Maria and I lived in Florence. I felt so vulnerable. What had the tracker, or trackers, been doing during the day while I had slept? It struck me suddenly that my own safety was extremely compromised during the day. How easy it would have been for the trackers, knowing where I might be sleeping, to have destroyed me! And sometime, probably soon, I would be dealing with Tarino or his agents. What malicious plans might he be drawing against Maria and myself? When and where might he strike? I decided that the three of us should leave Delano as soon as possible. Fredricko could not travel far, so we decided to find temporary lodging in Rome. I snuck out of the flat and out of Delano, something I was already becoming skilled at, and ran to Rome. Once there I found the richest house I could, fed on the master and pocketed as much gold and jewels as I could find about the place. This I did without waking any of the other souls in the house. Then I snuck back to Delano. I slept under Fredricko’s bed; he had no idea. His flat was pretty dim inside even during the day, and I would be pretty safe – if left undisturbed. Early the next evening, the three of us left the flat for a bit of fresh air. Fredricko hobbled slowly along with a walking stick. We never went back. I could not be sure that we were not followed. I had only to hope for the best, and as it turned out, we managed to live in Rome, in a nice rented flat for the next week. That was all the longer that Fredricko lasted. Perhaps you can draw your own conclusions as to what had caused Fredricko to hold on to his mortality until after he had been reunited with his daughter. I am sure that the last week of his life was the best that he had had since that horrible day when his precious wife and daughter had been taken from him. For Maria, my wonderful seer of all things beautiful, the experience had been elevating and priceless; worth all of the risk and difficulty as far as I was concerned. I would have gone to end of the world for Maria. And it gave her something that meant a great deal to her; something else that I simply was not equipped to give to her myself – a last name. She was with him when he passed. It was as peaceful a passing as I have ever witnessed, and the man truly believed that he was on his way to rejoining his beloved Rosita. It was a concept that was relatively new to Maria and myself, and I know that she liked it. I did too. Maria held her father’s bony hand tenderly as the old man slowly slipped away. It did not occur to us to fetch a priest for Fredricko, but as I recall it, I am sure that he did not mind. He was just grateful to have his daughter with him again. He professed his love and adoration to her. “Bella Maria. Bella.” were his last words uttered in mortality. NIGHT IV

We decided to not go back to Florence. If we were indeed hidden in Rome, then it seemed unwise to go back to a place where they could find us easily. But the thought of running away, hiding from Tarino, really upset me to no end. Were we not free after all? It was like still being subject to Tarino’s will. We had really enjoyed living in Florence, and it bothered me that we felt that we could not return to our home! To console my wounded male ego we traveled south to Naples. There we found life to be very much the same as life in Florence, and we purchased another house, this one with a splendid cellar! The mafia was wonderfully entrenched in southern Italy, and this resulted in some very interesting and entertaining night-walks for me. I had, after a decade of being a vampire, been the cause of much death. But only after I watched the passing of Fredricko did I really contemplate the mystery of death and what might be waiting at the last sleep. And since her father’s death, Maria had become quite religious. Fredricko had believed that he would go back to God. But what about me, I wondered? I was a child of evil. God might not take me. It was an extremely unappealing thought that I had shoved to the darkest recesses of my mind for years….. until I eventually had to face it. We had lived quite happily in Naples for about five years when the health of my own precious Maria began to fail. I imagine that the years in the vase had also caused organ damage with the result of shortening her life-span. But thirty-one years was not really young back in those days. Still, I was nearly mad with grief even before she died. I was being purely selfish; I did not want to live without her. Maria became bed ridden, and if she was feeling any pain or discomfort she did not complain of it. I tended to her faithfully, knowing that I would do anything to keep her from slipping away – anything, except turn her. But she never asked anyway, and I knew that she would rather die than live like I did. I would. But I had had only twenty-five years with my precious Maria. Not nearly enough time! I had failed in giving her a child. We had so much to still do together. She was taken from me too soon!! Pardon me momentarily. I have had many lifetimes to get over the loss of my true love. As yet, I have not. To the end Maria tried to comfort me with the idea that she would always be with me; that someday we would be together in heaven. And to be honest, those ideas were probably the only thing that kept me together as I watched her die. I was with her when she started to fade away. I lay with her on the bed holding her against me, as if I could protect her from death. Tears must have poured from my face, for her neck and bosom were wet. She cried too, but I know that she was crying for me, my grief. She said, “Lucio, my love. You must not cry so.” I said, “I’m not,” but it was only because I did not know, and even as I said it, my voice choked with a sob. I became aware of a great physical pain in my chest; a pressure, a hot burning sensation, and something else nondescript. As a vampire, I had already experienced the wonders of pain blockers that could completely numb the sting of any injury no matter how excruciating, but for this there was no pain blocker. My heart shattered and I cried, “Maria, you can not die! You are the love of my life. I cannot live without you!” However Maria saw only the beauty in death. “All things must die, Lucio, and go home to God, you know. It is the way of things. I shall be there waiting for you, my love.” “But Maria, I am a creature of evil. I fear that God will not accept me,” I wailed. Maria summoned the last of her strength to say with force, “You are not evil, my beloved. You are a beautiful person. God will take you. He would never endeavor to stand between us. We will be together forever.” “Ti Amo, Maria, My Seer of All Things Beautiful.” “Ti Amo, Lucio, My Bringer of Light.” It was a Sunday, June 12, 1513, when my beloved Maria passed.

NIGHT V

It had not occurred to me at the time that I might have turned Maria, and that she might have lived solely from the blood in my own veins. But such an act would have doubled my own appetite, and I know that Maria would have felt that the extra deaths were on her head. Upon her passing I went completely mad with heartache. I decided that Tarino and all of his minions must be destroyed. They could not be allowed to go on marring the beauty and the lives of small children. I traveled back to northern Italy and found the gypsy camp near the village of Capia. Filled with rage, hate, despair, and sorrow I stormed the camp at night without rationally planning an attack. There were about thirty gypsies of various ages and ten vampires including Tarino. I managed to kill one vampire with fire by taking him by surprise. In a blind frenzy I had killed maybe half of the gypsies with my bare hands before I was subdued by Tarino and the rest of the vampires. Of course, I realize now that the way I went about attacking the camp was unwise, to say the least. What can I say? I was out of my head. It took all nine of the remaining vampires to hold me. Two held each limb, and Tarino held my head. “Ah! Spignuglini,” he hissed softly in my ear. “You have returned to me.” “I am not Spignuglini!” I yelled. And it was at that moment that I wondered exactly who I was. Maria had called me Lucio, but she was dead. I would have no other person refer to me with that special name. But I also was not Spignuglini! That designation, whenever spoken, was accompanied with an insult, an inherent disrespect, disregard, devaluation. Whoever I was, I would not be insulted by that misnomer. I was no longer the Bringer of Light. I was the Bringer of War! But only if I should live to see the next night. Tarino wrapped a cord around my neck and tied it to a tree. A slave brought him a flog and, with the eight vampires still holding my limbs, he beat me mightily on both my front and backside until patches of skin and flesh had been flayed away and bone showed. Of course, I felt no physical pain, that was not the real purpose of the beating, I believe. He was attempting and succeeding to weaken me. And more, he was trying to break me down, humiliate me. For that, I can tell you, he had much talent! With every stroke he taunted me. “Spignuglini! You think that you can run away from me? You take two of my best works of art! You killed my lover and thought you would not have to pay the price! You ended the life of my good friend, the ancient Seppio!! How could think yourself so bold, so capable? You are nothing, Spignuglini! You belong to me! You are my possession to do with as I will!! “Spignuglini! I loved you! I loved you more than any other loved you! I made you beautiful! I made you valuable! Now you are nothing! All my hard work is ruined! You do not know everything yet, Spignuglini!” Tarino was testing me. He had some idea of what a vampire was capable of. He was seeing how much I knew. He was right, though. I knew pretty much nothing. If I had known that I had total control of my adrenal glands, eight vampires would never have been able to hold me down. As it was, after an hour of flogging, I was nearly unconscious, but that may have also been the onset of regenerative sleep. You see, whatever it is that causes me to regenerate requires a sleep cycle. At the time I was just beginning to understand this. Two simple ingredients: fresh human blood and sleep, and a vampire ultimately has no control over either one. As I’ve said before, if a vampire goes too long without feeding, he will go mad, and if a vampire needs regeneration he will fall into a wake- less, nightmare filled coma. Tarino also showed signs of weariness after his activity, but he would recover quickly. His vampires still held a grip of stone on my limbs and I was still tied around the neck to the tree, beaten and fatigued. He came in close to my face and whispered sweetly, “Spignuglini. You are mine. You are my promised son. I do not wish to destroy you, but I must know that you will be mine. You must obey me, Spignuglini. Will you obey me, Spignuglini?” My answer came weak with fatigue, but firm. “My name… is not… Spignuglini!” Tarino threw his arms in the air and screamed to everyone present, “He will be destroyed!!” A female vampire began to unwrap the cord from around my neck. “Ciao, Spignuglini,” she said. “Remember me?” I did not remember her and I was too overcome to care. She continued, “Tarino turned me for telling him how to find you.” It was Cyllia! No matter. I wanted to die. I welcomed death. I would not even struggle. I could only hope that I would join my beloved Maria in heaven. Tarino and the vampires dragged me out to a clearing. Gypsy slaves followed carrying the meter long spikes, shackles, and a large hammer. Still others carried out the vase children. I had seen this many times before. There were no surprises. I was held as Tarino personally hammered each of the four spikes into the hard earth, spaced evenly in about a three meter square. Then, with little ceremony, I was shackled. The chains were locked to the ends of the spikes, and there I was, splayed out, waiting for the rising sun. I was not to have long to wait. As the sky started to lighten, Tarino and his vampires ended the orgy that they had been having all around me and retired for the day. Tarino was careful to make sure that all of the gypsies had gone back to the camp. Only a few of the vase children stayed, being forced to act as witnesses to my execution. They sat a little way off, the older ones clearly horrified, the younger ones as yet unknowing. They were a miserable lot, unable to move under the weight of their vase and girth. I watched the horizon grow lighter and lighter, and at first I enjoyed it. It would be the first sunrise that I had witnessed in over a decade. The sky lightened and the last of the stars faded from view. And it was then that I first experienced the strange loss of bodily control – an amazing vampirical quirk that makes it virtually impossible for a vampire to kill himself, and extremely difficult to kill! Without any conscious thought at all my whole body went into a spasm, a convulsion that twisted and pulled against the shackles. I wanted to die, but my own body had other ideas! Tarino must have known about this vampirical oddity, because this death reflex was not enough to save me. My body heightened its paroxysm as the sky grew lighter and lighter. To be honest, it was a damn nuisance! I would have preferred to simply die in peace, enjoying the wonderful sunrise. As it turned out, obviously I did not die. Strangely, I was saved by an old man! He just came out of the woods, quite purposefully. He carried a large, thick, dark colored blanket that he quickly threw over me. I heard him say, “A few more seconds and it would have been all over for you, my friend!” as he tucked the edges and corners of the blanket under me. I wanted to yell to him to let me die, but I was so extremely fatigued and overwhelmed by the relief of spasms ending that I could not raise my voice. I heard the sounds of chains rattling and found that my hands were suddenly free at least from the buried rods, though I still bore the shackles with the chains on my wrists. Then a shout came from the distance. I dared not peak out from under the blanket, not that I could if had wanted to; my spasms had ended and become a sort of paralysis. There were the sounds of several people running through the woods, approaching the clearing where I still lay. It was the gypsies coming to retrieve the vase children after the execution, only, I am sure that the sight of the old man must have upset them. I heard the singing sound of a long blade being pulled out of its sheath, then the whistle of it cutting through the air, followed quickly by a ghastly cry. The other sounds of running stopped abruptly and now I heard only panting and breathed curses and I could envision a face-off between this strange old man and several assailants now made wary by the swift fall of one of their comrades. A few more sounds of struggling and another death scream. More struggling, and from the sounds it seemed that the old man might have been in a little trouble. Scuffling footsteps sounded very near my head. Tipping my head back I could just see the bottom of a pair of boots, definitely gypsy by their appearance. Almost reflexively, I whipped the chain that was still shackled to my wrist out at the boots and caught one of them around the ankle. I pulled with all of my remaining strength and brought the gypsy down. Still pulling then, I compelled the stunned gypsy to join me under the blanket. His hot blood came sweetly to my lips as I took the opportunity to break-fast. By the time I was done feeding, the sounds of struggling had ended. I heard the voice of the old man again. “We are leaving!” The corner and edges of the blanket were gathered snuggly around me, then I was hoisted roughly and carried for some distance. At length, we stopped, and I was put down. I could smell horses and wood. All at once I found myself enclosed and I realized that I had been placed inside of a large wooden box. A lid had just been shut down on me. The sounds and vibrations accompanying a horse-drawn wagon reached me inside the box, and I knew that we were once again on the move. For the moment at least, I knew that I was at the mercy of the old man. What could I do while the sun shown? At least I was safe for the time being. The sleep began to fall upon me. At dusk I would find out who the old man was and why he had saved me and what he wanted with me.

NIGHT VI

I am pretty sure that we drove all day, though I slept through it all. I recall waking from a particularly dreadful regenerative nightmare and being rather disoriented, surrounded by pitch darkness. It was a long moment before I remembered where I was and how I had gotten there. I was twisted up in the blanket, but eventually got my arms free. The hinged lid of the wooden box opened right up and I was greeted with still more darkness. It was blessed night. The wagon in which the box sat was loosely covered with a thick canvas. The old man sat at the front, driving the wagon by lantern light. He called back without turning, “Ah! I see you are awake back there.” In the dim light I could his long scraggly gray hair. “Who are you?” I asked simply. He turned. “My name is Giovanni. And what shall I call you since you don’t like Tarino’s name for you?” “I do not know,” I said after a minute. “Well, maybe I can help you with that, too,” he said. He had a scraggly gray beard to go along with his long hair. But the thing that would make one stop and wonder was the condition of his teeth. They were perfect! Extraordinarily rare for a man of his apparent maturity. He looked to be about seventy, but I soon learned that he did not have the frailty that usually accompanies a person of that age. With just a little bit of question and answer, I learned that Giovanni had been stalking the gypsy camp for weeks. He had witnessed my foolish attack on the camp from the safety of the surrounding woods. From a distance he had watched Tarino flog me, and then announce my execution. At that, Giovanni had hurriedly put the rescue plan together and fetched his horse and wagon a little closer to the camp. “Time is something that we have in abundance, but I shall not waste it with unnecessary words,” he said. “I simply want one thing. Something that only you and others like you can give me.” And at that I knew what this Giovanni was after. He continued, “And in exchange for your gift, I offer you something that few others would be able or willing to give to you.” I must have looked as gullible as a child. I asked, “What would that be, sire?” “Why, knowledge, a little wisdom, a bit of insight into what you are,” he answered. “I sorely need that which you offer,” I said. “I have many questions. But I am afraid to make anyone a vampire.” “Not to worry,” said Giovanni. “Once I explain the way things are, you will make many vampires – very discreetly, of course.” I shook my head vehemently, but the old man just went on confidently, “You need to learn how a vampire survives in this world.” About this strange man Giovanni I was confused. To this day there is still much that I wonder about him! He was not a vampire, yet I can tell you he knew a lot about living and surviving as a vampire. In addition to his wisdom, he was full of mystery. With all of the excellent knowledge that he imparted to me, I cannot help but feel that he omitted some very important detail or fact – some secret, the knowledge of which he preferred to have benefit him alone. But, for the time, he would be my travel partner, my teacher, and most of all he was salve for the pain that had become my very existence. I opened myself to all of the instruction that he had for me. He called me Giovane – Young One. The first thing we did was drive the wagon to Ralione. I felt relatively safe during the day inside the large wooden box, which was made purposefully to not look like a coffin. At night we would talk for long hours. I told Giovanni of my life. And he taught me of the world. “There is no organized vampire culture,” he said to me one night. “It’s just common sense, quite frankly. You see, Giovane, being a vampire is very dangerous business. It requires the utmost discretion. The existence of vampires must remain a legend, a child’s chilling bed-time tale, for if certain knowledge of vampires was ever to become wide spread, the world would hunt you down! “And that is why if there is any vampire that is careless, that engages in gluttony or shares the gift too freely, such a vampire is likely to be killed by his own kind. Wise vampires do not allow themselves to be put at risk by the foolish. Tarino is the foolish. He walks recklessly along the edge of imprudence. Foolish vampires do not live forever. “Most vampires install themselves inconspicuously into the background of society, where, using money and other devices for leverage, they are able to have considerable influence over local politics and public policy. They also use the church as a tool for this end. They engender myths and lies to keep the world chasing shadows. “Vampires have long ago become the records keepers. They have been responsible for writing the history of the world as it is known today, and they have prudently kept themselves out of it.” I said, “I know nothing of history.” Giovanni smiled widely, “Giovane, I have only begun to teach.” Giovanni provided invaluable assistance in the task of finding my biological parents, as he was able to seek them out during the day. He happened upon my twin brother first. Berto Lancetta did indeed look quite a lot like me, though now he looked older. And the years had worn hard on him. He looked nearly old enough to be my father. Berto worked long hours for little pay as a field laborer for a wealthy Count. Giovanni was able to talk to my estranged twin briefly as the laborers took a short water break. Berto explained to Giovanni that his poor parents, Vincenzo and Galora Lanchetta, also worked for the same Count, but that they were currently working in another field. As was expected, Berto had no knowledge of any siblings, and as Giovanni recounted the conversation to me later that evening, I realized that, sadly, I also felt no connection to my identical twin. That night, we made plans to visit my parents. I was still apprehensive. Naturally, I was curious to the point of excitement, but, at the same time, I honestly did not know how I would react when I saw them. I felt some contempt for my biological parents for wanting money more than me. I was what I was at that time because they had made choices that set me on that certain course. I simply did not know what to feel. As for my parent’s reaction to me, I was not concerned. I had disguised my appearance enough that they would not recognize me as Berto’s identical twin. At best, they might think that I was distant kin. Giovanni told me something then that helped to put the situation in perspective. He said, “If one lives long enough, they will eventually heal from any emotional damage.” And then he added, “Take some meat with you. It will without a doubt make you a welcome guest in their home.” In no time we had located the tiny flat wherein dwelt Vincenzo and Galora Lanchetta. I stood hesitantly out in the mud street holding a fresh bit of lamb and a clove of garlic that I had purchased from a vendor. Giovanni looked sternly at me and pointed to the dilapidated hut. It stood only because it was part of a long row of dilapidated huts that formed a sort of dormitory for the field laborers. Entire families, many multi-generational, lived together in these tiny one roomed flats. These living accommodations made Fredricko’s flat in Delano seem palatial! Giovanni stood watch across the way as I tapped gingerly on the door. It looked as if it might fall in if I applied too much force in the knocking. A very young man answered. “My name is Tarino,” I said. “I seek Senor Lanchetta.” The young man squinted at me and said, “I’ll see.” He shut the door. I decided to do what Tarino would do. I walked in. I had caught them during dinner. Sitting at the head of the small table was the age-bowed old patriarch, Vincenzo. He looked pale with fear. On his right was the undoubtedly once beautiful Galora, and I knew at once that if I had any handsomeness at all, I had gotten it from my mother. At the other end of the table sat Berto, with his wife to his left sitting next to my mother. And on the far side of table were three places, two of them occupied by a small boy and a small girl. The young man that had answered the door had only just gotten to the ear of the patriarch as I entered. Berto stood up aggressively, but I quickly calmed him. I said, “I have only come to eat dinner with you. Look! I have brought a bit of lamb.” At the sight of the meat, everyone in the room stopped and I fancied that I could smell their hunger. They had not eaten meat in months. The patriarch, having obviously heard the name ‘Tarino’ moments before, said in a trembling, dry, old-man’s voice, “You do not look like the Tarino Degli Zingari, of my past acquaintance. Who are you?” “I am the son of that Tarino,” I said. “You shall be welcome in our home,” he said, and I could smell his nervousness. The women stood and relieved me of the lamb and the garlic, and began preparations to add it to the thin soup that the family had been just about to eat for dinner. Berto greeted me warmly and introduced the family to me. He knew nothing of Tarino. In no time the refurbished soup was ready and the family enjoyed the meal. I ate politely, watching these people that were my true flesh and blood, and I knew that I loved them. They were more a part of me than I would ever know. Happily full of meat, the little girl came to where I sat and hugged me tightly with her small arms. “Grazia, Senor,” she sang in a tiny voice. “You look like my Papa.” I did not wish to burden the family with the knowledge and guilt of what the parents had done by rehashing the past. It was bad enough for Vincenzo and Galora that some agent of Tarino was sitting at their table, reminding these old parents of their terrible sin. I wanted to comfort them, and tell them that all was copasetic, all was forgiven, but, as Giovanni later told me, they would, more than anything else, need to forgive themselves. If they could….. But then I thought, “No, let them deal with a little pain.” I believed that they would be better for it. I was there to learn my name, besides. Out of the blue I asked, “Berto, when is your birthday?” I sensed a stiffening in Vincenzo and Galora. “We are not exactly sure of that,” he answered with a light laugh. “My parents did not keep accurate records.” I said tenderly, “Galora, on the day that Berto was born you gave birth to twins.” Tears sprang into her eyes, as she shook her head. Vincenzo wanted to be defiant but was too frightened. Berto was naturally shocked by the statement. “It is alright,” I said, and I mercifully provided them with an out. They needed not air these dark secrets in front of everyone. “Tarino told me the tragedy of how the second infant died at childbirth.” “No!” cried Vincenzo violently. “I will not live any longer harboring this terrible memory! Since the specter haunts us this night, I shall bring it into the light.” Turning to Berto he cried, “We sold your brother to Tarino Degli Zingari. We were poor and already starving. There was no way we could have afforded both of you.” Galora, sobbing softly, continued, “We buried all talk of this so that we would not have to face the guilt of it. We never told you, Berto.” With both of his parents broken down in bitter tears, Berto yelled at me, “What is this?! What is this evil you bring into our house?!” I answered him firmly, “I do not wish for you to condemn your parents, but I thought you should know. And there is more that I need to know.” “What?!” bellowed Berto. I said quietly, “I need to know the name of the twin.” Vincenzo said, “We could not tell them apart. They were newborn and we had not even decided on two names. I wanted a son named Berto.” Again, Galora picked the story up. “I did not know I was to give birth to twins. The old gypsy mid-wife had only told us that the child would be a boy. Vincenzo wanted Berto and I wanted Marcus, a man-child to be named after the father of my father, who was from Athens. But after I had given birth to two instead of one, we were desperately concerned that we would all starve. Cyllia, the mid-wife, arranged for the sale to Tarino, and he came and took one of the babies.” And then my dear mother could not go on. “So! My name is Marcus!” I almost said it out loud. As I moved toward the door, I said, “Please know that your lost child is well, and healthy, and enjoys a rich life. He bares no ill-will toward you.” But the family was distraught. It was their own self-torture. Berto said firmly, “You should leave.” And I did.

NIGHT VII

“Marcus!” said Giovanni, smiling broadly after I had told him. “So you truly are the Bringer of War.” At the time I was not aware of the significance. We left Ralione and traveled on. I quickly learned that Giovanni was even more nomadic than the gypsies. He seemed to be looking for something or someone, but he never even hinted at anything that might have supported such a conclusion. As we traveled, the ‘schooling’ continued. Giovanni taught me the fundamentals of how to choose ‘good’ victims, how to dispose of corpses so that they would never be found. He showed me some splendid tricks for faking your own death, a very valuable tool for a vampire. He taught me the basics of mathematics, but only as far as it applied to survival. From Giovanni I learned to read and write, and speak Latin, Spanish, and Hebrew. We sparred nightly and from him I learned to be a powerful fighter, both with weapons and bare hands. And it was Giovanni that first taught me that one most valuable trick for a vampire; he taught me how to control my body chemistry. The ability to take conscious control of one’s body chemistry takes a long time to learn and perfect. I could be considered a master at it now, and I am still making distinctions and refinements to my methods. I can, at will, secrete many various combinations of pheromones and hormones and other body chemicals to bring about many desired effects on my victims. The main one that I use is a powerful mixture of endorphins so that my victims do not suffer – unless I desire it. In fact, virtually every victim that I have ever fed on without killing has begged me to feed on them again. It is more powerful and addicting than any narcotic. And, of course, I can make most people ultimately fascinated in me by secreting the proper hormone mixture. This is how a vampire ‘charms’ a victim. There is nothing magic about it. In fact, the effects of such a trick are surprisingly easy to fight if the victim is aware and strong-willed. Another useful trick is calling upon the production of adrenaline. With an unlimited supply of that powerful body chemical at my disposal, I can have extraordinary strength and speed. That one comes with a price, however. Adrenaline in high doses is damaging to the body – damage that I, of course, regenerate from. But it can increase my appetite. And, obviously, for discretionary purposes, it behooves a prudent vampire to take measures to keep his appetite as small as possible. One of the little tricks that I do on a regular basis is to release from my glands a hormone and chemical mixture that causes those around me to become confused, forgetful, unfocused, susceptible to suggestion. I am told that it can cause a profound diminutive effect on one’s peripheral vision. It allows me to inhabit this world virtually unnoticed. Some of the secretions are airborne and they affect everyone in a certain radius around me. I can not focus or aim at any one person. The victim or victims ‘smell’ the chemical mixture and are then affected. If a person is not able to smell or if there is one or more other strong odors in the area, then my secretions may have a diminished effect. That is why garlic has been known to protect people from a vampire’s ‘charm.’ Using this tool allows me to affect the entire mood of a room. I have learned to secrete the proper chemical combination for essentially every emotion on the spectrum. This gives me a powerful means for manipulation. For maximum effect, all I need is a little contact with the target. With a touch I can literally transfer any body chemical in almost any amount. Pheromones, hormones, testosterone, estrogen, endorphins, adrenaline, dopamine, the list goes on. And even though, as I said, this ability takes years to master, it is basically a simple trick. Everyone already does it naturally, without thinking about it; on miniscule levels, of course. Back in those days we did not have names for all of the various chemicals, and I must admit that it all seemed pretty magical to me at the time. But I have come to know exactly how the ability works, with the exception of how my body is actually able to produce the chemicals in such high quantities. All of these tricks and others Giovanni taught to me. They have saved my life over and over again. And they can be great fun to pull out at parties. I practice the things that John, pardon me, Giovanni taught me to this day. For instance, I am sure that you have heard of the horrific exploits of the supposed serial killer that is roaming the dark streets of the metro….. That is me. I am the notorious ‘Psicko Killer.’ I know that sounds terrible and I must tell you directly that I do not necessarily derive any pleasure from cutting a body into pieces, but it is sometimes necessary. It all starts with my hunger for entertainment and challenge. It seems of late that my life has largely been centered around a quest for a cure to boredom. I have, of course, only one physical need. I have only a few wants. But for sanity’s sake it would seem that these two particular wants are rather important, and rather hard to satisfy – new entertainment and new challenges. Entertainment is rare for me and there is not much that I can say about it. My appetite for entertainment might drive me to manipulate people in certain situations. I say no more about it for now. As for new challenges, well, I pretty much have to create those for myself. Although so far I have failed at my one ultimate challenge – finding a way to end my existence. And so I ‘push the envelope;’ see how much I can get away with; see how far I can go! Something that I do quite often is to orchestrate and create a difficult situation for myself. Over the years, I have been compelled to challenge myself more and more as the bar escalates. It is definitely playing with fire, and rather uncomfortable, but creating a difficult situation is really as simple as not feeding. I will go as long as can without feeding and fall into gray madness. Doing such a thing intentionally for the purpose of imposing a challenge on myself may be insanity by itself; perhaps even a form of gray madness in and of itself. And I do not know what I would do if I should ever accidentally kill someone that I would otherwise prefer not to kill. But for some reason, I still do it. In defense of the behavior, it is, at least, several days without any victims at all. Recently, while engaging in this activity I came to find myself in an elevator with a dead attorney. That one had been a tricky little scene. I had gone four days without feeding or going home, and had finally lost my wits while I lay buried under the Burnside Bridge during my day-sleep. I cannot remember anything, but I must have gotten up shortly after dark, crossed the bridge, and walked straight down Burnside Street to the US Bancorp Tower. I regained consciousness after having ravaged some young gentleman who had been smoking the foulest cigar. I had made a terrible mess, and the surveillance system had captured the entire thing. Getting out of the building unseen with the body would be most impossible, which meant that the body would inevitably be found. I covered up the fact that it had had its blood sucked out by using the serrated blade on my trusty hunting knife, (that blessedly was still on my person), to cut the dead body into pieces, and use the open wounds to smear gore all over the elevator car. It is always a very macabre task, and not something that I particularly enjoy, but it results in the authorities thinking that the killer is some kind of psychotic. Not that they wouldn’t think that anyway if they found the body intact and exsanguinated, but I do not want any speculation being anywhere near the truth. I had only a minute or two to finish with that before the mess might be discovered. Vampires can move with incredible speed and power. Seconds after the elevator doors opened, exposing me to the ultimate risk, I escaped through the ceiling hatch. This I did with the utmost skill, not making a sound or leaving a trace. Now, my little caper was at that particular moment a video in the main security office, just waiting to be reviewed by the ‘authorities.’ I am, in fact, intimately familiar with most of the buildings downtown. I knew exactly where to go and what to do. Treading lightly, I ran along the tops of the express elevators, as they sit side by side in one wide shaft. At the far end is the security elevator shaft, the car of which accesses small security offices on every floor of the building, and the main security office on the second floor. Conveniently for me the car was sitting on the ground floor. Standing upon it, I quietly pried the elevator doors to the second floor security office open just a crack; just enough to let loose with a cocktail of testosterone and other hormones. Within minutes, the guard who was monitoring the station was in dire need of relieving himself in the worst way. While he was in the bathroom, I entered the room from the elevator shaft, and immediately set about erasing the recorded surveillance. I was, of course, careful to leave no fingerprints, no trail. With the surveillance system down, I exited the building with ease, fairly right under the noses of everyone. Pulling the wool over the eyes of the authorities has gotten more difficult over the centuries, but it can still be done. Occasionally I want to send a message to the authorities and to society. Surely, you read the account of the IRS agent found dead, and cut to pieces right in front of her office? Killing such a destructive person was easy on my conscience. I had given her every chance to change her destructive ways, but Shannon was too short-sighted. She was so needy I seduced her with ease, took her to a cheap hotel and deliberately put her out of everyone’s misery. I transported the disunited body in a large suitcase back to the parking garage where Shannon’s car was parked. Distracting the attendant in much the same way that I had distracted the security guard, I succeeded in getting away with her car. I drove to the main entrance of the building wherein the IRS offices are located, parked and waited for a break in traffic. It was about 10:30 by that time, and a break was not long in coming. Careful to not have any witnesses, I unceremoniously dumped the pieces of the IRS agent right on the grey brick plaza in front of the building. Her picture identification tag I left sitting in the middle of the pile. Maybe individuals considering a career with Uncle Sam will think twice now of the hazards of the job. Oh, and that chap Bob Wilson? He was also one of my latest exploits. First of all, I can tell you with a surety that he was not the one responsible for attaching syringes to door handles around the metro. Notwithstanding that, I still fed on and killed him, purely for being a pain in society’s ass and a general waste of space. His remains I hid, and quite well I hope. They will be discovered only by fate. Ah, but I digress. Back to my time with the great and mysterious ‘John.’ I learned much from Giovanni, but only that which he wanted to teach me. He had a way of avoiding certain topics by changing the subject, or by simply not talking. One night, I asked him, “Teacher, what makes me a vampire?” He smiled the smile of the ancient. “I do not exactly know,” he said. “There has been much conjecture on that question.” “Is it evil magic?” I asked. “It might be,” he answered. He did not seem to want to talk about it, so I changed the direction of my questioning. “What do you know of God and the devil?” I asked. Again he chuckled. “Giovane, I am going to tell you something that no one alive today knows. I tell it mostly to satisfy my own vanity. I knew Jesus Christ of Nazareth when he was alive. He was a great man! He had amazing insight on life and love. I can tell you that it was not his desire to be the start of such a movement as Christianity and the Catholic Church. Many of his greatest insights and teachings, which I know were recorded as I recorded many of them myself, have been changed, distorted, or omitted completely from the bible that Desiderius Erasmus has so recently translated and printed. And I should tell you that it was not necessarily all the fault of the scholars. Most of the records, mine included, fell into the hands of man named Aurelius Augustine. I believe that he was the one who did the lion’s share of the alterations.” I must have had the most amazing look of shock on my face, my mouth hanging open, my mind barely able to absorb what he was saying for all the questions in it suddenly screaming for answers. Just how old was Giovanni?! He continued without pause. “However, I digress. My point is that Jesus Christ never taught anything about any Supreme Being called God that lived somewhere out there in Heaven.” My knowledge of religion and the Bible at the time was rudimentary. But I had learned enough from Maria to know that the Bible purported that Jesus Christ was the literal Son of God. I remember wondering how anyone could change the records in a way that so greatly changed the true message, the true facts. And why would anyone feel the need to do it? “So what was Jesus trying to teach?” I asked. “Simple, Giovane,” Giovanni answered. “Whenever Jesus talked of ‘God’ he was speaking specifically of the higher power inside all of us. ‘God’ is all that is good inside you. ‘God’ is your personal internal authority. He was the ‘Son of God’ because he hearkened only to his internal authority, and he recognized absolutely no external authority above his own internal authority. “And he referred to the Kingdom of God as the state of being that we would all be in if we all were to hearken only to each of our own, individual internal authorities. Jesus believed in the good of each individual person, and he believed that heaven was possible. Of course, there was much more to it than just that, but that is pretty much the essence of what Jesus taught.” Thoughtfully, I said, “I thought that his main message was ‘love thy neighbor’.” “The ‘love your neighbor’ concept is important, but quite academic. What Jesus actually said was ‘Love thy neighbor as thyself.’ But that was not so much an admonition as it was a statement of observation. We already do each love our fellow man as ourselves, no more, no less. There is no conceivable way to truly love yourself more or less than your fellow man. You can only love another as much as you love yourself. If one hearkens to their internal authority, all that is good inside of them, they will love themselves as their neighbor. Capisce, Giovane?” I remember saying, “It sounds like it might be a bit chaotic; everybody doing whatever they want; adhering only to their own internal rule-book.” “Giovane,” said Giovanni. “We already do whatever we want to do; every one of us puny humans in this great world! And we all follow the same rule-book whether we want to or not; whether we know it not – the Laws of Nature. But most of us make choices that are not completely in harmony with the Laws of Nature. Most people often act or re-act to a situation emotionally rather than rationally, or they make decisions without knowing or perceiving the true facts. We do not perceive real reality. “To further complicate matters, there have been throughout history so-called ‘wise men’ that use lies in largely successful attempts to act as authority over others. They suggest that since there is no way to truly perceive reality, you might as well just see it their way. “But Giovane! I believe it is possible to perceive reality as it really is. And if everyone did, and re-acted rationally to it, there would be no chaos.” “Yes, but….how would vampires live in such a world?” I asked. “That’s a very good question, Giovane,” said Giovanni, and he never did answer it. I could only conclude that vampires were the anomaly. However it was that we came to be, it was not that we were supposed to be. My very existence seemed to be in violation with the Laws of Nature. And to this day it still seems that way to me. “Please, Teacher,” I asked respectfully, “If God is inside me, and heaven is only an ideal, then what did happen to my precious Maria when she died?” He looked away and did not answer. I suspect now that he did not wish to talk with me of such a painful topic as death. Perhaps he had a ‘Maria’ of his own still claiming a piece of his heart where words could not be formed to express the pain of absence. It was getting late and Giovanni was apparently getting sleepy. I was getting hungry, and I was set to walk the night and feed. But I had one pressing question for the old man. “Giovanni,” I asked, “how old are you?” He seemed most reluctant to answer. I pressed him saying, “If it is true that you were alive during the time of Jesus, then you would have to be at least fifteen hundred years old. That much mathematics I can figure out. So tell me, Giovanni. How old are you?” He remained silent. “How is it that you have lived so long?” I asked innocently. His breathing became heavy; he was either asleep, or feigning it. “How is it that you know so much about being a vampire?” I asked. Nothing. I loved Giovanni, but I knew then that I would never turn him.

NIGHT VIII

I traveled with Giovanni for about a decade. And I tell you that in that entire time we had very few real adventures. Giovanni had long since mastered the art of quietly going through life, celebrating every day without raising a ruckus. He preferred to not take any chances with his safety. Other than teaching me, his main activity and true passion was learning. He already seemed to me to know everything, but he insisted that he needed to continue his own studies. I asked him why he did not settle down and make for himself a laboratory, but he dodged the question. “The world is my laboratory, Giovane,” he said. So we traveled, and saw all of Europe, and much of the Mediterranean. Giovanni seemed to know exactly where he was going, even though we never stayed in any one place for very long. And then one evening I arose to find Giovanni in a rather excitable mood. We happened to be traveling down the west coast of Spain at the time, and I remember being quite enamored by all of the prosperity and wealth that I saw. It seemed that even servants and serfs were coming into more prosperity. Giovanni was irritable and tense. I had never seen him like that before. He was not preparing dinner as he normally was when I awoke. And typically he would start right in with words of wisdom the moment that I was coherent. I never begrudged his active tongue. On the contrary, I immensely enjoyed listening to Giovanni talk about anything. He was never trivial, and he could be quite passionate about science; all in all, a very interesting fellow. But this night he was ill-tempered and restless. I asked him what was the matter and he evaded me. I left the camp and went out for my hunt. And the next day, rather than remain camped with me sleeping in the darkness of the box, Giovanni insisted that the box be loaded into the wagon so we could cover some distance. The next night was much the same. And it went like that for about a week. I began to wonder if Giovanni had shared with me all of the wisdom that he had to share. One night I accidentally surprised him as he was examining a small object that looked to be made of crystal. He had not heard my approach. The incident would not even stand out in my memory except that I had never seen the object before, and when I asked him about it, he became quite upset. I had fully expected him to share some fascinatingly new scientific find with me. Instead he nervously tried to put the object in his pocket, fumbled it and dropped it. I saw that it was roundish and it rolled along the ground in my direction. It was shiny and opaque, rich blue in color, with little points of red light emanating from inside of it. I attempted to bend and pick it up for my friend, but he yelled and pounced upon it with speed of a wild cat. I can only assume that it was quite valuable, or maybe hazardous in some way. Anyway, Giovanni put it away in his pocket leaving me teeming with curiosity. Giovanni’s mood had been worse. He kept looking around in the surrounding woods, as if expecting a surprise attack of some kind. We were camped just off a trail that ran along the ocean; a ways off of the path. I really doubted if we were at risk of being attacked by highwaymen. But shortly after the blue crystal incident, he became his fine, patient self again. And it was only a few minutes later that he broached the subject that I had been dreading and trying hard not to think about for ten years. “Marcus,” he said; it was one of the few times that he had actually used my name. “I know I have been a little out of sorts lately and I apologize. The time has come for you to hold up to your end of the bargain.” I could have played ignorant at that point, pretended like I did not know what he was talking about, but things had been so tense and strange of late that I thought better of it. I felt very bad, but I also very much resented being put on the spot. I said, “I am truly sorry, my friend, but I never agreed to anything.” He looked me squarely in the eye, reading. “And it looks as if you made up your mind long ago that you would not turn me.” My mind immediately turned to thoughts of Maria. I nodded almost imperceptibly. “Marcus, please!” he implored. “My time grows short. I have given you wisdom and knowledge, the value of which cannot be measured. You must give me what I wish!” “What do mean by that?” I asked. “You look like an old man, but you seem to be ancient even beyond your years. You have never told me how you do this. All the knowledge you have shared with me is invaluable, yes, but for every nugget of wisdom that you have imparted to me it seems that there is another question raised, the answer to which you seem most unwilling to discuss. I can not help but wonder what you have not told me.” “If there is anything more that you should know, you should pay the price to learn it for yourself,” he said. The pain of potential loneliness gathered like storm clouds over my head. “Is this to be the end our association then?” I asked. A maniacal gleam glinted in Giovanni’s eye and for only a second his face distorted into a mask of rage. He screamed, “You do not understand! It matters not in the least, you and your weak sensibilities!! You would be powerless to stop me from taking what I want from you if I willed it! You will turn me into a vampire now!!” His body shook with madness as he came at me! I ran from him as fast as my legs could move. I heard him yell ‘wait!’ behind me, but I was not about to stop just then. For an old man, Giovanni was amazingly swift running through the woods after me. He was unable to catch up with me, however, and soon his shouts faded. I slowed my pace only slightly, moving in a northerly direction. I was terribly confused and upset. That night I happened upon another traveling party near the ocean road. Merchants, I suspected, but I was only looking to get a quick feeding. In my wretchedness, I needlessly left the man dead, and continued my pace. As dawn approached I dug a hole. I never dig a ‘grave’ so to speak. After realizing how vulnerable I was in the day-time during my travels alone through Italy looking for Maria’s family, I learned to dig straight down like a rodent rather than length- wise like a grave digger. I carried a fine blade that I use to break up the earth. Once inside the hole I can fill it in behind me, burrowing around very much like a mole, as much as I need. Fresh air is in short supply, of course, but somehow I do not require much oxygen during the sleep. This method makes it just a little more difficult for someone should they wish to dig me up. And it has happened before! I shall tell you about it here presently. Anyway, I never expected to see Giovanni again, and the loneliness set in like concrete in my veins. I was again mourning the loss of Maria. God! I miss her still! That night, after leaving Giovanni so suddenly, I was distraught. But, as I dug myself out of the hole the next evening, there was Giovanni, restored back to his familiar patient self, waiting for me. So, I thought, I would have to run faster. “OK,” he said. “I can accept the fact that you do not wish to make me or anyone else a vampire. I can respect that. On one side it is a shame; on the other side it is damned conscientious. Heroic! “But I have to tell you something very important. If you want to run away from me that’s fine. You need to! But you need to run in the other direction.” I could not imagine what strange fact or secret that Giovanni was about to divulge to me. I asked, “Why?” as I shook the loose earth from my clothes. “Marcus,” he said, “there is a vampire slayer, and he is coming toward you.” I was incredulous. “A what?” He said it again slower. “A vampire slayer. He has a way of tracking you and any other vampire. And last night you were running right in his direction. But he moves slowly, and you can out-run him, if you run the other way.” “I do not understand,” I said. “What manner of being is a slayer of vampires? How can it be done? Come now! He can not be all that fearsome. You are the most extraordinary fighting man – we can take him together.” “He is most fearsome. And he has terrible methods for slaying vampires,” Giovanni answered. “And every one of them is excruciating! You will not beat him, nor both of us together. But this time at least, you have been forewarned of his approach. You can escape.” My questions continued to flow. “Who is he? How is it that you know of him? How is it that you are aware of his whereabouts?” “Listen closely, Marcus, for this may be the last bit of wisdom that I ever give to you. You have frightful dreams every day, right?” I had never said anything about my dreams. “How did you know?” I asked. He quickly shook his hairy gray head. “Never mind that, Marcus. Every vampire has terrible dreams as they regenerate. Listen! Toward the end of every dream, just before you wake up, there is always that creature with the blue skin, right?” Giovanni never ceased to surprise me. My mouth hung open as he continued. “That is the slayer!” he said. “He looks like a man, naturally, but understand, you will never wish to lay your eyes upon him. If you are ever that close, he will already have you!” I had many more questions, but Giovanni made it clear that he had already told me all that he was going to and that time was of the essence. I needed to move. “Run! That way,” he said, pointing to the east. “And do not stop until you are on the far side of Europe. There should be enough vampires between here and there to get him off your trail. You may wish to keep going.” I said, “I can not imagine what secret motive you must have for sending me off like this.” “You are a free agent, Marcus, as you have always been. You are free to do anything, go anywhere. I warn you of the slayer only for your own information. You decide what to do with that information. But hurry! The slayer is nearly on top of you. What will you do?” “I shall heed your warning, my dear Giovanni. Your wisdom has yet to fail me.” We embraced, and then I bolted, running in the general direction of Asia.

NIGHT IX

Oh God! The next fifty years are a blur to me. I was completely insane; mourning Maria, missing Giovanni, lonely beyond my capacity to cope. I wandered around the Far East feeding and killing without regard. If I was to be killed by another vampire then let it be, I thought. When I had first left Giovanni, I had contemplated letting the slayer get me. I could remember a time not so long before that when I had prayed to God for death. However, as I ran, I had begun to feel exhilarated. Giovanni’s lust for life had rubbed off on me at little. Some strange logic formed in my brain and I decided that I would rather mourn Maria and live as a vampire than take my chances with death via the slayer, at least for the time being. Giovanni was a very wise man. He always said, “Giovane, whatever you do, do not die.” So, I would live. In fact, it seems that just about every decision I have ever made in my life has been ‘just for the time being.’ I have lived very much one day at a time, and the days and years and centuries have just passed right by like a gust of wind. I rarely slept in the same place two days in a row. At night, I wandered from place to place, feeding more often than necessity warranted. I saw the grand sites of sixteenth century Asia, always by waning light, or grey non-light. It was too painful to even wonder how the land might have looked in the daylight. I was strangely comforted by the news from Giovanni that there was a slayer. I knew that some part of me wanted to die, but nothing in me could go through with any act that was directly self-destructive. But there were plenty of causes that I could set into motion, foolish acts that could result in my death or destruction. I fully believed that when the time came that I should be serious about ending my life, I would be able to pull it off. If my state of mind sounds confusing it is because I was, of course, seriously confused! Once I felt that I was far enough away from the slayer to be safe, I began to feel quite invulnerable. I thought about all that I had done and all that I had seen and all that I had learned in my first twenty-five years of being a vampire and felt like I knew everything. I could not die. I killed or let live at my own discretion. I was God! I saw that some people had, and some people had not. And I killed both on a whim. I remember looking into a mirror at some point; I think it was thirty years after I had first escaped from the gypsy camp with Maria. I looked twenty years old, as I do now. And I could charm a person out of their soul if I wanted to. I was unstoppable. It did not help that when I finally did encounter another vampire, I bested him with relative ease. He was a miserable, sadistic wretch, much like myself at the time, and I smelled him from a long way off, just like Giovanni said that I would. He was a strong, dark-skinned vampire, and probably very wise, certainly older than I was at the time, but he had not had John the Ancient for a teacher, not that Giovanni had taught me for the purpose of killing vampires. I saw the vampire one night in Laos, and shadowed him for two nights. He was very good; discreet and tidy. He lived in a nice house, and he was very well set-up. He had neighbors that apparently never suspected a thing. He had a lover, and I believe that he fed on her occasionally. On the third night, after he had left the house, I broke in and killed the girl for no good reason. Then I went out and found him. I befriended him quickly and we spent a fine night on the hunt together. He was careful as I knew he would be, and I was purposefully even more of an ass than I normally was. I kept him out until very near dawn, then we parted company for the day. I can only imagine what must have happened when he got home, and found his lover dead and gored at the entrance of his house. And with dawn rapidly coming, he must have had no time to clean up the mess. It was enough to provoke him, as that had been my desired outcome all along. The next night he tracked me down in the city after having been forced to sneak out of his own house in order to avoid the girl’s family and an angry mob. We fought, just as I had hoped we would, and he was strong. But I was faster. In the end I toyed with him the same as a cat toys with a mouse. I gave him chance after sporting chance to get the best of me and he consistently failed. Finally I gave him a chance to escape alive, but he had not enough objective perspective for that. Neither, at the time, did I. Anyway, he died fighting, but easily. I tell you this so that you can understand. I fancy myself the picture of logic and rationality now, except, perhaps, for my still present suicidal tendencies, but I was not always so sensible. And that first encounter, I am sad to say, was the tip of the ice- burg. Even though I am virtually impervious to physical pain, I tell you now that I was in a terrible pain nonetheless. Misery loves company. I took my pain out on the innocent, exactly the opposite of what Maria had begged of me on her dying bed. My darkness and sadism knew no bottom to their depths. It killed me inside every time I saw two people who thought that they were ‘in love.’ During this time of pain, I never laid a lustful eye on any woman. The thought of having a female companion other than Maria never crossed my mind. Once in my night-haunting, I came across a beautiful young pair of people. I think that I was somewhere in Turkey at the time. I was so jealous of their happiness that I shadowed the young man for a few nights. I found him with a different girl every night! None of the girls were aware of any of the others, and this young player was promising all of them marriage. After a week I was able to determine which girl was the deepest ‘in love’ with the young man. And the next time that I caught them together I attacked them. They were together in a beautiful moonlit glen near a graveyard, of all places, so when I made my appearance they were both frightened beyond their capacity. I started by subduing the young man. I had procured a mallet and some nails just for that purpose, and I nailed his hand to a tree. I promised him that if he made any noise, I would kill his lover, and amazingly, he fell for it. Hah! I was going to kill them both anyway. I doped the girl up with endorphins and such until she was basically anesthetized! Then, while they both watched horrified, I took my blade and cut out her still beating heart! She actually lived long enough to see me place it in the free hand of her boyfriend and say, “There! Take care now, NOT to break her heart!” And you know, I did not even feed on either one of them. I stabbed the young man in his own heart, pulled his hand off of the nail, and left him to die. What a waste! Giovanni had taught me many fine ways to confuse the scene of a feeding so that people would not be able to figure out what had happened. I took it a step further. I would stage the scene of a killing with the intention of having someone else blamed for it. Arriving at some new village or city, I would spy out some person for a victim. My favorite victim for this would be some prominent individual in the community. Religious figures were fun, or someone of a higher social class. I loved to see how much I could turn their neighbors against them. With a victim decided upon, I would then spy, investigate, and learn. Back in those days there were a lot more shadows to hide in at night. I could sneak around premises, peep into windows, steal through windows and doors. Oh, the skeletons I could find in one’s closet! And if it should be that I found a ‘closet’ without a nice, grisly batch of skeletons, I could easily conjure up a few, sometimes literally! I loved nothing more than taking a well-loved and well-respected person and making them into a pariah. Once the friends and loved-ones of my victim learned that he or she was a servant of the Dark One, I would make corpses show up with all of the right circumstantial evidence. My victim would be blamed, at least by many if not all, and I would keep it up until an angry mob would execute the individual in some gruesome way – the sixteenth century legal system of Asia in full swing! Often I would be able to sneak out of town with nary a witness to say that I had even been there. From the shadows I would manipulate like a puppeteer. I loved to see just how far I could push an individual. And they would rarely ever figure out that they were under any kind of outside influence. I was never caught! I once came across a man named Jarringal in a large old city in Persia. He was well-known as one of the finest metal-smiths to be found anywhere. He fashioned some of the most excellent swords ever made. And he was one of only a few men that were manufacturing guns at the time. He had worked hard and built his business, and was prospering famously. Jarringal had a beautiful wife and a young family; I can not remember exactly how many children. He had been commissioned many times to make guns for the Sultan of the time, (the person filling that position was subject to change without notice), and from those commissions he had acquired for himself a little fortune. The excellent blades that he sold in his little shop in town went for a premium. People in the town began to go missing and presently a few of the corpses of those missing were found underneath Jarringal’s coal supply. Of course, he knew nothing about how the bodies had gotten there, but he was still suspected by many of his neighbors. The throats of the bodies had been apparently slashed by a very sharp blade. Then the daughter of a poor barber, I cannot remember his name, was found slashed under Jarringal’s bed! The barber had been a faithful customer of Jarringal’s for years, and the shaving razor that was used to slash the girl was still wedged in her neck. Nobody could figure out anything substantial, but it really looked bad for the blade maker. Except for when I needed him and his wife to sleep deeply, I was sneaking near his bedroom window and causing him to sleep badly. The insomnia had my desired effect on his sanity, and before long his wife stopped sleeping with him. He was wondering if he was going mad. After a few more bodies turned up around his shop, the townsfolk began to really make some noise. It seemed that the loudest outcry came from a well-respected doctor named Kahavvid. Of course, I’m using that title for lack of one better. To his credit, Kahavvid was more science oriented than many men of the time who ‘practiced’ medicine. The angry townsfolk appealed to the local magistrate to pass judgment on Jarringal, and the magistrate passed the case directly onto the Sultan. The Sultan decided that since there was no solid evidence against Jarringal, and since the metal-smith maintained his innocence, that Jarringal should be considered innocent. Kahavvid stirred the people with words. He said, “The Sultan only excuses Jarringal because he is the only man who can make for him guns!” And that was precisely the only business that Jarringal got after a time. The townsfolk purchased their blades from other, less competent metal-smiths. Of course, it was the only business he really needed. Corpses continued to appear around Jarringal’s house. Now he tried to hide them. He was hardly sleeping at night, and quite stressed. He thought he was cursed! Naturally, the corpses were found, and again the angry mob led by Kahavvid confronted Jarringal. This time they did not appeal to the magistrate or the Sultan. In a confused frenzy, Jarringal was quartered by the angry mob. He was proclaiming his innocence even as they cut him with one of his own excellent swords. Even by that time, no one in the town had laid eyes on me and lived to tell of it. I was quite bored with the whole affair and decided to travel on. But before I left, I slashed the doctor in his bed while his wife slept. For good measure, I picked one other victim at random and slashed them as well. The townsfolk were never sure that they had executed the right man. And, of course, they had not. In India, I cursed another man. Oh what fun I had completely ruining his entire life! The man was, for lack of a better word, an emperor named Humayun. He had inherited the newly acquired empire from his father, a man named Babur. Babur had basically been a general from Mongolia with an army for rent, and someone had suggested that he take a try at the coveted jewel that was India. India was cursed, even without me, with a religiously diverse population, and a lot of concentrated wealth. These large stockpiles of treasure and resources seemed to be very difficult for any one man to hold. Babur had successfully taken control of the large part of it, and then died. I wish that I could say that I had something to do with that, but, alas, I had not yet arrived on the scene. When I got into India, Babur’s son Humayun was in the process of taking over the ‘empire.’ He had a few brothers and cousins competing with him for the position, and with a little secret help from me they were ‘taken out of the running’ so to speak. But then I wreaked havoc on Humayun’s life. Appearing to him as a ‘spirit,’ I influenced him, or I should say manipulated him. I did not come right out and tell him what to do. Rather, my influence served to confuse him. Humayun was typically a very able, and competent man, but under my indirect control, he could do nothing right. At the time I learned to really enjoy battles. It makes for very easy feeding. It can be a little hazardous, but I never had to cover my tracks when feeding. Sneaking around encampments at night is also very fun; lots of mischief to be had! All I had to do was trigger a call to arms, then hide in a shadow and watch the fun. And if one of the soldiers was found later dead, impaled, it was almost always attributed to the enemy. I missed most of the actual killing, though. Battles were held mostly during the day. Humayun’s entire force was eventually defeated and he barely escaped India. A clever man named Farid was poised with just enough men to rise to power. This man is credited by history for defeating Humayun and driving him into hiding, but I can tell you Humayun really just defeated himself. Desertion was what really defeated his forces. And it was yours truly that caused the entire thing. Ironically, Farid had served faithfully in the army for Humayun’s father. Things calmed down in India for the first time in twenty-five years. Farid ruled with a strong hand and quickly quelled trouble. I had every intention of haunting Farid and ruining him the same way that I had Humayun, but I got distracted for about a decade and was traveling in what is now Siam and Indonesia. When I returned to India, it was changed. Farid had prospered greatly as Emperor. He had established a strong centralized monarchy, built great roads, and quadrupled his personal treasury. See what happens when I turn my back? Of course, I am joking. Life had not improved at all for the lower classes, but it was certainly good to be the king. Farid made damn sure that if his troops plundered, they plundered only for him. And his men were notorious for doing their own share of raping. He allowed them that one freedom while commanding them with a strict rule. But the biggest thing that Farid did that upset me was die before I got the chance to get to him. I wanted the chance to plague him as I had done Humayun. Oh well, he died heinously in an explosion. Understand that gun powder was still a relatively new innovation at the time. Farid may have been the first man in recorded history to actually die in an explosion. Upon his untimely death, there sprung many warring men that took a shot at control of the empire. Funny thing, nobody could hold onto it. It would have been hard enough to be ‘king of the mountain’ even without my complicating matters. But with me sneaking about at night it was impossible. Troops did not know who was in command, or who they even wanted to follow. Leaders were assassinated left and right, and not always by me! It was bad to be the king, and that is the way that I liked it! It was during this time period that I had an interesting conversation with a soldier. I had just crept out of the Sultanate in Delhi after having fed on and killed the would-be Emperor, when I was actually seen by one of the guards. He was in the act of trying to arrest me when he suddenly found himself disarmed and subdued. He was so young! Maybe nineteen at the most! I realized that in another life, I could have been this young man. So I decided to pick his brain for a moment. It was so rare that I had any interaction with anyone. You’ll understand why in a bit. I said, “You seem quite young to be a fighting man. Why are you in this army?” He answered honestly, “My father and brothers fight in this army. They are all great warriors. I wish to be like them. There is much glory to be won. And it pays better than working in the field.” “But you could die,” I said as a suggestion. “Where is the glory in that?” “There is great glory for dying for this great cause,” he replied. “What is your faith?” I asked. “Hindu,” was his reply. “Is that the cause for which you are fighting and willing to die?” I asked this because the man that I had just killed, the supposed leader that he had failed to protect, was in fact Muslim. If he had answered ‘yes’ to my question I would have killed him without further ado. “No,” he said as I should have known. “Then, pray, what is the cause for which you fight?” All he could say was, “I wish to be a great warrior.” “So you want to slay many men in battle, and survive as a triumphant, glorious, warrior? Why do you wish to kill?” I asked. He did not answer right away, but from the look on his face I knew that I had hit it. He had desire to make war just like I did! I wondered what he might have experienced in his childhood to make him grow up with such a frame of mind, as I squeezed the last bubbles of life from him. The conversation haunted me years. At first, I felt as if the young soldier had been trying to take something that belonged to me alone. I was the Bringer of War, and there could only be one! No one but Marcus could kill for glory! What ever had gotten into his head to give him such an idea? It struck me that he was not alone! He was a clone of millions of young men who dream of glory and greatness and who engage in the thrill of the kill in an attempt to achieve that greatness. Killing another man is typically against the Law of the Land. But for some reason war gives a soldier license to kill. I realized that soldiers have a bloodlust similar to mine. Of course, I rationalized that I was not killing for glory. I killed to feed, to survive. But I knew that I also destroyed life because it was fun; I got pleasure from the act, and I knew that that was as evil a reason for killing as glory. My problem at the time was that I was not deeply into introspection, so I buried these thoughts under a mountain of denial, and went on being the Bringer of War, now with renewed fervor. I decided that I hated soldiers for endeavoring to be what I was, and I developed a great love for killing them. I still enjoy it to this day, only for much different reasons. So, anyway, India went on being ravaged by war. Then, surprisingly, shortly after the death of Farid, from out of Persia with some rented troops, came the return of Humayun. I decided not to hinder him as he reclaimed what his father had originally conquered. But soon after he had once again won the ‘empire’ I began to ‘appear’ to him again. I simply could not leave poor Humayun alone. I managed to move into the Sultanate. This I did completely in secret one night when I discovered a passage behind a bookshelf on the second floor of the grand library. The passageway was known to Humayun and a few of his most trusted men, and it led down to a second, and most secret, underground treasury. None of them knew that I had made for myself a secret chamber from their passageway. Now I was able to appear to Humayun with ease and regularity. He had at first thought me to be a spirit, but now he was convinced that I was a demon. I told him that I was in fact a deity. I was able to play him like a sitar, whether he did as I commanded or not. I quickly tired of him, however, as manipulating him ceased to be challenging or fun. He was about as competent and strong-willed a man as has ever lived, and I easily reduced him to an indecisive dunderhead. Before it was over, he was even praying to me! It ended one day when I was aroused early from my day-sleep. I do not actually have to sleep during the day if I am not in need of major regeneration, but if I do walk in the day I must absolutely avoid daylight, naturally. It is not uncommon for me to wake in the day and brood in the darkness. So this day I was awakened by the sound of someone penetrating the outer area of my little hidy-chamber. It was Humayun. He had happened upon the hidden latch that led into my chamber. He held up his lamp when he saw me. At first he was terrified to see me, as he always was now whenever I appeared to him. But, I am slow to come to my senses whenever I first awake, so he had a second to evaluate the situation, and I by the time that I had become completely coherent, he had overcome his fear. He said, “So! You are not a God!” “I am much more fearsome than a God,” I said. “And far less merciful!” And I took him. When I had finished, and he was dying, he said weakly, “You are a devil. How long you have cursed me. What was my sin that I should be so afflicted?” I could think of no good answer. But I refused to be sympathetic to his suffering. “Life is pain!” I said. It sounded good at the time. What do you do with the body of the emperor? At the moment I was past caring. He was near death and I walked him back up the passageway to the library. Daylight prevented me from venturing into the library so I gave the hapless man a hard shove. He stumbled weakly against the wall, fell back against the banister, then began a hard fall down the stone staircase. One of his most trusted agents happened to be in the library at the time along with a young servant. I heard them cry out as Humayun fell. They ran to him at the foot of the long curved staircase where he lay still, and quite dead. The older man must have examined Humayun’s neck, because I heard him say to the servant, “God have mercy! The bite of the Baital!! No one must know of this. We will say that he simply fell. But we must take precautions!” Humayun was buried in concrete. His extravagant mosque still stands today! Humayun’s son Ackbar was only thirteen when I killed his father, and he endeavored to take control of the empire. I found the lad quite amusing, so I did not hinder him. I did haunt him, appear to him, but this time my counsel was good, as it was my intention that the boy should rule. At first Ackbar was quite wary of me. He moved the Sultanate several times hoping to lose this ghost that haunted him. Eventually, though, I actually became endeared to him! Ackbar was also easily controllable, and he, too, believed that I was deity. He not only prayed to me, but he started a new religion that paid homage to his unknown God. Ackbar had a long and prosperous rule. I watched the people of India live under the rule of this basically wise man. Under my influence, Ackbar relieved harsh tariffs, allowing the common man to prosper a little. He kept a strong army and no one was able to challenge his rule. I realized that it was much better for the ‘commoner,’ (a term that I have grown to despise), when the land is not ravaged by war. And there is only one reason that I should even care – I hate the fact that my parents were too poor to feed and care for both of their children. I hate the fact that even in their old age, they had nothing! They could not even afford to buy meat for supper. They lived and died in one beat of a heart relative to eternity, and I hated their suffering. The suffering of my victims and their families I did not even consider once, but the suffering of my family that I hardly knew, wears on me still. I hate poverty. I abhor lack! Look around you now! No emperor of any land of the past ever had the quality of life that is enjoyed by the average soul today. I have watched, and perhaps even had a hand in that gradual improvement of quality of life; each generation building on the accomplishments of their forefathers; and you know, it only took me two hundred years to figure out how it was done.

NIGHT X

All good things must end, and so it was with my tomfoolery in Asia. After noting the difference between ‘war’ and ‘peace’ I knew that I could no longer go on instigating discontent. I realized that if I was going to truly be the Bringer of War, I was going to have to have a damn good reason for it. I had not yet put my finger on it, however. I decided that the time had come to finally stop Tarino and make him pay. It was a long overdue errand that had been interrupted. Now I would go back and finish wisely and strongly what I had started to do sixty-years earlier in a fit of grief- stricken madness. I was going to kill Tarino. I would stop the comprachicos once and for all. As I traveled back to Italy, I fancied that my head was finally clearing. It seemed that I could think again! Or perhaps for the first time. I was still feeling pain, make no mistake; I still missed my beautiful Maria. But my calm focus on this objective, Tarino’s execution, was now the device by which I could at least function somewhat sanely in spite of the pain. I returned to a new Italy! Art and music and innovation had swept across the land creating anew, and making life better – wonderful! I was delighted by the new wave of prosperity. I was excited by all of the invention even though I benefited little from it myself. Just when I would be thinking that they had topped out, invented the end-all device, that they could not possibly improve further, someone would come out with some new gadget that would beat all. I was surprised to find the search for the gypsy camp to be so difficult. I found other gypsy camps; even a few that were practicing art like Tarino had, and those camps I completely annihilated. The children could not be saved unfortunately, but at least there would be no more. Twice before it had been so easy to find. Tarino had always left an easy trail to follow. Now I could find no trace of Tarino and his gypsies. I hunted for five years with a mind single to my goal, and I did not find him before I had become quite obsessed, so the insanity had pretty much returned. I traveled back to Ralione. I thought that since my biological father had done business with Tarino, and knew him somewhat, perhaps one of my kin, if they could be located, could tell me something of him. I was grasping at straws. I arrived into town, and, finding the old row-houses gone and the land rebuilt upon, began in the hour of dusk to make inquiries as to the whereabouts of Berto Lanchetta or his family. I learned very quickly that Berto had died, but he had a daughter still living in town somewhere. In a few more evenings of searching I had located her flat and I paid it a dinner visit. I arrived with a bit of lamb and a clove of garlic, though this time it was not necessary. Berto’s grandson Vincenzo Sertini, I learned, made a fine living as the best horse trainer in Ralione. Using my irresistible charms I was quickly welcomed into the small home. I recognized Vincenzo’s aged mother, and she may have recognized me as well. When she saw me she said with wet eyes, “You look like my Papa.” Presently, I just let the question slide out, “Have you heard any word of Tarino Degli Zingari?” The children and grand-children had no knowledge of Tarino, but the old woman spoke as if she was sharing a dark secret that she had carried all her life. She said, “That one is a vampire! He is a scourge upon the land of Northern Italy. I last heard him to be for a long time near Genoa.” God! It was the last place in Italy I would have looked! I covered the distance to Genoa in two nights, spurred by the thought of long-awaited revenge. I quickly learned that one named Tarino did indeed live in the woods a ways outside of the city. There was no news of a gypsy camp, however. In the non-light of night I headed out into the woods. My plan was to furtively locate him and spy on him; plan an attack. I was not going to go off half-cocked like before. However, my plan was foiled as I crept through the dark underbrush, simply trying to find him. I had only just caught a faint whiff of ancient age when a low, gravely voice said, “Spignuglini!” I froze! I did not wish to respond, for many reasons, not the least of which was the fact that I refused to validate that name with a response. There was something wrong with the voice….. Noiselessly, he was behind me in a flash – could have taken me at that moment perhaps, or at least delivered a devastating first strike. I felt his bony fingers caress my shoulder and face, his stale breath on my ear as he rasped again, mocking, “Spigunlini!” I would kill him for that if nothing else! But still, the voice was wrong! I turned and said, “My name is Marcus.” And then I took in this old man that was Tarino Degli Zingari. It was indeed Tarino, no mistake, but he was no longer the young and beautiful vampire leader of the gypsies. He had no entourage, and he looked to be about seventy years old. All of his teeth were gone, his face was wrinkled and dry. And he was obviously quite mad! Exactly what had happened to him I could not imagine. He grinned foolishly, toothlessly at me, through a scraggly, spittle-encrusted beard. All he said was “Spignuglini!” “Tarino!” I grasped him. “What happened?! What happened to you?!” But he did not answer my question. He just cackled an old man’s laugh and muttered nonsense. He said, “Spignuglini has come…. has come back….. he will beat it out of old Tarino.” “Where are all of the others?” I asked. “It is up there!” he said pointing to my head. “You want I should get it out?” He was clearly mad. And I realized that I was feeling horribly deprived. I had had dark thoughts about finding Tarino and besting him with strength and wit. But this weak old man would provide no contest. I could kill him, yes, but under these conditions my vengeance would be hollow, false, unfulfilling. My vengeance had been stolen! Ignoring the insane old Tarino now, I followed the scent of filth to a little hermit’s encampment in a tiny clearing. He had been living there alone for many years, I could not be sure how many. God only knows what he had been eating; probably plants, insects and worms. He had no shelter, and only rags for clothes. I remember actually feeling sorry for the old man. This crazy old man was the same one that had put me into a vase and forced to grow into it. And he had done the same to my precious Maria. He had beat me mercilessly and left me to die in the light of the day. Surely he deserved to die! I had to wonder what had happened to make Tarino grow old! What had happened to the others? Had they left? Had the Giovanni’s mysterious slayer caught them? It occurred to me that he was going to die, and quite heinously, though not near as heinously as he was now living. I stopped feeling sorry for him. I knew that the most terrible thing I could do to him was to let him continue to suffer with his pathetic life. And so I left him there. In my life I have found that there is a time and a place for revenge. But not for mortals. For you, life is too short! I am reminded of an old Japanese proverb. ‘If you sit by the river long enough, you will eventually see the body of your enemy floating by.’ The only thing would be living long enough to see it. In my life I have seen it many times.

NIGHT XI

My madness was finally clearing. Still, I traveled, but now I was living as a vampire more wisely, more in the way that Giovanni had taught me. I was feeding only when necessary, and very discretely. And then something happened to me quite surprising. I had been seeing by night the sights of Greece. It had seemed that in my travels I had always been hurriedly passing through that beautiful country, so now I had made a point of visiting there, and experiencing the people. It was in Athens that I laid eyes on a woman, and the sight of her caused me to forget all of my pain. Let me back up a little. Understand that I was still very much missing Maria, as I still do. But my grief for her passing had finally abated a little. Fate had avenged her death, so the pain of it was becoming a memory. At night I would walk through the city. I never fed more than once a night, and I was keeping the body count relatively low. So far there had been no general scare or alarm about the victims. There were several places on the outskirts of the metropolis where the men gathered at night to drink alcohol and engage in intercourse with females, both social and sexual. They were referred to as pothouses and usually secret in their locations, as the silly ‘holy laws’ of the Ottoman Empire forbade such establishments of ‘ill-repute.’ Most of them were run by Christians, if you can imagine, secretly bucking the authority of the Muslims. I used to skulk around these places myself, much like I still do today, spying from the perimeter on the social life that I could never fully be part of. The particular pothouse that I haunted this night was nothing near a dive. It was actually very clean and nice. The clientele were mostly merchants, mostly distinguished. Four large men stood near the door, probably with the job of keeping out the pirates. There were no women customers, but there were plenty of pretty girls waiting on the men. I sensed her before I saw her. Like you, Miriam darling, she had a very strong natural pheromone secretion. I experienced one of those rare moments when I get to feel a little of what my victims feel. I looked at her and felt an even more powerful sensation. I will never forget it. My heart jumped in a way that it never had before, and began to race! My mind went completely blank. I had not fed that night, but my blood-hunger was momentarily forgotten. She was perfectly captivating. She was dancing, as that was her vocation, and the first of her features that I noticed, oddly enough, were her hips. They moved in little circles as she performed her belly-dance, and I was mesmerized. From there my gaze slowly focused on the large jewel in her navel. When I was finally able to take all of her in I saw a statuesque, dark-skinned Grecian beauty. Long, dark hair flowed down from her head in full wavy locks. But what really got me was her mouth; her gorgeous, godly smile. Large, bright eyes looked confidently, knowingly down at all of the men whom she held captivated. She looked to be about twenty years old, and at first, I wondered if she might be a vampire. But whatever she was, I was entranced, instantly obsessed. I looked away for a second, almost reflexively as if trying to break the spell, and was surprised to realize that I could not picture the girl in my mind’s eye! I had to look again. I noticed that she had many, many gold and silver coins stuck all over her body. The men of the crowd were putting honey on coins, then sticking them on her as tribute. She already had stuck to her a decent week’s wage for any laborer, and many more men were beckoning to her, ready with a honeyed coin. I remember being struck with the overwhelming notion that I must possess this woman, and I had to fight the urge to run and grab her and carry her off to….to where? But, she was to be mine, and I knew that I above any mortal man would be able to own such a woman. I put thoughts of Maria out of my head and watched the woman dance. The music built to a frenzy as she went on with her tempestuous dance. To say that it was erotic only begins to describe the experience for me. I felt as though I was truly alive for the first time. I suddenly found myself clapping my hands and stomping my feet along with the rhythm of the music, sexual, primitive, passionate! At length, the music ended with a tumultuous finale, and another dancer came out. My eyes followed the first dancer hungrily as she exited the main room. And that was when I realized that I did not know what to do. I knew all about choosing a victim, stalking a victim, feeding on a victim. But how, I wondered, do you win the favor of a woman? Giovanni had never really covered that. I knew that I would be able to charm her; that was not the problem. I had had plenty of experience in charming women. At the time, I believed that I could make any woman fall in love with me. However, prior to seeing that dancer, blood had been the only thing I had ever desired from any woman except Maria. With Maria gone, I had not wanted love with another woman, until now. No, I knew that must have her heart and soul. It was Venus! Stealthily, I exited the main room and followed a hallway with many doors leading off from it. I followed her intoxicating scent and found her in a small bathing area where the dancers could wash themselves and the sticky coins. She was being attended to by another girl, and for the moment, they were alone. I watched for a long time, unnoticed, as the woman bathed in a large, shallow basin recessed in the floor. Her naked, voluptuous body was perfection. Understand, I do not consider myself a peeping tom or a voyeur. I am a vampire, and I look at your world from the shadows. It is what I do. A big voice broke me out of my spell. “What are doing back here, my small friend?” I was not used to being taken by surprise. My first impulse was to duck and disappear, as I knew that I was well capable of doing. However, I quickly decided to answer this challenge instead. My machismo had reared its handsome head. I turned and took the measure of the massive man that virtually blocked the hallway. He was huge to be sure, and had indeed caught me in a place where I should not be. I did the only thing that I could do – I smiled broadly and put out my hand. “My name is Marcus,” I said. “Are you the proprietor of this fine establishment?” The large man’s demeanor lightened almost instantly as he took my hand, and he answered, “No, would you –” I quickly interrupted him, “Well, you should be. This is a fine establishment you have here. You look a little weary, though. You should get some rest.” He said, “Yes, I am tired, thanks.” And he turned and shuffled away slowly with his head bowed. The big man would think of but nothing finding somewhere to put his head down for the next few minutes. I turned back around to see the woman’s reaction to what had just happened. She was not shocked or appalled that I was in her bath. She was very comfortable with her nudity. Her young assistant was mildly upset, and she edged her way to a tasseled cord that hung down from a large bell, but the woman calmed her. She could tell by my appearance and demeanor that I was not there to harm them or steal her tribute. Back in those days I dressed myself very similarly to the way I do now. In fact, I have scarcely changed my look in 450 years. I always wear a long leather coat. Its utilities are copious. For one thing, in a pinch, it can provide one extra layer of protection from the light of day. And, for someone who often carries everything that he needs to survive on his person, it can have the much needed concealed pocket space. I have always preferred a nice, sensible trouser – always dark. I can have nothing compromise my agility. Never sacrifice comfort for fashion, I always say. Then, some kind of dark tunic to finish my outfit; dark is the choice for obvious reasons. The outfit is intended to blend; I never wish to stand out. That would be most dangerous. I said, almost shyly, “I very much enjoyed your dancing. I wish to pay you tribute.” I reached into my pocket for a handful of coins. She smiled with her alluring mouth, blushed a little, and said, “That is not how it is done, sire. I can not simply take your money back here. If you need a companion for the night, I can get Jafal. He will find you a pretty girl.” This frustrated me. I almost resorted to using some pheromones on her at that point. But whatever I was to do, I was not about to be coy with her. “I do not want a companion for the night. I want you. You are beautiful beyond the scope of my vision to take all of your beauty in. I – I must have you.” “Yes, I suppose you must,” she said. She stood, looking sidelong at me, coyly. “And if you are a good little boy, you can have me.” She was patronizing me! Understand, I was (and still am) quite used to taking whatever I wanted. I fancied myself God! She could not condescend to me like that. I would have her, and I would not have her patronize me. I let the pheromones flow! She suddenly looked at me with new interest. “My name is Shalimar,” she said. “What is your name, sire?” So, her name was Shalimar. I was under her spell as much as she was under mine. More so, perhaps. I bowed theatrically and said, “I am Marcus.” She turned to her handmaiden. “Kymba, please see that we are not disturbed.” And wordlessly the pretty little ebony- skinned girl left. We were alone now, and it seemed to me that the rest of the world began to fade around us. There was only a moment of awkwardness as she said, “What is this strange power you have over me, Sire Marcus?” Somehow, she knew! But neither of us was going to allow unsolved mysteries to get in the way of the passion that seemed now to electrify everything in the room. The magnetism between us seemed to be the ultimate power in the universe just at that moment, and fighting against that power felt more like a sweet and precious yielding. In a heartbeat she was in my arms, in another heartbeat our lips had merged. Smelling her, tasting her, I was caught up in a rapture unlike anything I had ever felt before. The only thing real to me at that moment was the immense pleasure. When she stopped kissing me momentarily and looked into my eyes, I also looked deeply into her beautiful eyes. I saw depth there, consciousness, reality. And know this: I was not imagining it! As my hands wandered over her skin and her curves, I became vaguely aware that she was undressing me. That was a first for me and again I yielded. One thing became clear to me as we proceeded – she knew exactly what she was doing. She was experienced while I was a comparative novice. Our gropings were just on the edge of being fevered, animalistic, violent. It was a powerful passion that only the two of us working together could keep under control! Presently, I stood without clothes, wearing only her body wrapped tightly against me. She was only a few inches shorter than myself, and we made love standing, right there in the bath. Shalimar was extraordinarily sexual. She was very in touch with her body and her sexuality, and she knew how to enjoy intercourse. God! I can not adequately describe how much she enjoyed sex! Further, I cannot describe really how much I enjoyed sex with her!! Our first time was relatively short. She reached climax quickly, intensely, seconds after she had directed me into her. I remember the heat! Because she was so ‘good,’ she managed to come about three or four more times before I lost it. Each of her orgasms was so amazingly stimulating for me that I could not help but quickly reach an immensely intense, violent orgasm. She seemed to draw it out of my body against its will, and for the second time that night, I think I might have tasted just a little of what my victims experience. Yes, it is true that a vampire need never expire after climax. It is done by having direct control over the libido and testosterone production. However, the sensations are generally too overwhelming for me with all of the nerve endings in my penis at their spike points; I think many women can understand that feeling; and perhaps some men on Viagra as well. After, we leaned against the cool, richly tiled wall breathing heavily, smiling and giggling softly. Shalimar panted, “Whew! I do not know what came over me, sire.” I did not wish to tell her anything of what did come over her. Besides, at the time, my world was spinning. I sank to my knees and caressed her long, smooth, shapely legs. I thought, why should I not love her? I knew nothing of Venus. Only with Shalimar, I got ‘lucky,’ so to speak, because, as I got to know the woman, I found that she was most exemplary! Her self-esteem was impeccably healthy, her perspective was broader than mine at the time. She knew herself. She was extraordinarily empowered, and that is something to consider when you recall society’s views on women back in those days. I was instantly in love! The only problem was that she did not love me. Well, she loved me, but she also ‘loved’ many other men. I learned minutes after our first heated time in that wonderful bath that she was a woman of the night, a prostitute. She made it clear to me that she had been caught up in the heat of the moment, so to speak, and that next time, (and she hoped that there would be a ‘next time’) I would be expected to pay. And her fee was comparatively high. Very high! Not that money meant anything to me. Shalimar was, in fact, the most expensive prostitute in Athens, perhaps Greece, perhaps even in the known world! Her price was prohibitive for most men, as was her intention. What can I say? I was young, and rather naïve in the ways of love! I listened to her as she told me what she did for money, heard her tell me that I would pay handsomely, just like all of the other men who would have her for the moment, but in my mind I did not accept it! I believed that not only would I alone be exempted from having to pay, but that she would also desist in her profession and love me only! Even in the midst of this unfortunate revelation, (unfortunate for me!), the minutes that we spent in conversation after that initial red-hot session were heavenly for me. I loved that her energy, her focus, was on me. I would have been happy to spend the rest of the night with her talking, making love, basking in her wonderful energy. I would have given anything to stay in her light. But all too soon, her young handmaiden returned, and with her was another large man. He was older, and richly dressed, with coarse black hair, and a thick, carefully trimmed mustache. I knew immediately that he was the pimp. He hovered around Shalimar, plainly the proud owner of a prized asset. The sight of it made me nauseous! My sharp ears picked up the soft words that he had intended only for Shalimar. “What have you been doing? Do you not know that Yanni is waiting for you?” But Shalimar would not be hurried or pushed. She said calmly, “And he will go on waiting for me if wants to be with me. I will not be long.” “Did that other fellow over there pay you?” asked the pimp. “What makes you think that we did anything?” she retorted coyly. “I do not care what you did!” he whispered back hoarsely. “If he spent time with you he should pay!” She answered succinctly, “I will spend my time doing what ever I want with whomever I want, Jafal. I say who pays and how much. No matter how much you would like to, you do not own me. I do not work for you. As far as I am concerned, you work for me! Do not forget it!” At that point another coin-covered dancer entered the bath with another young assistant. I could not help noticing that this second dancer was covered with far less coins than Shalimar had been. Shalimar ‘covered’ herself by wrapping a very long, shear silken scarf around her body while her handmaiden finished picking up the last of Shalimar’s coins from the shallow bath. It looked to be about the equivalent of four weeks pay for the average laborer. And I later learned that it had only been an average night! The wonderfully beautiful Shalimar moved close to me and gestured to her assistant that they would be leaving. I felt the electricity of her touch on my arm as she said most sexily, “I hope that you will call on me again soon, Marcus. My body already hungers and longs for more of your magic.” She kissed my cheek then, leaving a burning sensation as she moved away. I stood there, probably looking quite ridiculous, as she and her young assistant exited the bath. My heart was flipping, and fluttering, and beating as if it might burst, but as her essence left the room behind her, I became inexorably aware of my hunger! I wanted to follow her, and snatch her up and take her away to be mine alone, but thankfully, amazingly, it was my hunger that kept me practical. I needed to feed, and I knew that I did not want to feed on Shalimar. Not for the same reasons that I did not ever wish to feed on Maria, mind you. I simply did not yet wish to make Shalimar known to my vampirism. I moved dazedly down the hall, as my mind raced, trying to cope with all of the amazing, excellent, and sickening feelings about all that had just transpired. The pimp came up behind me and said, “Whoa! Young fellow, you can not get away so cheaply.” My mind swam now, hunger quickly taking over. This pimp was bothering me and I knew that it would be relieving to just take him. But it was obviously a bad place. And he, being so closely associated with someone that I wished to have further interaction with, was at least for the time being a bad choice. Even if I could get the pimp outside of the club, it would raise too many questions, especially in Shalimar. The pimp did not know it, but his association with Shalimar saved his life that night. I reached into a pocket inside of my long, leather coat, and pulled out all of the money that I had with me; the pilfered coins of my victims of the last few weeks. His eyes lit up at the sight of the small fortune. Handing it over to him, I said coolly, “Please tell her that she was absolutely extraordinary when you issue to Shalimar her deserved share.” I left the pothouse, fed on the first suitable victim that I found, and disposed of the body that night in the water near the ship yard. For the rest of the night I did what it is that I do; I spied from the shadows on my lovely Shalimar. I was only able to snatch little glimpses of her, however, as she went about the various interior rooms of the pothouse. I followed her to where she lived when she finally left the pothouse escorted by one of the large men. I watched her from afar, my desire for her burning out of control, hotter and hotter, like a fire on dry, windy plains. I was able to learn quite a bit by asking one of the girls at the pothouse about her. By dawn I understood the situation. Shalimar was twenty-two years old. She was an admitted nympho-maniac. Before long I knew for sure that she was not a vampire, but she had an extraordinary power over men and she was fully aware of it! She prostituted herself because she absolutely loved sexual intercourse, and because she loved it, she did it well. I am sorry; that is actually a gross understatement. Her love-making skills were other-worldly! Her high sexual activity had brought about a few consequences however. At least three, to be direct. Shalimar was the mother of three small fatherless children, all girls. I soon learned, however, that she was an extremely loving and conscientious mother. She spent all of her daytime hours with her girls, and each child had a full-time nurse. Shalimar was able to pay the servants quite well from the money that she made dancing and pleasing men. Her mother ran the household and supervised the raising of the children whenever Shalimar was working. Shalimar made sure that her children never wanted for anything. The man Jafal, her pimp, had about ten girls under his ‘protective care.’ He did not own the pothouse, but he was one of only two pimps that supplied girls to the place. His girls were allowed to use the facilities at the pothouse, which consisted of two bathing rooms and six other rooms where the girls could take their ‘johns.’ He brokered their services and generally collected for most of the girls. He would then pass onto them what I soon learned to be a dismal percentage. Shalimar, however, collected from her clients herself whenever she could, and simply paid Jafal a fair consideration for his services to her. She was able to do this because she was in such high demand, notwithstanding her much higher price. And, as I suspected would be the case, Jafal did not share with Shalimar the money that I had paid to him! The other dancers and prostitutes, (not all of the prostitutes danced) spanned the spectrum from beautiful to ‘not so pretty.’ And believe it or not, they did much of the same things that women today do to cover flaws, accentuate strong points, and generally portray a beautiful, sexual, desirable image, regardless of what is really there; what is to be found under the clothes, under the bedcovers, inside the heart and mind! But Shalimar, thanks to nature, had no need to employ any such illusionary devices. And, by virtue of whatever life experiences she had had, she also had a delightfully pure heart, and a quick, intelligent mind. You might tend to judge her because she was a prostitute, but I tell you that she was only doing what she loved. And she was not disempowered by a vice; Shalimar was empowered by a passion! You might suggest that, being a whore, she could never know true love, but I tell you that she did know real, true love – love of self! You might say that she cheapened and tarnished the sacred act of consummation and procreation, but I would remind you that the value of that act is not absolute, but perceived, and the obsessive pursuit of chastity is disempowering! Shalimar can only be judged by her works, and she left this world with a legacy that one could only hope they are part of!

NIGHT XII

As I arose the next evening, my first thought was of Shalimar, and I knew that I had to see her immediately, had to feel her energy. I felt no blood-hunger, no pain, save for the bittersweet pain of withdrawal from the powerful drug that was Shalimar. Generally, I can safely arise directly after sunset. That usually gives me about an hour before the onset of true black night; one hour to watch the sky darken, the light wane, the colors fade to grey and black. Moving through the city in the direction of her house, I saw people scurrying to get home before total darkness. These were the day-time people – the people that I rarely saw. Shalimar had a fine house, not rich, but certainly nice. As I approached I caught sight of another man walking to her door. I recognized him as one of the large, muscular men guarding the door at the pothouse the night before. I stopped and slid into a nearby shadow. Shalimar’s mother greeted the young man at the door and invited him inside. Jealousy seared through me. I wanted to be invited beyond that threshold! I caught just a glimpse of the beautiful Shalimar through a side window. The sight of her doubled my pulse. Glancing through windows, I saw Shalimar lead the muscular young man to the rear of the house, where they exited into a small, but charming little courtyard and garden. From the shadows beyond the low wall surrounding the garden I could see and hear everything with ease. The man was pensive; he wore the face of a puppy begging for table scraps. My heart flipped as I heard Shalimar’s silky voice say, “So, Houlloe, what did you want to talk to me about?” The young man stammered, and it quickly became clear that he had had nothing in particular to discuss; he simply wanted some rare, precious time alone with the stunning woman. As jealous as I was, I could relate. He blurted out, “Please marry me, Shalimar. I love you! I can keep you safe!” Shalimar smiled that patronizing smile that I had seen the night before. “Oh, Houlloe, we have talked of this before. You are still that same little boy Houlloe that used to chase me through the vineyards. You know that you are very dear to me, but I shall not marry you or anyone else.” He was down on his knees now, in a very emasculating display. “Please!” he cried. “You need to marry! You need to marry a man that can keep you safe! Your children need a father!” But she remained calm and smiling cheerfully, looking down at the young man as if he were a small boy, and talking to him in the same tone. “Now, Houlloe, you are such a sweet boy. You are so sweet to always be there to defend me when I need it. But I am just not ready to settle down. Ask me again in three years if you wish.” He bellowed, “I can not wait three years to marry, Shalimar!” “I am not asking you to wait to marry,” answered Shalimar sweetly. “I only wish for you happiness. If you find another with whom to share your love, I hope that you would seize the opportunity for happiness.” As I watched the scene, I could envision myself in the place of the young man. How would Shalimar respond to my proposal? Well, first off, I knew that marriage in the traditional sense was out of the question. Besides, the institution did not seem material to me. Secondly, and this was actually first, I was a vampire. Was I willing to turn her if she desired it? Even as I contemplated this, I could not help but feel a petty vindication toward the young Houlloe. I laughed to myself, and the laughter was directed at him. What a pathetic fool! However, Houlloe the pathetic had the wonderful privilege of escorting the beautiful Shalimar to the pothouse, where she was prepared to spend another night dancing, and pleasing men, earning the money that provided the fine life for her children. And again I found myself in the crowded main room, watching her amazing dance, being caught up in the rhythm and the tempo of the music. I kicked myself for not having much money; my victim the previous night had been carrying little. Notwithstanding, I enjoyed the entire scene immensely. Jealous as I was of the men that received her momentary attention while they affixed the sticky pieces of gold and silver to her heavenly body, I simply could not help feeling their thrill and joy vicariously. Do you see how a vampire lives through other people? After she finished I again snuck back to the room where I knew Shalimar would be bathing. By this time, I was nearly mad with desire for her, and I did not hide in the shadows. I stood in the arched entrance of the elegant room, not being able to help my shy smile. I said, “Hello, Shalimar,” and greatly enjoyed speaking her name. To show my grace I also addressed the silent Kymba. Shalimar was already undressed. She smiled warmly. “Why, hello, Sire Marcus. I am so glad to see that you have come back to me. Will I be seeing you later tonight?” I knew what she meant and endeavored to set her straight and communicate my true feelings. “You may see me later as you see me now,” I said. “I do not wish to hire you for your services. I love you. I desire you! I would be with you if you wished it, and I hope that you do. Money means nothing to me and I would give you all that you desired.” The patronizing smile appeared and I knew that I was to be rejected. “Oh, Marcus,” she said. “You dear, dear man.” She might as well have been talking to a dog. “I can not be with you in that way. But I will always be here to please you whenever you have the need and can pay.” I am sure that I must have reddened with humiliation. I thought, she does not understand. She would not reject my love if she knew that I was superior to every man! Of course, now I realize how immature that line of thinking was. But, at the time, I was not going to be cast off in such a way. Out of me poured the pheromones, and I could see the change in her demeanor almost instantly. Kymba, as well, was dramatically affected. Shalimar seemed to be at odds with herself. She moved towards me, hesitated, then said slowly, “You should go.” She gave me a kiss on the cheek that lingered, lingered. Then she kissed again a little closer to my mouth still lingering. Then her lips moved lightly over mine, and suddenly she was embracing me hungrily, her mouth pressed against mine. The passion took me over as I put my hands on her. This is what I wanted! I wanted her to desire me the way that I desired her! As she frantically undressed me, I became aware of two things – first, that Kymba was standing in the corner of the room, touching herself. Second, a body odor that I recognized as Jafal’s had reached my sensitive nose. I figured that he was just outside the doorway, probably spying on us. He must have seen me sneak from the main room after Shalimar. However, I was not going to be distracted from Shalimar’s wonderful attentions. Again, we made love, standing, only this time I managed to last a little longer. Shalimar was again excellent and exhibited her amazing knowledge and abilities. At the point that I climaxed and could no longer continue, Shalimar was far from done. Maybe I had over-done it on the secretion. Anyway, she remained against me, arms and legs wrapped tightly around me. Her face was glowing as she looked into my eyes and said, “Sire Marcus! You have turned me into a crazy woman!” My smile was genuine and I said, “And I am mad about you, my love. Please! Be with me.” “Do not mistake sex for love, my darling,” she said. “I have to go.” Kymba was looking quite flushed and flustered as she hurriedly picked up the coins from the bath. Shalimar donned a long, shear cloth which she arranged on herself like a toga, kissed me long on the mouth, and then the two of them left in a hurry. Again I was left standing there looking dazed and stupid. And once again, within moments after she had left the chamber, my hunger hit like a spike being driven into my brain. I moved to get out of the pothouse and take care of it, but was again intercepted by Jafal in the hallway. He said with mock pleasantness, “Ah, Sir Marcus! Did you enjoy the delightful Shalimar? Will you be as generous tonight as you were last night?” I matched his fake tone and extended my hand, “Ah, but of course! But tell me Jafal – did you deliver Shalimar’s share to her?” He should have known by my asking that I suspected, but for whatever reason he decided to lie to me, and I have to admit that Jafal was a good liar. He took my hand, looked me straight in the eye and said, “Of course! I only kept a small flat fee for myself. Shalimar was most appreciative!” All this he said with nary a flinch, but I could smell the stench of sweat; that particular acrid odor that a body emits only when a person lies. I leaned my head toward Jafal and lowered my voice, saying confidentially, “My good Jafal, I am afraid I do not have any money with me tonight. Could I be allowed to bring it tomorrow night? Or, if you would prefer, we could go right now to my storehouse; it is not far.” Jafal, being somewhat dazed now by my particular secretion only nodded, and I led him out of the pothouse relatively unseen. At least, if anyone did see us, they would not remember what I looked like, and that was the last time that anyone at the pothouse ever set eyes upon Jafal. His absence was not noticed until the next evening. There were rumors that he had left the city with an emergency. Do you see how easy it was back in those days?

NIGHTXIII

The next night I intercepted Houlloe on his way to pick up Shalimar. With some clever suggestion and a dazed head full of serotonin he was out and ‘down for the count’ so to speak. I proceeded on to Shalimar’s house, and in the waning light of dusk, I called up to the window on the second floor of the house where I knew her bedroom to be. “Shalimar!” I called, relishing the sound of her name on my tongue. “Shalimar!” Presently a girl put her head out the window. It was one of the servants. She said, “Who is calling?” “Please inform Shalimar that it is Marcus!” Moments later the beautiful visage of Shalimar could be seen at the window. Even in the lack-light I could see she was flushing. I began to recite a poem:

If I should find that I have a power Discover it beyond my normal scope To be a god for you, my dear T’would be you from whence it came If I should feel a passion strong, Burning within me without Any hope of control, I give Over to you my heart, my soul And if I should permit my heart to follow After the beauty touched by my eyes This passion would my soul consume And with no return, my body die.

Well, it sounded a lot better in Latin, but it did not make much more sense. But it is a good example to show what a sap I had become for Shalimar. And believe me when I say, any man would do the same! Anyway, it certainly had the desired effect on the woman. She was touched, and at least a little wooed I would like to think. She asked if I would like to come up, and was quite surprised when I jumped up eight feet and caught the sill of the window. I lifted myself through the window with ease, and there I was – in her boudoir! We embraced and kissed for a long minute, and after I noticed that there was no sign of the girl servant. We did not say much at first. I personally was too busy kissing Shalimar all over her body, and she was a bit occupied with sighing and moaning. God but she was delicious. All of her! I must have made love to her with my face for at least two hours and she just came over and over again. Finally I could take the anticipation no longer; I felt as though I was going to explode. I entered her and immediately climaxed. We paused momentarily waiting for the intense tickling sensation in my happy penis to recede, then started again. We made love for the next four hours. Shalimar showed me things that amazed me beyond my capacity, defied all logic– positions and techniques that never made it to the Kama Sutra. It was red-hot! Our passion burned like ice on fire! She gave herself to me freely; I had won her without resorting to charming her. Finally, physically spent, we lay together and talked – for hours. And it was then that I got to know Shalimar well enough to really fall in love with her. That was when I first caught a glimpse of just how intelligent and truly empowered she was. My respect for her grew a thousand times. I hated lying to her, and not telling her about my vampirism, but the time was just not yet right. Besides, being around her, I nearly forgot that I was a vampire! It was not until I left just before dawn that I felt the hunger, and even then it was not so bad that I would not be able to wait until the next night. But I loved being the sole recipient of her energy. I basked in it all night long. It was soothing; the tremendous pain of a century relieved! However, in the midst of this ecstasy, there was still the hint of uncertainty from her. I said to her, “I love you, Shalimar,” meaning it with every fiber of my being, and her answer came just one beat too late. “I love you, too, Marcus,” she had said, and I quickly denied the hesitation. I imagined what my life would be like with Shalimar’s love. The picture that my imagination produced was a perpetual spring where nothing mattered, just our being together. Oh, such a rosie, wonderful existence! Shalimar’s energy, like the sun, shining down upon me and no other! Reality re-dawned on me shortly before the sun was due to make its own appearance, and I tore myself away from her to hurriedly get to my shelter for the day. The next night I arose and hurried back to Shalimar’s house, the thought of her continuing to stave off my blood-hunger. But Houlloe had beaten me there this time, and they were together in the garden. The scene was very much a repeat of two nights before, and again I laughed at the heart-sick young man. I remember thinking, ‘we can not all be me!’ Shalimar asked him if he would like to replace Jafal as her pimp, and the poor guy nearly lost his dinner. He said that he would provide protection for her, perhaps collect for her if needed, but he could never broker her services. It was simply too gut- wrenching. I fed that night for the first time in a long time without killing my victim. I was simply in too good a mood to kill, and I did not want to have fresh blood on my hands when I went back to the pothouse to make love to Shalimar. If you can imagine a vampire walking around on cloud nine, that was me! But now I found the entire honey coin episode not so enjoyable. Now, the sight of bloated old men fondling my Shalimar was more than enough to make me seethe with jealousy. And after the dancing, when I once again cornered her in the bathing room, she was edgy and less than receptive. I dosed her up with a healthy helping of hormones and once again we had a flaming hot quickie, but it was becoming plain, though I was still in denial, that she regarded me as a vice, and believe me when I say that she was a woman who would not be a slave to any vice! “I love you, Shalimar,” I said as she moved quickly to leave. “I know you do, Marcus,” she said, and exited flustered. For the next few hours that night, I wandered around Athens feeling the insanity like a comfortable old pair of shoes that have been put away for a long time, and then pulled out and put on. Images of Shalimar making love to those puffy old men the same way that she had made love to me paraded mockingly, maddeningly through my mind. At length, I returned to the pothouse at about the time that I knew Shalimar would be getting done. Presently, she and Houlloe exited the building and I fell into step with them. Shalimar flushed deeply upon seeing me. I greeted them friendly, extending a hand to Houlloe. “Long night, eh?” I said. “You look very tired.” Houlloe response was slurred, “Yeah, I feel like I could sleep for a week of nights.” “Why don’t you get some rest?” I suggested. I wanted to demonstrate a little of my power to Shalimar. He said dumbly, “Thanks. I will.” And he slowly shuffled off in another direction. She turned on me then, almost hotly, “How are you doing that?” “Doing what?” I asked, not sounding innocent enough, as I again let flow with a strong mixture of pheromones and hormones. She exclaimed, “You are making me crazy, Marcus!” I was out of things to say or points to make. I said simply, “I love you, Shalimar. I want to be with you.” She answered exasperated, “But I cannot be with you, Marcus. I am a prostitute. It is my business, a business that I enjoy, a business which you are ruining!” I said to her, “But I can provide for you all of the money and wealth and luxuries that you and your family desires.” She replied skeptically, “How would you do that? You are not a rich man, Marcus!” The pheromones were not working! “Money and riches do not mean anything to me,” I said. “I will give you all that I have.” “It would be not enough, you silly, wonderful man. Marcus, you are a lovely man, and a splendid lover. But you must not love me. I love you but I cannot be with you. I am a prostitute and a prostitute I shall remain! Now leave me alone, Marcus!!” And she broke into a run. “But Shalimar! I –” “Leave me alone!!”

NIGHT XIV

Blinded with heartbreak, destroyed by rejection, I left Athens. Rationality abandoned me and in my misery I embarked on another killing spree. I felt as though Shalimar had ripped my heart out, and since I had no heart I had license to behave as someone with no heart. I do not suppose that the pain of heartbreak that I felt over Shalimar was any more than the pain that anyone might feel from a rejection. Or perhaps it was. After all, we are talking about the single most physically beautiful woman that has ever lived. I can still remember that pain, and I fancy myself quite a passionate fellow, so perhaps it is understandable that I took it so hard. Maybe going on a killing spree was a bit extreme, but, hell! I, along with nature, kill regardless. Later I shall you of my thoughts and feelings on killing people. As I stumbled blindly over the desolate ruin-scape that the night-world had to me become, my mind employed hideous play actors to replay the memory of my time with Shalimar. The actor playing me was a silly, naïve little man unable to see the writing on the wall, so to speak. My memory of Shalimar was odd, because I could not see her face. My mind’s eye had a clear view of her shapely body and smooth skin, her breasts and her jeweled navel, her lips and the shape of her eyebrows, but I could not put the parts together into a coherent image of what she looked like. The play actors took liberties with scenes and my confusion over just what the hell had transpired worsened. Where had I gone wrong? It was the loss of that splendid little dream that pained me the most; that dream of being with Shalimar in the eternal spring, where she was mine alone. That was sweet. My reality of being alone and being without her was the bitter. The contrast of the dream and the reality was an immense gulf filled with torturous pain. Notwithstanding my inability to fully visualize Shalimar, I still compared every woman I saw to her. Of course, none of them measured up in the least, and that was typically good enough reason for me, in my madness, to kill them And so the body count increased. Again my habits of discretion were abandoned. I was not even paying attention to where I wandered. I would be vaguely aware of my location by the language in which my victims would scream. Still, it was a vastly bitter-sweet pain….. And even more painful for me was the sight of a happy couple. If I ever came across two people ‘in love’ during my walk in the night I would haunt them. And if ever I found two people together under false pretenses I would plague them! I found the latter too often to be the case. Marital infidelity was just as common on a per capita basis back then as it is today. Once I found a young couple busy in the night with intercourse. (It is not uncommon). Following the young ‘maiden’ afterward I learned that she was actually engaged to be married to another young man, with whom she was waiting to consummate until their marriage night. On the night before their wedding day, I grabbed the clueless young groom-to-be out of his bed and led him to the location where I knew his fiancé to be with her clandestine lover, once again indulging. I subdued the three of them and proceeded to play Judge Solomon. Addressing the two young men I asked, “Which of you wants her heart? Which of you wants her sex?” After getting the answers I needed from them, I mutilated the girl according to their choices. “There now,” I said to the young man that had foolishly agreed to marry the girl. “You hold her heart in your hands.” You do not want to know what I said to other young man. Then I fed on him. So, the body count was definitely on the rise, and my habits were sloppier than ever. And this time there was actually someone onto me. It was a very savvy man who commanded a company of men in the Turkish army. He had taken it into his head to hunt down and destroy the vrkolak that had been plaguing the land. I was aware of him tracking me for about two years, and I did little to cover my trail. The sensible part of me was hoping that this Muslim commander would be successful! Unfortunately, when he finally found me, he made the mistake of executing his attack too close to dusk. I am not sure what time it was that the company came across the location where the commander believed, correctly, that I was buried. As was my habit, I had dug a hole straight into the earth and had tunneled straight down like a rodent for a good distance – at least ten feet. At the bottom I had widened the tunnel just a bit for my own comfort, and filled in the greater part of the descending hole. I lay there curled, sleeping the regenerative sleep, when I gradually began to awaken. Slowly, I became aware of the muffled sounds of digging. Someone was digging out my little filled-in tunnel. Muffled voices could also be heard. I dug a little out to the side of my little hidy-hole and waited. Presently, earth began to fall from the upper side of my cavern, then light, accompanied with the tip of a shovel blade invaded my space through a small six inch hole. I heard excited words spoken in Turkish, a language that I had become fairly fluent in over the years. While I waited for some unsuspecting fool to further penetrate my cavern, I dug a little further, away from the hole. All at once, I caught sight of a hand reaching into the hole, feeling around, widening its edges. Giving it another second to grow even more confident, I waited for another beat, then, fast as a badger I grabbed the hand and pulled. It took some doing, and the little hole widened out considerably, but I pulled that screaming man down into my cavern and drank his warm blood. Apparently, some of his comrades had seen him get dragged down into the ground, because it seemed a couple of hours that I sat brooding with the corpse of the dead Muslim in that little hole before I could hear anyone else above me. I heard the order go out from someone that the hole must be widened. Apparently, whoever had initially started the digging had only followed my little filled in tunnel. It was wide enough for only one man at a time, and they knew that that would not work if they wanted to conquer the vrkolak. With the knowledge of their plan I, too, began burrowing again; to the side away and from the hole. I had only my blade with which to loosen the earth, but the decades (and some adrenaline) had made me fast. As much as I consciously hoped that they might succeed in destroying me, my survival reflex would not allow it to be simple for them. And by the time that they had excavated a wider opening down to the level of the initial hole, I was several feet away from my original position, having again filled in behind me. I heard them as they uncovered the corpse of their fallen comrade. The troops were terrified! Orders came for them to continue digging, and they grudgingly did so. I waited, and listened as the sounds of the pick-axes thudding into the earth became clearer and more distinct. Then, just at the right time, I shot my hand through the thinning wall of my little cavern and grabbed the leg of one of the diggers. I did not have to drag him completely through the little hole that I had made by doing this; I simply pulled hard on his leg while he wriggled and screamed! By the time his comrades had pulled him free, I had bled him nearly to death. Two down! I remember thinking that it was like a grand game – me against them. It was a delightful outlet for my pain and insanity. It became a matter of ego and I would not let them get the best of me. For another long while I heard nothing, then I realized that the light entering my tiny cavern was dimming, and I knew that it would soon be safe for me to exit. Safe from the light of day, that is, for this clever commander had expected me to arise with the dusk, and since his efforts to dig me up during the day had failed, he was now faced with either retreating his troops and trying to get safely away from me, or standing his ground and trying to defeat me as I arose. He had approximately 1800 men at his command; he chose to stay! I had one major advantage aside from the obvious – these men assumed that I was something much more than I was. They thought that I was some immensely powerful agent of evil. If I had said ‘boo!’ half of them would have soiled themselves. But in reality I was simply a heart-sick one hundred year-old man that could not seem to die and who took his pain out on everyone around him. I remember being struck with levity at this thought and at the same time thinking, “Do you see what you have made of me, Shalimar?” Of course, Shalimar was not at all to blame for my circumstances. My circumstances were the result of choices that I had made before she was even born, but at the time I did not see it that way. I blamed her because I believed that she had the power to ‘fix’ my circumstances, and yet did not choose to do so. But for now, the game! I sat for a few minutes longer in my hidy-hole, collecting myself, focusing. Then, in a sudden movement, I straightened and burst from the hole. I stood in the large recess of the earth where the men had been digging all day, and shook the loose dirt off of myself. They surrounded the large hole, one hundred men at the least! All with artillery!! They had been waiting for me. I caught sight of the commander, just as he was issuing the order to fire, and in that split second, I sprang, jumping ten feet in the air and out of the hole. By a miracle, I had been struck with only four of the tiny projectiles, and none of the wounds were life threatening. At most, they were an inconvenience. The pain was instantly numbed, and I was still functioning virtually unhindered. I lit on the mouth of the large hole, right of the edge of the tightly ranked circle of men. Grabbing the arms of two soldiers in each hand, I pulled myself forward while sending them tumbling into the pit, temporarily subdued. Like a snake I moved into the tight ranks of men, slashing with my short blade and leaving a path of fallen men. They were all still holding their guns in shock and horror; their reaction time lengthened by their inability to move in the cramped ranks. Everything quickly broke out into confusion. Even with the torches and the bonfires that had been lit, I moved like a shadow, nearly invisible. A thick cloud created by the firing of the guns hovered over the area adding to the lack of visibility. It was a blood-bath, a slaughter, a massacre! I held my knife tightly dashing and slashing. If there happened to be a brave man that caught sight of me before I was upon him, I took a blow, but no one seemed able to stop me. Somehow I just kept on, darting in and out of the shadows, killing at least one soldier with every lunge. I cried sarcastically, “Die with honor!” with every slash of my blade. Finally there was a general retreat sounded, and the confusion escalated to the level of complete disorder. Now I did not even bother to stay in the shadows; I chased the fleeing troops down one by one and slew them in their escape. In the panic I heard shouts and screams from the men. They called me the plague, the curse, Vlad Dracul, demon, and devil! And I felt confident that if any one of them did escape me to survive, his account of what had transpired would be discounted as madness. And as I murdered each fleeing man, I cried, “See? My beautiful Shalimar! See what you made me do? This is for you, my love! Can no one stop me before I murder again!” Finally, I could no longer see or hear any more movement through the woods and I realized that the eastern horizon was starting to glow. I had been killing all night long. I found myself some distance away from the pit where the carnage had started, and now I dazedly followed the ever-increasingly dense trail of corpses back to that site. I was exhausted, beaten and slashed horribly, and shot! But I knew that after a day of intense nightmares I would be none the worse for wear. For some reason, that thought struck me at that moment to be even more intensely horrific and fatiguing than ever before, and I knew that I simply had to die. I still held my knife tightly in my right hand. In a snap decision and reflexive twitch, I had slashed my left wrist. With a deft movement I had transferred the blade to my left hand and sliced my right wrist. I felt little pain and I remember being surprised that I had actually been able to do it! I stood at the edge of the pit, the ground around me littered with dead soldiers, in a state of exultation as my wrists bled out. I felt weak, tired. I summoned the last of my energy and cried barbarically, “SHALIMAR!!!” Just before I tumbled head-long into the hole, I noticed my wrists. The bleeding had stopped! Bitter disappointment and dread of the future filled my soul as I fell. I landed among the corpses, and the sleep fell upon me like a blackout from pain that becomes too much to bare. At some point before dawn, I must have crawled my way back into the little cavern that I had hollowed out the day before. I do not remember waking to make such a crawl, but that is where I awoke the next evening, to the putrid smell of death, curled into a tight ball as far from the opening as was possible. It struck me then with more profundity than ever; I was not going to ever die. Death was never going to release me from the intense pain of reality, or I should say, the intense pain that I had made of my reality. I vowed then and there to deal with my pain in a better way.

NIGHT XV

I had not been keeping track of the years since leaving Athens, and I was a little melancholy to find the city so unfamiliar. The fine pothouse where I had first seen the beautiful Shalimar was gone, and another family now occupied her darling little home. How long had it been, I wondered? Ten? Fifteen years? Perhaps longer…. I remember thinking that I was going to have to do better at keeping track of the years, and then musing at the idea. After exhausting those minimal efforts to locate Shalimar, I gave up. I could not even be sure that she was still alive. And tragically, I could not remember what she looked like. I could recall virtually every detail of every person that I had ever come in contact with, but not Shalimar! Still I lurked around at night in the pothouses, challenging the world to show me just one woman that could be Shalimar’s equal. A funny thing struck me at this time, (it was definitely a time for many peculiar epiphanies), everyone looked familiar to me. Of course, I did not know a soul, but it seemed that everyone I looked at I should recognize. I realized that it had been that way for many years; as long as I could remember. To this day it still seems that way to me. And then one night I was sitting in the dark corner of a pothouse watching the dancer. It struck me as I stared at her hips – was this girl Shalimar? The girl seemed to match the sketchy visual in my mind, and more, she brought flooding back to my consciousness subtle memories of Shalimar that I had forgotten. At the same time I noticed that there were some things wrong. For one thing, the scent was close but not exactly right. And believe me, I knew Shalimar’s scent. Just as I was making that distinction I caught that lovely, familiar scent from another direction. I looked around and could not see the source of it. Through the dim light I saw the shape of a woman. She looked familiar to me as did everyone else, but I swear to you, I could have stared at her all night and never placed her. She was looking at me, smiling. Now she was mouthing something to me across the distance. She was saying my name! I mouthed back to her, “Do I know you?” I truly did not know who she was. Came the reply from her sensual lips, “It’s me – Shalimar!” And she started across the room toward me. I was stunned as recognition landed upon me with the impact of an anvil. Then she was there, right in front of me; then in my arms. It truly was my beautiful Shalimar. I felt that old exultation. I felt the sweet pain. But most of all, I felt that old fluttering flip-flopping of my heart, and rest of the world, the dancer, the men, the pothouse, all faded to nothing. She looked deeply into my eyes and said with much astonishment, “Good god, Marcus! You have not changed a bit!” I wish I could have said the same for Shalimar. She looked good, do not misunderstand me, damn good! She had aged very well, but still she had aged. She was not twenty-two anymore. It had been sixteen years. Her face was still soft and youthful, but rounder, with the beginnings of crinkles at the corners of her mouth and eyes. Her hips had widened and she had gained weight. It looked to me as if she had had several more children and in fact she had. I soon learned that she had had nine more for a total of twelve! But she still looked amazing, though, and she still had, for the most part, that ability to absolutely conquer men. I looked into her eyes and studied her face, then drew her tightly into my arms again and closed my eyes, enjoying the feel of her body against mine. Again I tried to access the now fresh image of her face from my brain. It was still not there! We left the pothouse and strolled through the city like old lovers, walking and talking. Shalimar told me about the additional children, an occupational condition with birth control back then not being what it is today. Nine girls and three boys and she loved them more than anything. Shalimar was particular about how her children were brought up, and she spent as much time with them as she could, which was a little bit more lately. She admitted that business was not what it used to be when she was younger. She still confessed to being a nympho, and I learned later that she was better than ever at the art of sex, but there is always more demand for the younger girls. Shalimar’s own daughter Fiona had ‘come of age’ and was proudly following in her mother’s footsteps. As you may have already guessed, that had been the girl that I had seen dancing back at the pothouse. She said, “I thought of you often.” Now she wanted to know where I had been, what I had done, and how it was that I still looked so young. What could I tell her? ‘Oh yes, Shalimar, I thought of you every day, too. And every thought of you felt like a rapier piercing my heart. The pain was so intense that I killed somebody in your honor every day for the last sixteen years.’ Maybe someday I would tell her, but not this night. “I missed you terribly, Shalimar,” I said sincerely. “I never stopped loving you.” Age had given Shalimar candor. “How could you love me, Marcus? You never knew me.” I answered, “I knew you well enough to know that I wanted to know you more. What little of you that I knew, I loved.” That satisfied her. She lowered her voice and asked, “Can you still make me crazy?” It was only then that the realization came to me that I would not be ‘cheating’ if I used pheromones and hormones on her. That trick can make some girls think that they are in love, but not Shalimar. She knew what real love is. She knew that I could love her without knowing her because she loved herself and she knew herself, and it showed in her face. She exuded love of self, and that is what made her so attractive. My little trick of secreting body chemicals was really nothing more to her than wearing some fine smelling oils, though the effects of my tricks are much more profound. Since I already held her hand in mine I said nothing and gave her a shot of pheromones. She answered the question herself with an excited smile, “Yes, I suppose you can!” We walked to Shalimar’s new house. She had moved her growing family into the larger home ten years before, so it was only ‘new’ to me. Shalimar invited me straightaway into her boudoir, and proceeded to lavish the kind of affection on me that I was sure could only mean that she wanted to make love. But I was hesitant. I did not wish to open myself to more heartbreak. “Shalimar,” I said, once again feeling the great pleasure of speaking her name, “You know I want you and I love you, but I can not do this unless you can promise that you will love only me, and love me forever!” And again, as she had done so many years ago, she patronized me. Only this time, it was not so terribly unbearable. She caressed my head gently and held it in the cleft of her wondrous breasts. “Oh my dear, dear Marcus. You silly, little Italian boy. I do love you and I shall love you forever, but I can not love only you. I can not be owned. Listen, and understand, my darling. “We cannot make promises for the future, for we do not know what the future holds. People who make such a naïve and ignorant promise are not taking into consideration the universal truth that we all grow and change as long as we live. Suppose that two people made such a promise, then gradually, as the years go by, they changed, grew apart? Their promise would become a lie. “I will not lie to you, Marcus. As lovers, we can promise one day at a time, one moment at a time. Trying to promise more will suck the life and passion out of our love. Only as friends can we promise each other eternal love, and even that is not without stipulation. “As for loving only you, I simply can not make any such promise. There are people in my life who come before you, as it should be. It may not always be such, but for now that is the way that it is. The concept of owning a woman is antiquated. Men of the modern world are simply going to have to get over it.” Yes, she referred to it just like that. Believe me, my beautiful children; every age has fancied itself the ‘Modern Age.’ “But what about monogamy?” I asked. “Surely there is something to be said for that institution.” She smiled and lightly tapped my temple with her finger. “One day at a time, Marcus, my love.” At the time I did not like it, but as my time with Shalimar went on, I grew to see it as profoundly wise. She believed, and I agree, that ‘one day at a time’ is truly the best way to have a mutually beneficial relationship. And again, one would need to be careful not to confuse that phrase. I have seen many people over the centuries talking the concept of taking ‘it,’ whatever ‘it’ may be, one day at a time. But all too often they are referring to the normal, every day trials and tribulations of life, and they are quick to impose upon a relationship a promise for the future. Eventually I was compelled to reveal myself to Shalimar. We had established the practice of spending the hours of midnight to dawn together; the schedule allowed each of us to take care of our individual business and then come together for ‘our time’ with no worries or complications. And so it was that one night she said to me, “I read you like a book, my love, but there is something of you that I do not know.” I said, “I do not wish to keep secrets from you, beloved.” She said, “I do not know what you do. I rarely see you in the day.” (She had never seen me in the day!) “You do not show your age as you should, and you have never explained to me how it is that you have such power over people.” “Shalimar, my love,” I said, beginning a powerful secretion of hormones and endorphins. “There is only one way that I can explain to you these things, but first you must know that I have loved you from the first moment I saw you. You are so precious and dear to me that I die inside at the thought of harm coming to you. So believe when I tell you that….. this will not hurt a bit.” And I bit into her neck and drank. Her blood was absolutely delicious, but I did not drink a lot of it as I did not want even the slightest risk of damage to her health. However, before I had stopped, Shalimar had orgasmed. I held my ready handkerchief against the wound. “Oh Marcus,” she sighed. “That was beautiful!” We were silent for a minute, each caught up in private contemplation. I figure that Shalimar was putting it all together in her head, and thinking of whether she would like to become a vampire and how she would ask me if indeed she did. I was being torn by the thought of how I would answer such a request from her if it came. Of all of the people that I have encountered in my life, none would have made a more suitable and enjoyable vampire mate than Shalimar. A brief vision of life together with her as immortals played itself in my head. It was a very tempting proposition! Shalimar would undoubtedly wear vampirism well. But, amazingly, I knew that even such a situation as Shalimar and myself existing together as vampires would not last forever. And then in my mind I could see my beautiful Maria. She seemed to be saying, “Lucio, I want nothing more than for you to be happy all your days, but you will be the father of much unhappiness in the world if you do this.” Life is a great gift; perhaps the greatest! But life beyond mortality comes at a great price, the biggest part of which is paid by innocent people. I realized that turning Shalimar would in essence double my body count from the time that she became a vampire until such time as she might be destroyed, or until whatever great end which is in store for us occurred. Besides, I had to take into consideration my own miserable existence. Being with Shalimar had not made it so that I could stop feeding. Sleeping with her did not take the horror out of my heinously vivid dreams. It would be impossible for me to try to describe to her the hell of being a vampire; no way to prepare her. Did I really wish to have my beloved Shalimar join me in my nightmare? Finally I said, “Please do not ask me to try to make you what I am. I cannot do it.” Shalimar said simply, contritely, “I will die, Marcus.” “Believe me,” I said. “When you die, I shall die as well. But you shall not die before you have had a splendid and full life.” Oh, the lessons I learned from Shalimar! She taught me many fine little tricks to take to bed, but more importantly, she taught me to get to know my sexuality. Since my only coach on things sexual had been nature, there were many details that she helped to fill in. In some ways, I was like one of her children. She encouraged masturbation because, “How else are you going to learn what you like and what can make you orgasm?” She did not believe in sexual taboos, and she believed strongly that a person should do what makes them feel good as long as it is not hurting themselves or anyone else. Being with Shalimar, I learned to not be jealous. Naturally, because of her profession, I had to share her; it was that simple. And even though, multiple sex partners is not something I would suggest in this day and age, at that time I did come to see the value in what she was doing. As I have said, she was only doing what she loved. It was a part of her, a part of who she was. I realized that I had to appreciate everything that made her who she was, because I loved who she was! Shalimar had a fantastic ‘playroom.’ The bed was the most conventional of the accouterments in the large room. Over the bed was a polished horizontal bar from which Shalimar could hang in many various positions to the delight of whatever man might be on the bed. There was also an assortment of tables and chairs, each engineered to facilitate a particular position. In addition to the tables and chairs, there were several devices. One such device was a large wheel set at a slight tilt to the wall. The wheel was seven feet in diameter and had a ring of handles. A man could hold himself easily on the rotating wheel while Shalimar held herself against him. And of course there was the obligatory swing. The plush fir harness hung down by fine cords from the high ceiling. Shalimar had decorated the room beautifully with fine art, rich fabric drapes and lots of pillows. I learned from Shalimar what I think is the proper way to raise children. First, her children were never without one-on-one adult supervision. Each child had their own personal servant – a nurse that doubled as a tutor later in the child’s life, and each one had been hand-picked by Shalimar for competence. Her children were some of the only children in Athens that could read and write in Greek and Latin. Shalimar herself also spent all of the time that she could with her children, which is saying a lot remembering that she was a single mother. She did not need my assistance raising the children, and that was a good thing, since I was only able to show up at the house after sunset. Shalimar brought all of her children up to be extremely empowered free-thinkers. And I can tell you that all of her children went on to have happy and prosperous lives, and they engendered very intelligent and empowered offspring as well. Her children’s children spawned European nobles, inventors, innovators, explorers, artists and business leaders. I could drop names right now, but I will spare you. The years seem to go by faster as you get older. I had first noticed it around the time that my Maria had died. Then, for the next seventy years I had not really cared about time. But now with Shalimar, I watched the years fly by with frightful speed. Our first real landmark came when she encountered her great change of life. Quite abruptly, it seemed to me, Shalimar no longer had a passion for making love. Working each night became an ordeal for her. Naturally, she enjoyed intercourse with only me, because I could still make her crazy. And I was simply supplying to her the hormones that her body was no longer producing. Her loss of passion for her work, coupled with the fact that demand for the aging prostitute had dropped sharply, caused Shalimar to go into a very depressed state. I think that I was some help to her since depression was such an old acquaintance of mine. The biggest thing that Shalimar had to deal with was her loss of power over men. Over the years it had lessened, and with the onset of menopause it was completely gone! She no longer had the magical, magnetic charm. One by one the loyal customers to whom she had endeared herself after several years of excellent service went to the younger girls, even though many were themselves very old men. Her wild ride was over. If Shalimar had had one failing, it was that she had not anticipated this, had not prepared for it! She did not take the loss of her power very well at all. But then, who would? The admirable thing about Shalimar was that she was not at all ready for retirement. Over and over she rejected my offer to provide for her and her children, (And now she had three more!) Her two oldest daughters were working as prostitutes with the same passion for the work that Shalimar had once had. It was so interesting to see the wise veteran of the business coaching her daughters on the finer points of the profession. Even though Shalimar had lost her passion for the work, she never forgot what that passion had felt like. She saw that passion now in her daughters, as well as that uncanny power over men, and counseled them to make the most of it while they still had the inclination and the ability. It was around this time that an idea hatched between the two of us. Shalimar would open her own pothouse! We planned it together, but she insisted that she do it on her own. She finagled just enough capital to procure a nice, inconspicuous building on the outskirts of Athens, and opened the place before she even had it really ready to go. Following my suggestions, Shalimar hired some reliable security, with Houlloe at the head. Starting with her two daughters, she quickly had a dozen of the best looking girls in the area to supply the entertainment. There would be no pimps allowed to broker the girls. Shalimar would appoint the girls to the customers, as well as train them, costume them, and help them with their make-up. She taught them all to dance. In no time at all her expertise in the business had made Shalimar’s the most successful pothouse in Athens. The only thing that I did to help, unbeknownst to Shalimar, was protect her from the ‘authorities.’ Many agents of the Ottoman Empire went missing in Athens in those days. I lived fairly happily with Shalimar for fifty years. I say ‘fairly’ because the only part of my life with Shalimar that was not happy was that part of the night where I was forced to go out and feed. I fed often on Shalimar. She would beg me to do it. Eventually, though, her age and declining health caused ‘our time’ to be spent mostly sleeping. I took to sleeping at her house during the day in a secret windowless room that we had had built with thick brick walls. When Shalimar was about seventy she turned the pothouse over to her children, and the fine business continued for several generations. Shalimar passed at ninety years old, after a great life full of love and passion. She died in her sleep as I lay by her side. She knew me better than anyone has ever known me and I miss her. But I miss Maria more.

NIGHT XVI

I grieved greatly at Shalimar’s passing. I can not begin to tell you how I grieved, but I did not feel the need to ‘share my pain.’ It was really only the pain of loneliness embracing me like an old lover. Shalimar had died peacefully, died happy if such a thing is possible. The pain that I felt was my own selfish pain, it belonged to me alone. It was 1650. I took to traveling around Europe again, only this time I moved invisibly through the land. I fed conservatively, killed discreetly. I was not so much as even a rumor passing through. Still, the depression enveloped me like a thick fog. I should be dead! What was I doing still alive? What caused me to wake up every night at dusk physically perfect and hungry for blood? Throughout Europe there were many great universities and institutions of higher learning sprouting up, and I found myself for the first time really hungering for knowledge. It made sense to me that perhaps with enough learning I might be able to ascertain some real, true answers about what I was. Unfortunately, night-school had not yet been invented. All I could do was get access to the university libraries at night, a relatively easy task, and read. It was the Enlightenment; The Age of Reason. God! My mind was ravenous for information. I spent an average lifetime just reading books and records at the various universities in the European mainland. I did not know how smart I was; I do not know how smart I am. I can tell you that it was a lot easier to stay ‘up’ on the current technology and scientific findings and theories back then. Impossible today! At a university in Vienna I read of the recently formed Royal Society in London. This group of well-respected men of knowledge received reports of the findings of scientists and researchers all over Europe and the New World, then published all of the findings together in a report that went out to most all of the universities. The reports from the Royal Society would include inventions and innovations; perhaps the latest smelting technique, or feat of engineering. I was interested to read a report of the first human blood-transfusion and other medical advances. The sad thing with progress in medicine is that it seems that it has always been two steps forward and one step back. So often some information or breakthrough in medicine would go on being practiced by physicians for years and decades before someone finally realized that the information was erroneous. A report that came out in about 1690 really captured my attention. It was the report about Leeuwenhoek, the man who developed some of the earliest microscopes. The report stated that he had examined various specimens under great magnification, and that one of his specimens had been human blood. I decided that I would to like to meet this Leeuwenhoek, and maybe work with him on some experiments. Amazingly, the report did not say anything about Leeuwenhoek’s location, and so, for the first time in my life, I had a compelling reason to go to England. It may surprise you to learn that prior to the Renaissance and the Age of Reason, the mainland of Europe regarded the British Isles as a somewhat of a ghetto; its inhabitants mostly bait for the barbaric Norsemen that plundered there for centuries. Because of this prejudice, I had not yet ventured there. However, England was not so bad as the rumors had described it. Of course, truth be told, I was not knocked off my feet by the ‘civil society’ that I found there. Oh well, too bad for England. I did find the facilities of the Christ Church College in Oxford quite inspiring, however. And it was there early one evening that I had an extraordinary reunion. Being very conservative and mindful to keep my body count low, I had taken to the habit of only feeding every other night. I can do this easily if I have no physical injuries. So, this being my night to fast, I had arrived at the library before it had officially closed for the day, and I saw some of the students and even some of the faculty hard at their studies. The large library spanned quite a distance from end to end, and as I peered down the rows of tables where so many young men sat studying, I spied a shape moving at the far end of the library that looked very familiar – almost nostalgic. My vision being extremely good, I could clearly see the person that had triggered my memory. It was a middle-aged man with flowing dark hair, large nose wearing the robes of the faculty. As I watched him, the recollection of 160 years suddenly came to me. This guy looked just like a younger version of Giovanni. How could this be, I wondered? He must have found some vampire that was willing to turn him. That thought made me slightly hesitant, remembering what a strong man Giovanni had been. As a vampire, his strength would be without match. If he bore any ill-will toward me at all for not turning him, he may wish to exact revenge upon me. But then so many of his teachings came back to me, and I realized that that thought was not in accordance with what he had taught me. As I approached him I realized that there was no way that this man could be Giovanni; just an uncanny resemblance. Maybe he was kin. But then his odor met my sensitive nose, and again I found myself thinking of that strange old man. How else could this man have Giovanni’s smell, if he was not Giovanni? I knew for sure when I saw him catch sight of me. His face registered recognition, but it was obvious he was trying to place me. I said, “Giovanni?” Then light seemed to splash over his face as he made the connection. “Giovane!” he said. “Oh my god!” Certain now that I had happened upon my old teacher, I felt overcome with joy. I opened my arms and embraced him, and he only slightly less enthusiastically hugged me back. I felt the affinity for him that anyone might feel for a teacher, or a father, but I to him was just another in a long succession of students. Surely, he was proud of his prodigy, but I had not yet ranked among Giovanni’s dearest friends, whoever they may be. He smiled warmly and said deliberately in Italian, “It is good to see you still alive, Giovane.” I said excitedly, “I have so much to tell you, Giovanni.” At that, he cut his eyes around the room, then lowered his head confidentially and whispered in English, “Shhhh. They know me around here by the English version of my nomer – John.” I peered into his eyes, and wondered what hoax he had in action here at this Christ Church College. “Alright,” I answered back in my heavily accented English. “John. So what are you doing here?” “Right now I teach here,” he answered. “Philosophy. This is the most fun I have had in years.” Then he added with a laugh, “Since I stopped cavorting with you, that is.” I felt good that he spoke to me more as an equal now, not so much as a teacher to a student. We left the library and walked out into the night, deep into the quiet moonlit countryside, where we would not be overheard, and I proceeded to tell ‘John’ of all my adventures. John listened with incredulous amazement and amusement as I told him about the last 160 years. He nodded solemnly as I told him of Tarino. “That one came away fortunate,” he said grimly. As I told about the Muslim massacre in Turkey, he exclaimed, “So! That was you! There were reports of a demon being responsible for that job. I would never have guessed that the demon was you.” When I finished he looked at me sternly and said, “You haven’t exactly been a good little vampire, have you, Giovane? But then, it’s not really my position to place judgment on you right now.” I bowed my head in disgrace, but John could hold his mock-dour pose for only a moment before breaking into a wide, warm grin. “God! It is good to see you again, Marcus.” “Please, John,” I implored to him in my recently learned English. “Tell me how it is that I find you here after 160 years and looking younger than you did all that long time ago! You do not seem to be a vampire; are you able to hide your vampirism from me?” “I am not a vampire, my young friend,” he said. “But let us not talk about such things right now.” “When, John? When?” I asked. “When will you finally share this secret with me?” Chuckling, he said, “You did not keep your end of the bargain with me so long ago in Spain. Why should I tell you?” I sighed. “You are not compelled to tell me, but I hope still that you will. Would I be required to turn you in exchange for the information?” “If I were to tell you what I know, you would want to turn me,” he answered. It eventually became apparent to me that John must have had some method for curing himself of vampirism. It seemed that I could maybe make some sense of John and his life, extraordinary and bizarre, but some realization, some concept, was just beyond the grasp of my mind. I stayed with John in his home for several months while doing my research. I was not surprised to find that he had a fine cellar that seemed to be fashioned for the express purpose of accommodating vampires. Why should he not have other ‘students’ like myself, I thought. In no time at all I had gleaned all of the additional information that the library at the Christ Church College could afford to me, including the location of the domicile of Anton von Leeuwenhoek. It took me a couple of months alone just to become functionally fluent in the Dutch language, as I had learned from the Royal Society reports that Leeuwenhoek lived in Holland and spoke only his native tongue. Victims in the area were fairly easy to find, as I was not too far from the sprawling, diseased mass of population of London. Many people disappeared from their deathbeds in those days, never to be found. John did give me one excellent bit of advice during this time. “Maybe not now,” he said, “but someday, sooner or later, you may wish to buy a house or a yacht or even a horse, or some other such commodity. Obviously, such purchases could expose a vampire. However, activity like that is fairly routine for an artificial entity such as a trust or a corporation.” And so, with John’s help, the ‘dummy’ corporation known as Bradley Holdings was created. The name, immaterial, was chosen at random; the name of one of his philosophy students at the time. Finally, I announced one night to John that I was ready to go meet with the Dutchman. John said, “I hope that our paths cross again, my dear friend.” “I, too,” I said. “I’ll tell you what, Marcus,” he said. “I shall be greatly in need of your gift in about twenty years. Meet me in the library at the college on the first day of the year 1705. I will tell you then all that you wish to know in exchange a turning. Deal?” I said, “I shall try to make the date if only to visit with you again, dear friend. I shall give your proposal serious consideration.” We embraced, then I departed on foot, into my comfortable blanket of darkness. I’ll tell you briefly of my experience with the fine and charming Anton von Leeuwenhoek. I met with him early one evening, and without having to tell him too much about myself or my business, convinced him to show me a few of his discoveries. I was surprised to learn that he was a simple drape-maker. That information had not been in any of the reports from the Royal Society. Somehow, he had picked up an effective method for grinding lenses, and was able to fashion a sort of super high- powered magnifying glass which was then dedicated and attached by a system of clamps and screws to a particular specimen slide. They were rudimentary by today’s standards, sure, but at the time I was astonished at some of the sights that could be seen through his many different lenses. I convinced him to use his proprietary apparatus to compare my blood to his. He informed me that it would take him a few days to prepare the lenses and other apparatus, so we agreed that I should return later in the week. Being busy with his trade during the day, Anton was quite used to working at night, and did not think anything of my suggesting that we do the experiment at night. “The only thing,” he said, “is that sometimes a fair amount of light is necessary to clearly see the specimen at great magnification, though often the light from several lamps is enough.” Naturally, he speaking of oil lamps! I assured him that the experiment would fail if we exposed the specimens to the light of day, and I noticed his curiosity begin to twitch. Waiting through that time in such a state of excited anticipation made the awake-hours crawl. Finally all was in readiness. I arrived in the evening and we proceeded with the experiment. With considerable difficulty I managed to squeeze some blood from a fresh slice in my finger. Working the apparatus, Anton had already brought his own blood specimen into focus. Now he twisted wing-nuts on the clamp system of my sample and brought it into focus as well. Peering intently back and forth into each of the tiny lenses of both of the make-shift microscopes he said, “Hmm. I am not seeing any difference here, except that these animalcules here in mine seem to be a bit larger than yours.” Then he added suddenly, “Hello, what’s this?” “What is it?” I asked, almost forgetting my manners in my anxiousness to take a look for myself. “Take a gander quickly,” he said, moving to allow me to look into the lenses. The splotch of red blood that was my specimen was steadily shrinking, dissolving, disappearing! With his voice exhibiting quite a bit less fear than was betrayed by his odor, Anton said, “What are you, man?” The question passed in my mind, should I kill this man? It struck me then this Anton von Leeuwenhoek was exactly the type of man that I should never kill. He had already showed much of his value to society and the world in his research, and there was no telling how many more valuable discoveries that he would make before his natural death. “You should forget what you have seen and discussed here tonight,” I said, and I left him a very confused man, but alive!

NIGHT XVII

I hurried back to Oxford, anxious to tell John of my experience, disappointing as it was, but when I arrived I could not find him. I had only been gone for a few months, but I learned that in that short time John had lost his position at the Christ Church College for teaching heretical ideas. There were rumors that he had left England, and I certainly could find no sign of him. I found myself slipping back into a deep depression over these two latest setbacks. I refused to lose control and go on another killing spree, however. This time I drowned my sorrows and distracted myself by traveling. Since I was already on the British Isles, I started there, and in no time I had covered the entire set of islands. After only a little experimentation, I resumed my long-established practice of traveling on foot. A vampire traveling alone could really do little else; where do you put a horse or a wagon during the day? There was far too much risk and headache associated with hiring a servant to drive a coach, or a lackey to…. do whatever it is that a lackey does. And since time means precious little to a vampire with nowhere in particular to be…. I take that back. I did have one little date for the future, and I killed time wandering around England until the time finally came for it. No surprise, though, John did not show up for it. I heard some news that disturbed me a little bit. In discreetly asking around Oxford to see if anyone could give a hint as to John’s whereabouts, I soon learned that John, John Locke as he had been known by his peers and students at the college, had died in Oates just the year before. I even went so far as to travel to the little chapel cemetery where the body of John had been put to rest, and sure enough, there was the new headstone baring the name of John Locke. Grief was just settling its ponderous weight upon me when I was struck by the thought of how unlikely this scene was; unlikely only because I knew John better. I left that place with the optimistic thought that if I lived long enough, I would undoubtedly encounter my good friend John again. I remember wondering what name he would be going by at our next meeting. So I traveled all over the world for most of the next two hundred years. In either the waning light of dusk, the refreshing glow of the promise of a new day, or the colorless, shadow-filled cast of night I saw every wondrous sight that this world had to offer. I covered a long zig-zagged circuit through Scandinavia, and into Russia. I paid no mind to the seasons, but, not being a fan of the cold, I traveled in the general direction of the equator whenever the weather cooled. At first I also paid little attention to the month and year, but a girl that I met in Russia changed that. Her name was Ava and she was a tall, muscular girl who I had come upon one night as she walked in the moonlight in deep despair on the outskirts of a moderately sized town. I fed on her but did not kill her, and she was such a robust girl, health excellent and constitution high, that even after losing at least five pints of her blood to me, she was, unbeknownst to me, quite coherent and strong. She must have carefully stalked me for the rest of the night and seen where I bedded down for the day, which, as I remember it happened that day to be a nasty, dank, cold crypt in the heart of an old Russian cemetery, because, as I rose the next night, she was waiting there to receive me. I remember thinking that she was a pretty girl, but not outstanding. Her features were strong, angular, and somewhat hard. Her hair was rather unkempt, and frankly, her entire demeanor was a little mannish. My Russian was still flailing at the time, as I had not had a lot of opportunity to practice it, but I could just manage to communicate with this girl Ava. First she offered herself to me for both feeding and for my pleasure, then she begged me to turn her as most people that come into my orbit eventually do, and I of course refused. Then she told me of her sad circumstances and begged me to allow her to accompany me. She had been married to some fine young man for only year before it was determined that she was barren. Her husband had taken another woman to give him a child and had all but thrown her out of the house. Now she implored me to allow her to stay with me. Again I refused and threatened to kill her, though I had to respect her moxy. She then told me to kill her if it would please me, and that that was what I was going to have to do if I did not wish for her to follow me. I found myself quite amused by the exchange; the girl had wit! So I said to her as I walked away, “You may do as you please, but be warned that I will not hesitate to kill you if it appears that you might betray me.” “Thank you, Lord,” she said falling in behind me, and I immediately feared that I had made a mistake. Then she asked, “Are you a part of that group that lives at the Vurkalknock Caves?” I turned abruptly on the girl. “Group of what?” I asked in my halting Russian. “Why, vampires, of course,” she answered. “You know of other vampires near here?” I asked excitedly. She answered timidly against my excitement, “I have heard rumors.” “I wish to see these caves,” I said decidedly. “Will you show them to me?” “Certainly,” she said, but there was no eagerness in her manner. As we walked I asked, “So if you do not fear death, then why have you not approached the vampires of this group as you approached me?” Her tall frame hunched considerably. “I already have.” That relieved me a little bit. I asked, “They refused?” Her voice oozed self-pity and despair. “They said I was too plain.” And I realized that this was something that she must have been dealing with all of her life. This girl should have been able and strong, beautiful and empowered, but she had extremely low self-esteem and very little self-love. She had ‘too plain’ for them to embrace her, she explained to me, but she had not been too plain for some of their group to try to force themselves upon her. Only her unusual physical strength allowed her to escape alive and unmolested. We hiked for a few miles away from the town through a thinly wooded forest growing over rolling hills. I remember that it was a cool night but not quite cold enough to see our exhaled breath. Ava finally knelt behind a large bush at the top of a butte and gestured in the direction of a neighboring hill. In the darkness, about two hundred yards from our location, I could just see the black nothing against the hillside that must have been the mouth of the Vurkalknock Caves. Very well blended into the darkness, but not invisible to me, were two sentries near the cave opening. I whispered to Ava, “I am going to surprise them. If you try to interfere I will kill you.” And I crept down the slope. Consciously, I had no idea what I was doing. This had started out a strange night and grown stranger by the minute. Was I planning to talk to these vampires? Did they possibly have information that I wished to learn? The answer was, of course, no. And then my mind turned to wonder about Ava. I tried to remember a time that I had ever encountered a woman so strong – both in the body and in the head! What she wanted was obvious, and I figured that she would probably make me kill her before she would take ‘no’ for an answer. I approached the pair of men standing guard at the entrance of the cave. They were not vampires, but there would be no way to silence them both simultaneously. I took one of them easily while the other one sounded a general alarm. His shouts in Russian last only a few seconds before I silenced him as well, but that was enough to alert whomever was in the cave. Scuffling from the mouth of the cave came men, one at a time, sometimes two. I took them all rather systematically, without difficulty. No sign of a single vampire, though, and I began to feel a little bad about initiating all of this violence and unnecessary death. I wondered if I might be killing men of value. Doubtful, though, as they had the appearance of thieves. After some eight or ten men had issued from the darkness and fallen before me, I began to make my own way into the inky cavern. I could still hear sounds from somewhere deeper in the caves, and I encountered two more men before a tense silence took over the darkness. It was pitch black, and even with my excellent vision I was forced to feel my way along the cavern walls. Then I smelled it – the unmistakable odor of someone with extraordinarily high pheromone secretion; the ‘earmark’ of a vampire. I tracked cautiously in the direction of the odor’s source. Presently I saw a glow emanating from around a curve in the cave passage, and that is when I heard the voice of a female speaking in Russian. As I understood it, she had asked, “What do you want here, strange nightwalker?” “I am Marcus, the Bringer of War. I am that I might exterminate the evil, unnatural anomaly from the world that is the vampire, until such time as I myself am extinguished.” A man’s voice answered, “That sounds like a horrible waste.” “The waste is us,” I said, just as light, quick footsteps sounded from around that curve in the passage. It was the female moving with admirable speed and brandishing a smart little single-edged sword which she swung at my neck with a scream. I ducked just in time to save my head, but not quick enough to save my right ear. As I ducked I also had the clarity of mind to think to sweep my leg out, tripping the female vampire up and sending her sprawling behind me on the cave floor. In a flash I was upon her with my own blade; she had not had a chance to regain her bearings. I stood, holding her neck in the crook of my arm, my blade stuck well into that place in her spine that I knew from experience would paralyze a man, but she was not paralyzed! She screamed and struggled like a trapped badger while I turned the blade. An unearthly moan rose from a little ways down the cavern and grew into a terrible shriek! The male vampire came slowly into view out of the darkness. The female moved less now. She had been strong, but quite frankly, no match for me. I made sure that the male was watching. The tip of my blade could just be seen cutting a dashed line up the front of the female’s bare midriff as I exhibitishly sawed through her midsection. It was a show of strength to the other vampire, and a challenge, and a personal attack. As I had assumed, he had been close to this female. I was killing his companion of only god knows how long. A mad rage flashed in his face that I knew only too well, and I think I caught a glimpse of his years. I am pretty sure that he was older than me. He advanced, expertly swinging two long blades. I thrust the body of the female vampire toward him, and he stepped over her crumpled form never taking his rage-filled eyes off me. He came at me with the speed of lightning, and I just managed to dodge to the side of his attack and duck past him, but I took two deep slashes in my shoulder and back from the tips of each of his swords in the process, and was unsuccessful in tripping him up like I had his female companion. He again advanced, driving me back into the interior of the cave where the glow of light from somewhere improved visibility just a little. The double blades twirled with blinding speed; and me with only my modest knife! I was disoriented and slow, and ducked only fast enough to save my neck from the swing of his first blade. His second blade caught my left arm and I realized with shock that I was free of the weight of it! My arm fell to the cave floor! I watched stupidly as the vampire cocked his blades and he surely would have finished me then, but just as he was about to move in, he abruptly stopped his blade twirling and looked down at his front. Protruding out of his stomach was the tip of a blade, and I discerned the femme-muscular form of Ava standing behind the vampire. She was holding tightly to the hilt of the female vampire’s blade which she had retrieved from the cave floor. It was not enough to kill the vampire, but it certainly stopped him for the moment. Ava had saved my life! With another thrust from Ava I saw the blade tip twist and turn to the side. But then the vampire speedily regained his composure and I saw his own blades rearing back again, preparing to strike the courageous Ava. The old vampire was obviously an expert swordsman and could undoubtedly dispatch the girl without even turning around. Deftly, I swung a roundhouse kick and connected with the blade tip. Ava was still gripping the hilt of the blade, and now both she and the vampire were spun off of their feet by the blow. The kick also drove the blade sideways, ripping through the torso of the vampire. The injured vampire cursed with a rage that was quite familiar to me. I looked down at him writhing on the cave floor, and for just a second I felt a wave of sympathy. I wondered what valuable wisdom and experience the old vampire might have. For a moment I thought of how nice it might be to chat with him and share our similar experiences. His words ‘what a waste’ echoed in my mind. But that was really not possible. We both needed to die, and as fate would have it, his time was to come a little sooner that mine. He was not, however, to go quietly in the night. Assuming that he was sufficiently subdued, I casually reached down with my blade to finish him. Suddenly, one of his blades shot up and ran completely through my chest! It must have just missed my heart. The old vampire was so fast that I had not even seen him move. I staggered back from the force of the blow. Ava scrambled away to a safer distance as I tried, with some difficulty, to pull the sword out. The other vampire was also in the process of pulling the sword out of his middle. It must have been quite a sight; both of us grimacing – not with pain, but with a teeth-gritting discomfort that can only come from the distinct realization that you are being terrifically damaged. Finally I stood panting, and brandishing the fine weapon. My opponent now stood also, holding one of his long swords in his right hand and the shorter sword of his dead lover in his left. He advanced, swinging them menacingly. The old vampire was a much better swordsman than myself, but as good as he was, he did make a serious error now – he underestimated my own abilities with a blade. I back-stepped further into the recesses of the cavern, around the bend, into an area where the light was stronger. As we dueled, I parried timidly, and succeeded in feeding his over-confidence until he gave me a small opening. I caught his right arm from below as it was held high and cut it off cleanly at the shoulder. Unfortunately, he was still a better swordsman than me even with just a left hand. He came at me with such speed and aggression that I was unable to counter. In a beautiful maneuver, he suddenly sent my blade flying free of my hand. In a flash, I shot my hand deeply into the vampire’s gapping stomach wound. He had been about to strike me but now froze, as I grabbed, yanked hard, and pulled my hand out holding what I was to learn later was one of his kidneys. The vampire doubled over, but he was stopped only for a moment. I scanned the dim area frantically for my sword, but did not see it! He was coming at me again now, and I scrambled back up the cave passageway hoping to find my sword. I heard the sing of the blade and realized that he had connected, leaving a deep, long gash down my back. Thankfully, his balance had been poor and the swipe had also sent him lurching. Still I could find nothing to use as a weapon! Finally, my eyes caught the glint of metal and I lunged for it. The damn blade was still held tightly in the grasp of the hand on his severed arm. With some effort I finally freed the hilt from the dead fingers but it took enough time that he was now again on top of me. My one hand did not yet hold the blade ready and with an easy swipe he knocked that blade away as well. Frantically, racing in a reflexive, non-thinking panic mode, I grabbed the only available item that I could use as a weapon and swung it with all of my might. It was his own severed arm. The bloody stump end of the severed arm connected solidly with the side of his head, sending him reeling. Again I scrambled for the blade and was just upon it when another swipe from behind severed the tendons of my right leg. I managed to roll onto my back just in time to see the vampire coming in again for what he surely must have hoped would be the finishing blow, but I again caught his underarm with my long blade, this time stabbing his through the armpit. His final blow did succeed in sticking me directly in my right eye, however, and that, I can tell you, was not at all fun. Although, no less fun, certainly, than have your kidney ripped out right before your eyes. The only thing preventing his blade from running deeper into my skull was my blade sticking through his arm pit. He managed to hold onto his sword and moved away from him. I scrambled lamely on my back like a wounded crab, back up the cave passageway as he punch-drunkenly pursued me. I looked for any weapon, as the sword that I had previously been using was still stuck through the vampire’s shoulder. He still gripped his sword, but I knew that he would have much difficulty swinging it. Presently my hand touched the body of the female vampire. The peripheral vision of my left eye then caught sight of the female vampire’s head. Ava must have cut the head off while I had been combating the older vampire, and I realized now with some dark amusement that she must also have witnessed most of this horrendous display. I grabbed the hair of the female’s head and threw it at the advancing vampire, falling to my back in the process. The disembodied head hit the vampire smack in the face, slowing him momentarily and further enraging him. The vampire staggered toward me, trying in vain to dislodge the sword, the tip of which protruded from his shoulder. Even so, he moved much quicker than I could with my wounded leg, and he was soon upon me once again. I kicked with my good leg, putting my foot hard against his right knee and he crumpled to the cave floor, managing in the fall to drive his sword once again deeply into my chest. What a pathetic pair we were. Both of us virtually incapacitated, but still trying to vanquish the other. And I had started it; I shudder to think of what that says about me. Our only remaining weapons at our disposal were our mouths and teeth, so now we both head-wrestled, trying to get to the most advantageous point whereby we could bite the other and perhaps drain him to death. We each still had limited use of our one arm, and one leg, but our many stabbings, lacerations, and contusions had taken their toll on our respective strengths and powers. Finally, it was Ava that once again came to my rescue. She held the vampire’s head while his injured arm flailed weakly in an attempt to free it, allowing me to fasten my mouth onto his neck and drink the life out of him. I remember thinking that Ava must not know how vampires are created, or she would probably be insisting on sucking his blood herself. God knows, I would have been powerless to prevent her. After the vampire was dead, I lay back myself, thoroughly exhausted. My consciousness began to fade, until suddenly I became aware of myself in the cave. I remember it most vividly. Ava was gone and the two vampires and all of their minions were somehow resurrected though not exactly whole, and they now pursued me, weak, injured, and exhausted, deep into the complex of caves. Eventually they were joined by the steadily growing army that was every one of my victims since Viviana. It was an especially horrific regenerative nightmare. As is always the case, just as I realized that it was just a nightmare, just as my lucidity was returning, I awoke. Ava had dragged my body to a fine bed located somewhere in the caves, and now, seeming to understand my intense hunger, she offered herself to me. I drank of her delicious blood, practically without thinking, and then, because the sleep still clouded my head, allowed myself to slip right back into the coma without even taking stock of how my healing was progressing. Back into the nightmare I fell, without a trace of lucidity. When I finally awoke, I was almost completely healed. Only my new arm was still in the process of becoming whole, and by the next night, the arm, along with the rest of me, was perfect. As I looked back on it, I found it to be quite a learning experience. It was an exercise in how much damage a vampire can sustain and still be a threat to life! I had had my ear cut off, had my left arm severed completely, been stabbed clean through the chest, gashed an inch deep from my shoulder blade to my buttock, had the tendons behind my knee severed, had my right eye stabbed, been run through again and had still been able to feed and kill! I would love to have studied the dead bodies of the vampires, but I was shocked to find their bodies totally decomposed, gone! The only trace left of them was a sticky, red, plasma stain on the cave floor. It was same for my severed arm! It, too, was gone. Ava had witnessed some of the decomposition, and she told me later that she could almost see the bodies dissolving. I suppose that it should have been a humbling experience to have my ass kicked by another, stronger vampire. Indeed, if it had not been for Ava, the other vampire would surely have triumphed. I did thank Ava for her assistance, but I have to admit that I was not humbled by my near defeat. As you have probably already noticed, I took a queer enjoyment out of risking my life; ‘living on the edge,’ so to speak. I still do. Since I cannot simply kill myself and end this unnatural, nightmare existence, I will continue to ‘push it’; to see how far I can go! So, the entire experience was very much like the beginning of a new era for me. It was the beginning of my relationship with Ava, and it marked also the beginning of my sane quest – that is, to kill all of the vampires in the world! And with Ava, I kept better track of the passing months and years.

NIGHT XVIII

Ava turned out to be an incredible support to me. We traveled together through Russia, China, Siam, and upper Indonesia (just for her, as I had already seen it, and wished to show her that beautiful land). She was a delightfully strong woman, and never presented herself as a liability. She provided completely for herself; I helped her only when she needed it. As a pair of travelers we made a fantastic team. She was also an able fighter, when it was necessary, and with training from me she became downright dangerous! Together we hunted down and destroyed a dozens of vampires throughout our travels, (and do not let me make that sound any less difficult than it was!) She made the necessary inquiries during the day, and I did the hunting and killing by night, oft times with invaluable assistance from Ava. She also became a fantastic lover to me, but I shall talk of that momentarily. Early on in our travels I told her of Maria and Shalimar. “So, I could never have your heart?” she asked. “Silly duck,” I said to her. “Whatever would you want with that long dead and useless item?” “I love you, Marcus. I know that I am not beautiful, but I hope that one day you would love me.” “I do love you, Ava.” “Not with the purity and passion that you loved Maria and Shalimar!” she groused. I had no tact speaking in Russian. “My dear Ava, Maria and Shalimar had something that you do not. They had love of self. Until you learn to love yourself, you will have no real love for me, only the need. And you will receive the pure love I freely give to you only as pity.” She said, “I can see how Shalimar could love herself, if she was truly as beautiful as you say. But tell me, my Lord, how did Maria have love of self looking as she did?” I said, “That is a very good question, my lamb. First, let me suggest to you that it matters not how you look; it only matters how you feel. Secondly, Maria focused only on the beauty of the world around her. She reflected only that beauty, none of the evil, none of the ugly, and that made her appear very beautiful. Her love of self stemmed from her knowledge of herself, knowing that she was more than just her visual appearance. “And furthermore, Shalimar did not get her love of self automatically because she was incredibly beautiful and loved by many men. She learned to love herself from a great teacher – her mother. Believe me, any amount of Shalimar’s love of self that was based on her appearance was adjusted for as she grew older and her physical beauty faded into experience. “I tell you, my love, love of self is a learned behavior. It comes from learning about yourself, eventually knowing who you are, accepting yourself. Love of self is a many-faceted jewel, based upon all of the many wonderful attributes that make up the person that you are.” She asked, “Do you love yourself, Marcus?” She had ‘caught’ me. “It is different for me,” I stammered. “Oh?” she said smugly. “How so? Why?” “Because I should not be,” I said, suddenly worried about how far she might try to push this discussion. “But you are,” she said simply. “I am unnatural and I destroy life,” I said, not without some emotion. “And therefore am inherently evil. That is why I refuse to turn anyone into a vampire. That is why I slay every vampire I encounter. It should be love of self, but it is really the only way that I can live with myself.” Thankfully, she mercifully did not delve any further. Silence reigned for a moment. Finally, with longing in her voice, she said, “I would love to have a child to which to teach love of self.” Tenderly, I said, “I wish that for you, my dear. But you must learn a thing before you can teach it.” Yes, Russian was a difficult language for me. To amend my lack of tact, I added, “And I know that you can. Learning love of self is of primary importance for every individual, and even though I must confess that it took me longer than a normal lifetime to acquire whatever small love of self that I might have, as Maria could see my potential, so do I have a clear vision of what you might become, Ava my love. And I promise that it will not take you as long a time as it took me.” And I’ll be damned if Ava did not, over the course of the next few years, completely learn to love herself! I think that from traveling with me she may have learned about herself quite a lot. I would like to think that she perhaps caught a glimpse of my vision of her potential in the way that I talked to her and treated her. The transformation was amazing! I first noticed it in her walk. When I had first seen Ava she had walked with shoulders hunched and head bowed, as if trying to hide her ample breasts and make herself appear shorter. After several months of teaching her much of what I had learned from Shalimar, Ava began to walk taller, more feline, leading with her breasts. As she began to get to know herself sexually she also became quite a splendid lover. I taught her everything of the world that I could think of. She became hungry for self-improvement, and was quite successful, in my opinion, in bettering herself. And as for being able to tempt a man, well, I can tell you, she became nothing less than masterful at that as well. After we had traveled together for several years, I realized that I was quite attached to Ava. I felt as strongly for her as I ever had for Shalimar, and I am sure that Ava knew it. So I was very surprised when she informed me one evening that she was pregnant! I asked stupidly, “Are you sure?” And as she nodded happily, excitedly, her full, beautiful mouth spread into a wonderful smile, I realized that I could smell the difference in her odor now rich with hormones, and I could see the subtle change in her appearance, the added fullness, the glow. Her joy was contagious and I could not help but feel happy for her. Knowing quite certainly by now that the child could not be mine I exclaimed, “That is a miracle! Who is the father?” She said, “Do you remember that handsome lad Dennettu, in that village we past through called Tukayaini? He is the only man that I have been with other than you for a pair of months. It is he that broke down the wall that was inside me preventing me from catching a child.” I took her in my arms. “What do you want to do, Ava?” We both knew that it would not be good to travel as we had been with her being pregnant. And then after she had the child it would be best that she be nested somewhere. But, bless her heart, Ava was not scared about the unknown. She was as empowered as she could be. However, I could tell that she was (needlessly) sensitive to my feelings. She said, “I do not wish to hurt you, my love.” “Ava! We have been over this. You take responsibility for your own feelings, not mine. Do not base any decision on how you think I might feel about it.” “I know, Marcus,” she said beginning to shudder lightly with a sob. “It’s just so hard.” “I know, child,” I said. “We both know what you must do, and I know that you will be happier for it.” She nodded but held tightly to me. And at that moment I could not deny that I was going to miss her terribly, even though we had had only sixteen years together. What an extraordinary woman! I accompanied Ava back to the village. I remember being quite hungry in the early morning as we approached the village, but I was to have to fast for the time being, as I could no longer feed from the pregnant Ava and it simply would not do to start a panic in the village. I was here only to make sure that Ava was received by Dennettu, and then I would be on my way. I prepared my space for my day-sleep and crawled in. When I arose the next evening, Ava was there waiting for me as I was now so accustomed to. Her countenance was a mixture of exuberant joy and immense sorrow, and I knew that this was the last night that I would arise to see this splendid girl. I held her tightly in my arms, loose dirt still clinging to me. I said, “I trust that all is splendid with Dennettu?” “Yes!” she answered, almost girlishly. “He seemed over-excited to see me again and when he learned that I carried his child he cried joyfully and jumped up and down in a fit of elation.” “He will take care of you then?” I asked to verify. “Love, cherish, and provide for you and the child?” “I can take care of my child and myself, silly Marcus,” she said. “But, yes. Dennettu has expressed his devotion.” “Good,” I said, satisfied that all would be well for Ava in this place so far from her homeland. However, my face must have reflected the agony of my heartache over having to part company with my precious Ava. She cried, “I can not leave you if it hurts you!” I stroked her hair, now long and beautifully kept. “My dear, dear, Ava. Nothing lasts forever; not us, not even me. You must follow your heart to happiness. I want nothing more than that for you. I shall miss you terribly and I shall love you always. I shall take great joy in the knowledge that you are happy and that you are raising a fine, beautiful, valuable family.” “Will I ever see you again?” she asked. I knew that the chances of that were slim; the world was simply too big. As much as I loved Indonesia, it seemed doubtful that I would be back that way inside the span of a lifetime. Furthermore, I believed that it would be better for her that she never see me again. But it seemed horribly cruel to illustrate such a truth to her now, so I said, “I would love that very much.” “Thank you, Marcus. You have been wonderful to me. I love you and I shall forever carry you in my heart.” We kissed for the last time, a long beautiful kiss that rivaled Shalimar’s best, then Ava parted from me and walked into the village, ready to start her new life with the fine young Dennettu. I barely made it to the next village and fed before the grey madness set in.

NIGHT XIX

The decades rushed by in the blink of an eye, as they still do today, accelerating faster and faster, until you are nearly sick and dizzy by the blur of time. I continued my night travels back up through Siam and once again into India. I remember being somewhat disappointed that India seemed just as I had left it one hundred years before. When I had returned to Italy in 1580, I had been uplifted by all of the change and growth brought on by the renaissance. But India and all of the Middle East still suffered from the ravages of warring would-be Sultans all clamoring to own the mountain of gold in Delhi. I was almost excited about seeing new places now, and as I entered the Mediterranean I turned south toward Africa. Of course, as I traveled I kept my nose to the wind, so to speak, for the scent of other vampires, and I continued my ‘sane’ killing spree whenever I found some. It was much more difficult and not nearly as ‘fun’ without Ava, but….. I found a very large coven in Cairo and killed most of the vampires off by systematically stalking them one at a time as they hunted at night. Many of them were young and inexperienced, making them comparatively easy kills. The last six were tough, however. Realizing that they were in some danger as they watched their comrades disappearing one by one, they started hunting together, very carefully staying close, and eventually forcing me to take them all on at once in their secret day-lair. I prevailed only by employing some excellent weapons, and by intense preparation. Just prior to arriving in Egypt, I had had the misfortune of getting struck by a silver blade. I was surprised at how painful the wound was, and how slowly it regenerated. From that I learned that silver has an adverse reaction with whatever makes me a vampire. Curious, such had been the tenants of vampire folklore for centuries, and I had previously never employed silver weapons until I made war on those six vampires in Cairo. Another dastardly little weapon that I (sort of) developed was a relatively simple device. Improved metallurgy techniques had begun to produce fine wire of great tensile strength. I attached two handles to each end of an eighteen inch piece of wire and found that I could inflict serious damage to an opponent by looping the wire around any available limb and pulling hard at the handles. The wire weapon could sever the limb if I managed to loop it near a joint. If not near a joint, the least it could was flay flesh off to the bone! And if I happened to be quick enough to get the loop around an opponent’s neck, well… say good night! The weapon was far from all-powerful, but it was a very handy tool to have when going up against six vampires. I rather enjoyed traveling through Africa. It was gritty and primitive, and suited my lifestyle of the time. Feeding on the bushmen was easy because the men of the tribe would never have the courage or wit to hunt me down. They did not keep records, so I could let my victims live and never have to worry about news of my existence reaching ‘civilization.’ Of course, that was also the main problem with traveling through Africa. I found myself longing for some interesting reading material. Can you believe that I, the one who sees only the night-time world, actually began to feel ‘out of touch?’ The jungle animals pretty much left me alone. I think that it was because they could not smell fear on me as they could ordinary men. The odor that they did smell from me was probably very disconcerting to their non-conscious, instinct-driven minds. Venomous snakes were nothing more than a nuisance. After circling the main portion of the continent, and spending a rather uncomfortable few days hiking through the dessert, I finally found myself back in beautiful Cairo. I was pleased to find that no vampires had popped up to take their residence there. I made my way across Europe to France, and once there began to plan out ways of how I might be able to cross the ocean, to see the ‘new’ world. Crossing the channel to England was easy enough, but the ocean would be a different matter. As you can certainly surmise, it was not as simple as getting passage on a ship. I was not ready to risk it. At this time the little fellow Napoleon Bonaparte was in his midst of his glory; a very dark time for France, and Europe. By now I was quite over causing mischief in the thick of the war, though I still found soldiers to be ideal victims. Ironically, France was one of the best places for a vampire to be as most of the fighting was happening elsewhere. Of Bonaparte I can only say that I must give credit to the recorders of history in his instance. He is remembered by history quite accurately. Bonaparte was a little mad man with acute short-man’s complex. To all of those not under his command, and even to many of those that he had conquered, he was the laughing stock. Recorded history is not always so accurate. During this time I allowed myself to get close a few different women. They were all different in their persons, but the commonalities between them were boldness and strength. They were all empowered, but strangely, not empowered enough to get noticed by history. I was shocked to read accounts of history years later that depicted women as having been oppressed! I guess I just never saw it from my nocturnal vantage point. You can call me a typical male if you wish, but we all know that it is not true. I had already learned much earlier, however, that all of my relationships were doomed to end. There was no ‘til death do you part.’ Every woman that I ever loved was another difficult decision to not create another vampire. My only consolation is that I know I made the right choice. I was traveling down on the southern coast of France, enjoying the night-time sights and smells of a beautiful Mediterranean town, when I came across a female vampire. After studying her for a while I realized that she was relatively old, and that she was familiar to me. In the dark of the night I approached her and cringed to hear her sweet-sounding voice say the name, “Ciao, Spignuglini.” And at that moment I recognized her scent and appearance. It was Cyllia! I was bombarded by a myriad of emotions, not the least of which was disgust at being reminded of Tarino’s old name for me. But at the same time I felt a strange connection to this female vampire because she was a part of my past. Also I found myself wanting her in the most lustful way, and I realized that I was allowing myself to feel the full effect of her ‘charm.’ I had the overwhelming urge to embrace her! So I did, and she reciprocated. That she had betrayed me to Tarino and endangered my Maria and her father in exchange for the dark gift was forgotten. I whispered in her ear, “I found my parents, Cyllia, thanks to you. My name is Marcus.” “It is good to see you again, Marcus,” she said, and this time her voice saying my true name was like cool wind through perfectly tuned chimes. Cyllia was youthful feminine beauty frozen in time. Her face was simply beautiful, uncomplicated by her straight brown hair that she wore pulled back with a jeweled clasp. I think that I must appear to you much the same way that she appeared to me – beautiful, immaculate, yet with eyes that somehow hint at the centuries of visions that have passed through them. Naturally, I had many questions for Cyllia. “You know that I eventually went back to Italy to find Tarino,” I said. “I found him a crazy old man. He was all alone, and I thought that something must have happened to the rest of the group. What happened to you, dear Cyllia?” “Tarino lived?” she asked. I did not answer the question. I asked again, “What happened?” She said, “The camp was attacked by a single man; a bizarre man. I only managed to get away because my grandson had left a horse tackled up to my wagon, and he had the presence of mind to drive me away from there.” I was mystified. “One man? What did he look like?” Cyllia’s full lips wore a mischievous smile. “It was daylight, silly boy. I was inside my coffin. I never saw anything. My grandson told me later what he had seen.” “Which was?” I asked. She said, “A single, stranger with extraordinary magic who cast some terrible spell that caused Tarino and his dark children to go mad!” “He saw them go mad?” I asked. “During the light of day?” “So he did say,” she said. I asked, “Were they not destroyed?” “I had only assumed that they had been,” Cyllia said. “My grandson had not been in a position to take an accurate account of the occurrence. That is why I am surprised to learn that you saw Tarino at all, in any condition.” Questions raced unbridled from my mouth. “What about the other gypsies? And what became of the vase children? Did your grandson happen to mention any particulars?” “Only that the stranger had the strength of many men and no one was able to stop him from working his awful magic.” She had been amused thinking of the destruction of Tarino and his camp. “Did he get a look at the man? What did he look like?” I asked. She answered, “He said that the man was very beautiful and tall, and he had extraordinary white hair. My grandson told me that the man now haunts his every dream. Did you not talk to Tarino when you found him? What did he say about the experience?” I tried to hide my shock as I realized that Cyllia must have embraced her grandson – probably for saving her from the Slayer. I said, “Tarino talked only nonsense. He was afraid that I had returned only to take revenge on him.” “And did you?” she asked. I slowly shook my lowered head. I would not try to explain myself to her just now. I tried to put these new pieces together. It had to be the Slayer! But what was his ‘magic?’ Not only was Tarino mad, but he had grown old. Was he no longer a vampire? Had something ‘cured’ him of vampirism but left him mad? Perhaps being turned back into a mortal would be enough to drive a vampire mad! “You turned your grandson?” I asked, still trying to mask my amazement, and Cyllia nodded as if to say ‘what should I have done?’ She said, “Sethsimo went to see Egypt a few years ago. Should we go together to seek him out? He could tell you his eyewitness account of the attack.” I was then sorry that I had asked about her grandson. I smiled charmingly and said, “Cyllia darling, I would love to travel with your illustrious company.” But I knew there was no way that I would be going to Egypt with Cyllia. It was just damned unfortunate that I had probably killed the one person that could tell me about the slayer. Cyllia lived right in town in a rented flat. After sharing a kill, an act that I performed with numb autonomicity while trying all the while to appear as though I relished it as she did, we adjourned to her fine flat and fell feverishly into love making. It went on for hours as she was quite insatiable. Vampirism had restored her body to its virginal state! Yet, it was amazing to be with someone who knew herself so well sexually. Of course, by now Cyllia had had several lifetimes of experience; she had, after all, been an old woman when I was still a child in the vase. The words of Shalimar rang in my ears, ‘do not mistake sex for love.’ But the connection that I felt with Cyllia was undeniable. As we talked through the night I realized that she was just as exemplary and empowered a woman as anyone before her. Time had made her extraordinary! She felt like an old friend to me, alomst like family, and I knew that I was in falling in love. We talked of our histories, of common experiences, our individual discoveries. Cyllia told me the story of my birth. She had not traveled as much as I had, but rather had spent the decades loving various men and vampires. Cyllia had learned long before she ever became a vampire how to remain anonymous. The one experience that we did not share was creating another vampire. She had turned many, while I, of course, had never. Cyllia was quick to tease me, but not with any cruelty. Surely she must have sensed my loathing at being a vampire. Why she did not take it as an ill omen I do not know. We slept together that day in her long box. It was very plush and comfortable, but I took the most pleasure in just holding her and being held by her. Far to the dark recesses of my mind were pushed the thoughts and reminders that she was, like me, a vampire. I did not want to think about killing her as I had so many others while I lay there holding her. How could I do it anyway? I was not responsible for her creation or her actions. I was under no obligation to slay vampires. They are far from ideal victims in any case! The next evening I convinced Cyllia to stay in with me and fast, though we spent another night feverishly pleasuring each other. She was less inventive than Shalimar, but only because she knew well what she liked, and that is not to say that she was stuck in a rut. It was simply plain to me that she had done most of her experimentation on earlier lovers, just as I had done. What made it seem quite magical was that we both had control over our own individual ridiculously high pheromone secretions, and we both gave in to the overwhelming feelings and sensations that resulted. I finally had a woman that I could experience the blurring decades with. We could live the charmed life that I had wanted with Shalimar, without a thought of growing old. That life would come at a high price, but I banished that thought. For I was a killer, anyway, was I not? I killed virtually every night, did I not? And if someone should not die from a vampire, they would still die eventually anyway. What a foolish and high-minded quest I had been on, slaying all of the ‘evil anomalies’ in the world! The next evening we went out, both of us too hungry to deny it. If we shared a victim, that person would surely die, but it was not prudent to leave a victim alive in this town anyway. She picked out a victim seemingly at random, a middle-aged sailor near the docks, charmed him quickly and had him well hidden from view in the dark shadows of the harbor buildings. I watched as she began to feed on him. All of the self-loathing returned to me in a moment then, dousing my false joy like cow excrement falling on a meadow blossom. Cyllia stopped presently and said, “Here, love, take the rest.” With infinite sadness I looked down at her dead eyes, her bloody lips, her hideously protruding fangs, and slowly shook my head. Tenderly, I held her head in my hands, then, knowing that she would be inclined to give in to my passions as she had so recently become accustomed to doing, I sank my fangs deep into her neck and drank. She was well over half drained before she tried to push me away. Her writhing grew frantic and reflexive, just as I had anticipated, and with a deft movement I broke her neck. This still did not kill her or even stop her squirming, but it did weaken her enough that I managed her now with relative ease. At length, I had sucked her veins completely dry. I noticed the bleeding sailor as he crept away and I said, “Leave us now! Tell no one!” Then I turned my sad eyes back to Cyllia. Weakly, she whispered, “Why, Marcus?” “Because we should not be. Because you would never kill me. Because I do not deserve happiness,” I said. Then I cut off her head and quickly left the town undetected.

NIGHT XX

I did eventually find a way to cross the ocean, but god! the cost, and I am not talking about money. Bradley Holdings of London purchased a large ship complete with a crew. The first voyage of the Cyllia took her down to the central coast of Africa, where from she was not to return to England until heavily laden with freshly-captured slaves. When she finally did return to the port of London, she took on fresh provisions, and a certain eccentric navigational expert who never ventured out on deck in the light of day, and left with Godspeed for the new world. First, the slaves began disappearing one by one, but it was quite some time before anyone in the crew noticed the dwindling numbers. I killed the African males mostly, leaving the females, knowing that the crew was more familiar with them for obvious reasons. Then, various crew members began to disappear. With each disappearance a wave of panic would ripple through the ship. Every time there was talk of mutiny, or of turning back, the instigators of such talk would turn up missing. Eventually, I regretfully killed the captain, a good man, and revealed myself to the first mate. Promising him eternal life as a vampire, (and making it sound much more happy and safe than it really is) I convinced the first mate to continue the voyage, leading the remains of the crew. I promised that no more crew members would be killed as long as I was not hunted down aboard the ship during the day. There were still plenty of slaves for me to feed upon. During the day I hid far in the darkest recesses, deep in the bow of the ship, doing my best to sleep with one eye open. At night I would feed privately on a slave, check the stars to make sure that we were still on course, then fraternize with the crew, regaling them with my tales and wit. Naturally, they were very nervous about being in the company of a suspected vampire, but it was easy to win over their trust. Finally, with only six slaves left, land was sighted. Tragically, (and I mean that from the bottom of my heart), the good ship Cyllia sank before it could make it into the harbor. There were no survivors. I had made it across the ocean to America, at a cost of 57 souls. The year was 1803. Ah! America! It truly was the land of promise. I suppose it still is, even though it has its problems. It had problems back then as well. But then, that is the nature of this thing called government. As long as individuals feel the need to follow a political leader, there will be someone eager take on that position. Am I an anarchist, you ask? Perhaps…. I suppose. I have never given much thought to that term. What entity, either natural or artificially created, would you suggest that I be subject to? In my life I have seen ‘countries’ come and go; entire governmental structures conceived, attempted, and abandoned. It would not surprise me in the least that I end up outliving this ‘America.’ Should I be subject to something that is younger than I am, and most likely due to expire before I do? Let me tell you something! There is no America! There is no Italy; there is no Greece, no India, no Mexico, no Canada! The territories exist, sure, but the concept of countries, I tell you, is incorrect. As far as you and I and the rest of the population on this world are concerned, at this time, there is only this world and its remaining resources. There are no races and no genders; no ‘special interest groups!’ There are only individuals. Some individuals take care of business, take care of themselves and their own, literally producing more resources for the world than they consume, contributing to quality of life for everyone. To these fine individuals, whether they realize it or not, the ‘government’ is a heinous detriment because it literally does nothing for them. It only takes away from them! And some individuals do not take care of business. By hook or crook, fraud, lies, or pity, they use and steal more values and resources than they even try to produce, thereby detracting just by that much from the quality of life of everyone else! It is only to these individuals that the erroneous concept of government appears real, for they, by virtue of their practice, are not yet capable of self-government. Do you need defense? Absolutely! You need defense against all ‘governments,’ especially the one purporting to be your own. But the ‘army’ is not for the defense of the people; it is for the offense of the ‘government!’ The only defense that I know of against a governmental body is education. Truly! Children must be taught the moral imperative to create and produce and to not destroy. Instead you teach your children the pledge of allegiance; you teach them patriotism and nationalism. You teach them that it would be quite honorable to join the ‘army’ and fight in defense of their nation! Listen to me!! If there is only one thing that I have learned in 524 years, it is this – there would be no war if no one joined the ‘army!’ I am stupefied to watch the able bodied youths of this world duped into taking up arms and following the ‘little general’ into battle for some ridiculous cause; a cause that attempts to cover the fact that ‘governments’ are simply fighting over the earth’s resources. Can they not see past the propaganda? “I am an army of one.” “The few, the proud, the Marines.” “The Navy – It’s not just a job, it’s an adventure.” If the youth of the world were properly educated, they would not be susceptible to such lies! They would create and produce rather than take any opportunity to kill and destroy. And taxpayers everywhere are dutifully paying for it all. Yes, as much death and destruction as I have caused, and other vampires in the world have certainly caused, we do not begin to equal the destructive force that you have brought down upon yourselves. And now, today, thanks to the Geneva Convention, there are rules to war! I could wrack my brain and still not think of anything more asinine! That government ‘leaders’ invent rules for war should be proof enough that it is all just a terrible game that they play at our expense. ‘Government’ inherently seeks to put itself above the individual, to grow and oppress. The solution is simple however. Conscious individuals must learn to follow only their internal authority, not some external entity purporting to be an authority; and to produce; never damage, destroy, or steal. However, as usual, I digress. When I first came to America, the land seemed filled with hardworking, productive individuals and prosperity abounded! There was poverty, but not in the degree and amount that it could be found in Europe and the rest of the world. The quality of life for virtually everyone, with perhaps the exception of the slaves, was comparatively high and rising relatively fast. The industrial revolution was just getting underway, and for the first time I was finding it difficult to actually keep up with all of the technological advancements, as they were actually happening almost as fast as I could learn of them. As exciting as all of that was to watch, it did present an interesting problem to me. It was difficult in many places to find a good victim. Criminals were in short supply, and many of the leaders were actually good, value-producing men, if you can imagine that. Natives made rather poor victims because, unlike the bushmen of Africa, the warriors of a tribe would band together and hunt down a Talakika. I found myself again in the unfortunate situation of having to skulk among the ranks of battling armies to feed. Of course, it was not as bad as surviving today. I surely would have starved in those days had it not been for the persistent British and the misled French. In only a few short decades I had explored the width and breadth of civilization in the new world as it spread rapidly to the west, and I have to admit that I liked what I saw of it. Change, growth, development – it was nothing short of evolution happening right before my exclusively night-seeing eyes. And I came to understand that even better when I read the theories of Charles Darwin. For such a youngster he was a very intelligent man. He articulated what I had slowly been coming to in my head over the span of the centuries. And throughout my travels, I found a very high number of vampires! They were all pretty young, and I have to admit, mostly wise. But even as discreet and careful as they might have been, I still took it upon myself to destroy them. I began to encounter vampires with alarming frequency as I approached the southern Mississippi delta. The city of New Orleans seemed nearly infested! I had been there only a week and had already encountered and destroyed eight vampires – exactly one per night except for the seventh night when two had actually sought me out to kill me. There had been no indication that they had been part of a coven. I could uncover no hidden lairs. Since the ‘eating’ had been so good, I was feeling especially well and strong as I walked through the French quarter on my eighth night in New Orleans. Could I have actually been cheerful? I had determined to stay until I stopped running into vampires. I turned down a side street, caught up in fond memories of Maria and Giovanni and Italy, remembering the feelings of being in love. Suddenly, I felt breath on my neck! A young, male voice said with a mixture of pleasure and scolding, “Hello, Marcus.” Alarm shot through me! I had heard no one approach from behind. I had smelled no one! There was something familiar about the voice, and just as the recollection was forming in my memory I finally smelled the old familiar scent. I spun and grabbed the young man in an embrace. “John!” I exclaimed laughing. “How excellent to see you! You startled the b’jesus out of me!” In my ear he said, “It’s good to see you alive, my old friend.” Stepping back for a moment, I looked to take in my old friend and mentor. A startling realization hit me like a sledgehammer – John was without a doubt a vampire! He was young and beautiful, and strong! Despite that he was smiling broadly in happiness of seeing me, his eyes were dark, and dead. Unable to mask my disappointment, my voice tinged with a touch of disdain, I said, “Well, it looks as if you finally got your wish.” “This is simply survival, Giovane,” he said. “And you have been a very naughty little vampire!” My eyes must have narrowed at him. “What are you talking about, John?” “You killed eight of my best students,” John said, with only a trace of anger. “I have watched vampires all over the world for the last century, winking out of existence at high rates. I know now that it has been you destroying them.” I wondered how he knew that I had been killing vampires. I said, almost defiantly, “Yes! I have been hunting and destroying the evil anomaly.” It suddenly sounded like a childish endeavor. “Would you destroy me, Marcus?” asked John. My head bowed, as I knew that killing John would not only be extremely difficult, if not impossible, but that if I should somehow succeed in killing my old friend, I would surely be extinguishing the one of the greatest minds that had ever existed. However, I also knew that if I should witness John feeding on a victim like I had seen Cyllia do, killing an innocent person as I did nearly every night, I would surely have to kill him, or die in the attempt. I did not want to think about this! I wanted simply to be with John, my old teacher; to learn more from him, to travel with him, to spar with him. I wanted to banish thoughts of vampirism and killing from my mind. I had had enough. John grasped my shoulders and said, “Marcus! You have to stop killing vampires!” The clear image of my beloved mentor bent over my precious Maria appeared in my mind’s eye. Surely, in 1800 years he must have done something so horrific; many times, more than likely. In my own comparatively short life I had enacted such a horrific scene countless times. Loathing filled me again. “No!!” I yelled. “I will not. We should not be. I must kill us all. I must cleanse the world of the evil anomaly that is vampires.” I then made the mistake of attacking John, and we fought. Actually, ‘fight’ is too nice a word. Without going into a lot painful detail, let me just say that John completely trounced me. He was simply too fast, too experienced. He knew my every attack as I executed it, and countered it easily. And against his attack I had no defense. The only thing that I can say to my credit is that it actually took John fifteen whole minutes to completely incapacitate me. This he did by breaking nearly every bone in my body, my back, and my neck. Throughout the fight John remained calm and cool. No anger ever clouded his perfectly rational demeanor. As he delivered another bone-crushing blow, John said, “Stop this! You are going to ruin everything.” Finally, unable to move, I fought madly only to stay conscious as John stood over me. He was hardly out of breath as he said, “I do not want you to die, Marcus.” And with that he slit his wrist and let rapidly dripping blood fall directly into my mouth. I wanted so badly to scream, “But I want to die!!” But my jaw was broken, and my throat was busy swallowing his offered blood. Presently, John clamped his other hand over the wounded wrist, then beckoned, “Peter! Jeantavio!” As unconsciousness began to darken my world, I became aware of two shadowy figures lifting my pulpified body.

NIGHT XXI

I came to myself in darkness, a feeling that I have become very accustomed to. The dank smell of decay was in my nose and I knew that I was in some place reserved for the housing of the dead. I was nearly mad with blood hunger. There was not a trace of light anywhere. I stirred, preparing to feel my way to an exit, hoping that there was one. John’s youthful voice issued from the darkness. “You will need to leave New Orleans, Marcus. The others have requested that I execute you for their safety. They will band together to destroy you if I do not. Marcus, I do not want you to die. Come on.” I heard the grinding of great stones and suddenly blessed, pale moonlight sifted into the crypt. John’s shadow stood against that the pale light issuing through the small opening for a moment and then was gone. I stood and followed. Outside I found John looking as cagey as ever. With him was a middle-aged man. John said, “This is Jeantavio. He will be your donor tonight. Do not kill him! Feed quickly, then we will go.” I did as he instructed, then we sneaked out of the cemetery; John looking over his shoulder the whole way. We did not speak as we journeyed out of the city, sticking to the shadows the entire distance. At last, only when we were well out of town, deep in the marshy countryside, John stopped and said, “Marcus, I want to show you something.” He reached into a discreet pocket on his trousers, and pulled out the brilliant blue orb – the same blue crystal item that I had only glimpsed so many centuries ago. He held it up for my inspection. It was slightly opaque, and just larger than an egg. Suspended just under its surface, like minute stars encased in a firmament, were several tiny pin pricks of red light some brighter than others. It looked very beautiful and exotic, but not especially outstanding. He said, “Look directly into the heart of the orb.” I did so, and was rewarded with a stunning visual effect. The little red points of light suddenly seemed to magnify and stand out. I pulled my eyes away from the crystal orb and back to John’s. He appeared entranced by the ball. I asked, “What magic is this?” “Whatever magic it is,” John said, “it is neither good nor evil. Now look.” Trusting John perhaps more than good judgment warranted, I focused again into the center of the ball. Again, it seemed to magnify around me, as if encompassing me. As I stared hard into the heart of the spherical crystal, I could use my acute peripheral vision to inspect the detail of each point of light, and found that the brighter ones were actually two or more points clumped very close together. Also, in the blue opaqueness of the crystal, I could now discern shapes that I quickly recognized as some of the continents that I was familiar with. John said, “There used to be a few hundred of these lights in the ball. Now there are only a few dozen. These red dots are all of the vampires in the world.” As was always the case with something that John told me, his statement spawned more questions in my head than it answered. Knowing that I would probably not get all of the answers that I wanted, I was hesitant to ask anything. I tried to quickly prioritize my questions. “How did you come upon this device?” I asked, not expecting an answer. None came. I noticed that one of the points of light in the little globe was larger and brighter than the rest. Maintaining my focus at the orb’s center, I gestured in the direction of the tiny red point and asked, “What is that one?” “That,” he answered confidentially, “is the Slayer.” You know, I wanted so badly to regard John as a friend, but when he mentioned the Slayer again, I had to fight the urge to hit him with all of my might. Of course, following any such impulse would have been extremely foolish as I had so recently discovered. Had John lied to me about the Slayer or had he simply not known – been misinformed? But, if the points of red light in this mysterious little object were as John claimed, then he would know day to day the location of the Slayer and of every vampire in the world. Surely John had encountered the Slayer. Surely he had some idea of the Slayer’s true methods. I suspected that John was highly informed. So then why had he lied to me before, in Spain? Perhaps he had not lied. Maybe the Slayer’s methods were truly as painful as John had said. Maybe that torturous pain drove Tarino mad. I asked him point blank, “John, are you prepared to tell me about the Slayer?” “I have told you all that is necessary, Giovane,” John said as he cupped his hand over the crystalline orb and put it back into his pocket. “No vampire can stand against him. His goal is to completely wipe vampires from the face of the earth.” “Then I like him already,” I said defiantly. “No! You dumb bastard!” he yelled, and his vice-grip hands grasped my neck. He shook me powerfully as he continued, “He is wiping us out and you’re helping him do it! We have to live! That is the only thing! We must live!” With a powerful thrust, he threw me stunned to the ground. Breathing heavily, I gasped out, “What about the poor souls who die every night to feed us?” “I don’t know,” said John, suddenly sounding regretful. “Those that are not embraced are doomed to die anyway. Giving one’s life to a vampire is as good a cause for which to die as any. Any other death is a wasted death!” But I could hear in his sad voice that he did not believe this lie. I got to my feet. Clearly John was not going to kill me. For some odd reason he wanted terribly for me to live. “Good-by, John.” And I started walking away, into the night. “Marcus!” He called out. “You are still my favorite person in this world.” “I am not a person,” I countered, a passionate, hateful frown etched into my face. That was the last time that I ever saw John. I must say in all honesty, as much as I would love to see him again, I hope that the Slayer got him. I know that I would never have the ability to destroy a being that was so deeply entrenched in the habit of living. And I did not stop killing vampires. I have continued to destroy every vampire that I have ever encountered to this day, though I have to say that it has been over twenty years since I encountered one. I have yet to again encounter the Slayer, though I feel somehow that my time is at hand. It has become increasingly difficult to live in this world undetected. First came the invention of the photograph, in all of its variations, then later moving pictures, television and surveillance cameras. Electric lights have greatly reduced the amount of shadows there are in which to hide at night. Advanced communications technology means that it is now impossible to move through the land, traveling from village to village like a ghost. There was a period in the early part of the century where a dead body was front page news! In order for a vampire to survive undetected he has had to become even more clever and inventive. For that reason if no other I am glad that I chose to thin out the ranks. It seems a stroke of good fortune for me and any other vampires still in existence that we have not been found out by society and made to pay for our murders. And that could still happen at any time! Well, anyway, I fell back into my usual deep depression after leaving John again. I simultaneously missed and loathed him terribly. Memories of our last encounter haunted me as I continued my circuit of the New World. I walked down through Mexico and Central America. I saw the great Amazon River by the light of the moon. South America struck me at the time much the same way as Africa had – all of the civilization had been imported. At first the Aztec and Mayan ruins seemed interesting, along with the legends of the ancient civilizations, their human sacrifices to various gods and other rituals. Then I discovered the truth about their gods and, mostly likely, their tribal leaders, and it was obvious what had happened. Every single vampire that I encountered in the region was younger than two hundred years old! You do the math….. I returned to America just in time to cause mischief in the midst of the little skirmish between the United States and Mexico. As a result of my night-time pranks, losses on both sides were higher than they needed to be for such a small war. I was simply trying to show that there was plenty of fertile land available; that they need not be fighting over control of a scrub-filled desert, but I went about it all wrong. And what the hell do I know anyway? Control of the land became most valuable later when oil was discovered and greater demand for fossil fuels became widespread by further industrial innovation. God! I was so over war! Especially the next several ‘civilized’ wars that broke out. I am thoroughly disgusted by the notion that race and nationality even amount to anything. I distanced myself from the regions in turmoil from the civil war, but not so far that I was able to turn a blind eye to the obscene atrocities that the leader Abraham Lincoln perpetrated upon the all of the people under his leadership, the people of the ‘South,’ the ‘slaves,’ and the Native Americans! If the ‘South’ wanted to leave the ‘United States’ then why should anyone attempt to prevent them? I was immensely relieved for my own selfish reasons that all of the subsequent wars did not take place near my proximity. Every one of the wars was useless. You know, I could almost excuse the young soldiers of India for fighting for a certain Sultan or another. Soldiers of that time were not as educated. The reasons for the war were simple. The spoils of the fight were obvious and defined. But today’s youth and even the youth of the 1800’s are much more educated. I would have thought that they would simply know better. Today’s wars are not so simple, and the soldiers haven’t the foggiest idea of what the true spoils are. They have been duped into fighting for some rediculous ‘cause.’ Ah, but there I go, ranting again. I do not know why I should even care – none of this affects me materially. I guess I care for the same reason that I have been exterminating vampires for the last two hundred years. I desire world peace as much as the next person – probably much more! Perhaps in a world without hate and fear I could live not as a covert destroyer.

NIGHT XXII

It is exciting to watch the quality of life rise and increase and continue to rise beyond every previous generation’s dreams. That increase in the quality of life is due directly to progress in developing technology. I remember that shortly before the turn of the twentieth century, advances in technology finally reached the point where I could no longer keep up with all of them. The collective knowledge of mankind was advancing faster than any one man could advance! At that time I knew that if there should be anything in the world that appears magic, it would have to be able to be scientifically explained. At some base level, all things adhere to Nature’s Law. I became determined to discover the laws of nature that allowed for my vampirism; that made it possible. I had reached a point in my studies, however, where reading books and reports was not enough. I needed a laboratory; I needed outside input, opinions, theories and feedback; I needed a sounding board, so to speak. I wanted to add some of my own thoughts to the collective pool of knowledge. It took some doing, but I finally enrolled in college. Looking the part of a college student was easy. Getting ‘accepted’ was also pretty easy; by that time Bradley Holdings had acquired a few million dollars U.S. The difficulty lay in finding classes that were held after dark. To facilitate this most essential requirement I enrolled at a university that was located in the northernmost part of the land. I could only feasibly attend classes during winter, and not during daylight saving time. But I was not attending university for credits or a degree, so it did not really matter what classes I took or when. I attended the classes that interested me. I was not concerned with grades; I was there to learn, to experiment, and to find out what makes me what I am. If an assignment challenged me enough I might have been inclined to complete it, but that was rare, and I soon found myself rather disillusioned by academia. There was value to be reaped from attending university, but it was buried under bull dung and busy-work. Truths came in small bits from the mouths of pedantic professors between large, long chunks of half-truths and horse manure. Gradually a clever conspiracy began to unfold itself to me, as I realized that no man would receive any appointment to teach others lest he had already proven himself to adhere to a strict curriculum. Those in power (quite possibly vampires) had in academia a perfect vehicle for filling hungry young minds with propaganda rather than information. It is not a new concept. Pitifully, it has gone on since ancient Greece – educate the masses to serve the higher power, whatever that might be. It became most clear to me when I enrolled in a history course. I remember thinking, ‘oh this might be interesting.’ I suppose I can not really blame the professor for teaching falsehoods, I mean, its not like he was actually there, now is it? He was merely passing on the errors that had been told to him by his teachers. And who’s to say that I even know the whole story? For god’s sake, I have only witnessed the world by night throughout the last 500 hundred years; I can only guess as to what went on during the day. However! I have never been subjected to listening to such clever half-truths! The writers of history (again, quite possibly the same vampires) have twisted the facts of certain events in order that the new information might better serve them. I heard tales of historical figures whose ill deeds I had witnessed that elevated them to the status of hero or saint! Bloody wars that had been fought over gold had been re-assigned with a valid moral and beneficial ‘cause.’ Certain cold-blooded murders that had originally been based solely on personal vendettas had become relabeled in the annuls of time as executions for the public good. I was most sickened to learn that history, even after the very short period of only thirty years, had recorded that the Civil War, as bloody as it was, had been necessary for preserving the ‘Union.’ Abraham Lincoln was lauded as the man who had single-handedly ‘freed’ the slaves – ‘The Great Emancipator.’ Nothing in my history class ever hinted about the truth of the Civil War, or the truth of what a destructive man Lincoln was. Not a word about the idea that maybe the ‘North’ had been wrong and the ‘South’ had been right. Nothing was ever mentioned about the verbiage of the Emancipation Proclamation and the 14th Amendment, and how neither document really does anything to ‘free’ anyone; in fact, exactly the opposite! And little facts were gracefully dismissed; like the fact that Lincoln exterminated more Indians during his en-shortened administration than any other ‘president.’ History does not show that Lincoln actually gave Hitler a run for his money! Imagine! Mortal men that could prove to be more destructive in one lifetime than I have been in five hundred years! However, that is enough about college history. I really enjoyed physics, chemistry, biology, and philosophy. Eventually I was even able to attend law school at night, and then medical school. But let me tell you of another strange observation. Now, this, of course, is not written in stone, but it just seemed to be the general rule; that the courses of study chosen by students seems often to be the area where one needs the most improvement. I noticed it most profoundly when I took courses on psychology. Most of the psych students had serious issues. Medical students were often ill. Law students started out with lofty ideals, and by the end of law school knew all of the ways to bend the law without seeming to break it. And although college students as a whole are generally naïve and limited in perspective, students of philosophy, it seems, are the worst. Just a quirky little observation….. Anyway, as I said before, there was some value gleaned from attending university. For one thing, it was the most effective way for me to try to stay current with the ever-advancing technology, though, by the end of the Great War it was utterly and gratifyingly impossible. Technology advances too fast! I now have attended college for the span of an entire average lifetime. During this time I also tried something that I had never tried before. I developed several close friendships with people that I had met at the university, and even tried creating an organization of sorts. It started shortly after I had relocated myself to Portland. I came to Portland in the early 1920’s because at the time it was the only town in the northwest to have a medical school; the splendid facility still located on Marquam Hill. Later I studied philosophy and religion at Reed College, and that was when I met a young fellow named Stoddard Parker. Stoddard won my trust and I eventually told him everything. He was such a great help to me in those days. He would take care of errands and administrative details for me that were required to be carried out during the day. He convinced me to share my secret with a few others and over the course of a few years I developed a tight circle of devotees that was large enough that I always had a ready, enthusiastic donor. I went several years with out having to kill anyone. With Stoddard’s help I established myself with an identity as his brother Edward. As Edward Parker I was able to socialize normally for the first time in my life. I ‘came out’ in social circles. We managed to fabricate a past for Edward, and even though it was all a lie, I felt a sort of legitimacy by it; or perhaps it was simply that I was no longer required to kill in order to live. In an effort to create something of value I even built a beautiful hotel downtown, The San Teresa. It was a splendid edifice. And I was excited by the idea of doing much, much more! However, the entire situation unraveled when a few of my donors became adamant in their desires to become vampires. And that was a path I simply could not start down. I knew that the creation of vampires would not stop and that the deaths of innocents would surely be the result. Eventually I was forced to kill the belligerent group members. Stoddard himself then came to me one night. “Edward,” he began. “Marcus! I have written a letter and left it with an agent to be opened in the event of my death or any other harm that may befall me. The letter exposes you and would be most damaging, I promise you. I demand that you turn me into a vampire.” I held my rage inside; I was most furious at myself for allowing this situation to get beyond my control. I said, “I will turn you my friend, but may I suggest, that you wait just a little while. If you wish to have a child, you will want to do so before you become a vampire. Live a little more of life. Relish the day and the sun, for once you are turned, there will be no more such enjoyment.” Thus, I played on his lack of perspective to buy myself a little time. If his thinking had been clearer he would have insisted on being turned immediately. Of course, if his perspective had been truly objective, he would never have desired to be a nightwalker. I was not sure how I would be able to resolve the situation, but then an opportunity affronted itself to me. Shortly after my confrontation with Stoddard I was given the chance to fake my own death publicly. There was a terrible fire at another hotel downtown and I entered the blazing building under the guise of heroics. I managed to catch on fire in front of a group of onlookers; quite a feat I can tell you as I was suffering from the same involuntary survival reflex that makes a vampire dig into the ground with his bare hands if there is no other escape from the dawn. And then I almost did die! Fire is very dangerous to vampires. However I did escape that death, just as I have eluded death so many times in my past, and over the next three nights I killed every one of the people that had been a donor in my secret organization, except for Stoddard. Before any harm could be allowed to befall him, I had to recover his damned-able letter, which I eventually did. I found it in the safe of an attorney whom he had retained for other legal services. Stoddard, my ‘brother,’ had taken my hotel. It did not really matter to me; it was just the principle of the thing! I was simply very disappointed by Stoddard and the others, and myself. In 1941, Stoddard fed me for the last time I vowed that I was never going to trust anyone ever again, however I have come to realize that you can actually trust everyone – to do exactly whatever it is that they are going to do. And so it is that I have entrusted others, though few, with my secret. But I did have one friend during this time that I never did tell. Amazingly, it was a little orphan boy that I had saved from the hotel fire; little Jimmy was his name. I came across him one night as I was doing what I do – prowling at night. He was only thirteen, and had made the decision at that young age to forfeit his room and board at the children’s home. Little Jimmy, in fact, refused help from everyone, including me. However, he did listen to me; I suppose that he must have looked up to me. So I counseled him on the laws of nature (as I perceive them). And I never had to tell him my secret. For several years we met almost every night. At first I would just find him somewhere in the city, camped out in an alley or a nook somewhere; he was quite resourceful. He would earn money for himself by selling newspapers, washing automobiles, and doing odd jobs of every nature. By age fourteen he had procured for himself a place to live of his own, an apartment, and he eventually ended up managing the entire apartment building for a few years before finally buying the building. I helped him negotiate and structure the deal so that he was able to make the purchase with a contract. However, after about fifteen years, I knew that I was going to have to end our association. He was in his late twenties by then and knew that I should have been looking much older. I faded from his life before ever being required to explain to him why I didn’t age. I still look in on Jimmy from the periphery on occasion, to see how he is doing. His was a friendship the memory of which I still hold close to my heart. It was while attending medical school for the third time that I met someone who became a great friend to me and who is still in my life. Gerald was what you might call a nerd. He did not seem outstanding in any way, but I can tell for a fact that he was very different. He had a natural tolerance for the effects of pheromones. To a girl he might have seemed to be uninterested, distracted, or homosexual. In truth, he simply was not susceptible to a woman’s charms. He would definitely notice and respect intelligence, however. Now, as you know, when I am around people I constantly emit a specific blend of body chemicals that influence those around me to not take notice of me. It is quite simple really. It does not render me invisible by any stretch, but it is a simple precaution in a world full of hazards. Occasionally, and far too often for my liking, I encounter certain individuals like Gerald who, for whatever reason, are unaffected by my cocktail. Little Gerald Harper was a young man without a single friend. As a young man, his social skills were… not there! He took to me like a puppy to its new owner. Normally this would have made him a victim very quickly, but I could not kill Gerald. He had already impressed me with his amazing intelligence. But a vampire has to be very careful nowadays – more careful than in times past, as I have already explained. So I groomed young Gerald to learn of my secret, and eventually told him. Gerald was always the consummate scientist. He had started out with modest aspirations of being a medical doctor, but I convinced him to aim for much more. Together we went on, after university, to develop many new medicines and surgical techniques. With all of his success I urged Gerald for my sake to keep a low profile. It cost him a life without notoriety, but not without comforts. Quite a few of the innovations and advances in medicine over the last thirty years have been made by Gerald. And we worked feverishly to diagnose my strange condition. Alas, we were not altogether successful in that latter endeavor, but we did eliminate many possibilities by ‘unethical’ testing and experimentation upon my person. The first thing we did was wipe out once and for all the age old myth of vampires being magical ‘un-dead’ creatures. It did not take long at all for us to determine that I was indeed perfectly alive by every definition of the term, and indeed, alive perfectly! I am simply in absolutely perfect health, with the un-aging body of a twenty year old male. I am the same as I ever was since the turning. I have never stopped growing in my mind, however. I have ten times the experience of any old man. I exist. I am a conscious individual, but my own rationality comes at the price of the live of others. It would be better for the world if I did not exist, but since I do exist, and it seems that we are powerless to end my existence, it is better for the world that I have my rationality. We took innumerable blood samples, tested and examined them, but could find nothing out of the ordinary. We severed digits and limbs, and examined them, timing both the accelerated biodegradation of the severed item and my regeneration process. We exposed severed limbs to narrow bandwidths of radiation and varying degrees of intensity, and were able to determine the exact amount of visible light that caused the ‘blood-fire.’ We employed virtually all of the biological technology that the 1970’s had to offer, and we found nothing that could explain my condition. My frustration sank into a deep depression. Eventually the experiments degenerated into various attempts of assisted suicide. We tried no less than thirty-two different times to end my life, but each cooperative effort was foiled by at least two major complications. First of all, having killed innumerable vampires myself, I know that vampires do not die quietly. At all! As I have already explained, the reflex for survival is quite voluntary, and uncomfortable. And severing or destroying the head or the heart seems to be the only ways to prevent a vampire from regenerating. The second reason the assisted suicides never succeeded was because Gerald’s heart was probably never in it anyway. Each highly ingenious plan to circumvent my strange survival reflex was subtly and subconsciously sabotaged by Gerald. Notwithstanding my insatiable need to kill people, Gerald did not want me to die, and thus we see his own lack of proper objective perspective, God love him. Gerald has always had an obsession with immortality. The last part of his career was spent developing cloning technology and working with stem cells. Of course, his efforts, and the efforts of his colleagues in the study, have been met with opposition from special interest groups, government groups, and church groups who all think that the concept of immortality goes against God or Nature. The short-sightedness of these groups is sickening to me. As I have had a lot of time to contemplate it, I, too, believe that conscious individuals are supposed to live forever, just not like this; not as a being that is literally forced to live from the life of others that are still doomed to die. If anything, it is unnatural to die! Gerald believes that some form of biological immortality is possible, but he fears that he will not live long enough to make the curve of lengthening life-spans. My friend Jerry is now in poor health. The years have been hard on him. He holds a fleeting hope in advancing medical technology, and so we have agreed that he will be cryogenically frozen shortly before the end comes for him. I wish that I could have convinced Maria to do the same. I found Maria one night as I arose from a day sleeping in a mausoleum here in Portland. It was shortly after the conclusion of the Second World War, and she was crying over the grave of her young husband. He had died in France – very tragic. My first inclination when I saw her was to put her out of her misery. I charmed her easily and began to feed, fully intending to drain her to death. She did not resist me in the least; she seemed fully resigned to her fate. But then she said a soft, pleading voice, “Please do not kill me. I have a baby.” Abruptly, I stopped sucking. Whispering in her ear I asked, “What is your name, child?” Trance-like, she answered, “Maria.” I gasped and looked at her. She was quite attractive, brunette, round-faced, but I wanted her to be someone else. I wanted her to be my first Maria. I knew this was not realistic or rational, but I missed Maria so terribly that now I empathized with this young woman who was missing her husband. “Are you frightened of me, Maria?” I asked. “Yes,” she answered in the calm voice of one who is sedated. “I promise that I shall never harm you if you tell no one of me,” I said. “Do you trust me?” “Yes,” she said. And so was our beginning. Maria was the first woman that I loved who was not inherently empowered. Over the years, however, she learned to be. And in her humble way she brought many lessons home to me as well. My relationship with Maria was the culmination of all of my experience, all of my prior relationships. Maria was easy to love, and she, like my first Maria, saw past the vampire and into my heart. She understood me in a way that no one ever has, probably because I understand myself better than I ever have. I stayed in the shadows of Maria’s life. We loved; she eventually got married to a good man, and still we loved. I gave her help and support whenever she called upon me. I would have given her every worldly comfort she ever asked for, but she refused to receive money or material gifts from me. She knew where the money came from and would not have any part of it. Maria only recently died in a rest home. She gave up and pleaded for a death filled with pleasure. Believe me – I can deliver. But it killed me to do it. Crucified me!! Since her death I have yearned to be understood by anyone the way that she understood me. That is why I have shared all of this with you. I fervently hope that only good will come of it. More and more I despise aging and death! Loath it!! I am convinced, after five hundred years of walking this world, that we are all supposed to live forever; that death is not natural. Every conscious individual should be immortal, only…. Not like this!! Not like me….. I do not know exactly why the universe is the way that it is. I do not know why people have to die, when clearly it is possible by some means that death can be prevented. I would be inclined to blame the two unreal ideas that so many unseeing people cling to as if their identities depended on it – government and religion. The people endorsing those erroneous ideas use undeserved power, and they use it to prevent and thwart progress, not just in the field of medicine but in virtually all fields. It seems to me that they retard not only progress, but evolution itself, if that is possible. It is these same lie-breeding and fear-producing ideas that prevent me from making my identity and nature known. You see, I would not have to kill people to survive. It would be fully possible for me to live on the blood of donors, and for their blood I could provide them with a physical pleasure that, as you know, would make the experience well worth it for them. However, a vampire could be never allowed to live openly in this world full of people with a seeming inherent fear of the unknown, a fear of God, and a group of invidious sorts, the real vampires, that are bent on having their livelihoods provided by the hard work of others. So I live in the shadows of your world, taking into my confidence only those that I know would never betray me. I do not exist in your daytime world. I exist above your governmental system. I adhere to the Laws of Nature; cause and effect, pain and growth, honesty and reality, as does everyone, whether they acknowledge it or not.

PART III

CHAPTER I

The white and yellow lines of the dark road seemed to stand out from the recent rain. There were just enough cars passing by to be severely irritating. Chad preferred the quiet peace of the night, but every time the annoying noise of one car had finally faded into oblivion there would be another pair of headlights appearing on the rise. And because of the foggy, wet conditions none of the motorists could see Chad until they were right on top of him, which meant he had to give way – step off of the pavement into the dripping ferns. It was either that or receive a road-grime shower from the passing vehicle. Trucks were the worst. But even in the midst of this nuisance, Chad had a larger, more powerful discomfort to alleviate. It wasn’t fatigue or infirmity. Chad had ridded himself of the weakness that was the result of his AIDS. He had made a choice, and had traded in that inevitable death for a dark life; a life without light; a life that promised to be steeped in the misery and death of innocent others, and a chance for vengeance. He had become a vampire. Now he had the hunger, and despite all of the power that vampirism afforded him, the discomfort of this hunger was strangely stronger than the discomfort of infirmity. The decision to become a vampire had been an easy one for Chad. Getting his hands on some of Marcus’s blood had taken some cunning, some ingenuity, and a lot of luck. Hell! The whole episode had been one huge stroke of luck. Even the girls had unwittingly helped him to be turned. Learning that Marcus was a real-life vampire had indeed been shocking, but from the first moment that Marcus had sucked blood out of Chad’s wrist, Chad had been entertaining thoughts of what he would be able to do himself, as a vampire. Of course, it had become quite clear from the beginning that Marcus wasn’t going to make anyone a vampire, but after hearing how Marcus himself had become a vampire, Chad knew that that didn’t matter. Being away from the hospital environment had done wonders for Chad’s general condition. He had had the strength and energy to take action when the opportunity presented itself. Marcus slept during the day in a cellar under the cabin. The vampire kept the door locked at night, and barred from the inside during the day, as Chad had learned after fate allowed him entry to the room’s interior. Not even Scott, the caretaker of the cabin, had a key to the cellar door. Nor had he ever seen the inside of it, until that one night when Marcus had staggered back to the cabin after his ‘night-walk’ with two bullet wounds. Everyone had seen the inside of the chamber then. The girls, being girls, had insisted on pampering and fawning over the wounded vampire, and he had probably needed it. The wounds were ghastly and looked worse than mortal. That Marcus had even been moving was amazing to Chad. The .38 caliber bullets had entered squarely into his stomach, and left messy exit wounds on his back. Scott and the girls had helped Marcus down into his cellar room. The room was far from plush or lavish, but it was very clean. It was rather narrow but went in a fair distance. They had laid him down in a functional little bed, the room’s only furnishing located as far from the door as possible. Marcus had been on the edge of consciousness. As they exited the room to give Marcus peace for his regenerative sleep, Chad had so helpfully turned out the low-watt lamplight that was the room’s only lighting. He made a show of turning the lock on the cellar doorknob, but there was, of course, no way to lock the bolt or hang the bar. It would be OK this one time. That had been only nine days into the ‘vacation.’ The next morning as Scott had been in town buying food and supplies, and the girls had been busy doing whatever, Chad had emptied the gas out of one of the dirt bikes, and filled the tank on the other. Then he had re-entered the cellar through the unsecured door. Light from the outside did not make it from the open door to the far end of the room where Marcus lay in the bed. Chad crept in quietly remembering the story of Humayun, and approached the bed. His heart raced with fear and excitement. What could he say if Marcus woke up right at that moment? ‘Oh, hi. I was just checking on you. How are you?’ It was weak. Did he really have the balls to do what he was about to do? Chad steeled himself. He had to do it. Too much depended on it. He was not going to die without revenge. He grabbed Marcus’s limp hand and bit down hard on the fleshy bit between his thumb and forefinger. The hand became rigid and jerked away, but not before Chad’s teeth had bitten through the flesh. Like Marcus and Viviana so many centuries ago, Chad now had the same little chunk of Marcus’s hand in his mouth. Marcus’s eyes flew open. As fast as lightning the vampire’s injured hand shot up and caught Chad by the wrist. “What have you done, Chad? What have you done?” Marcus’s voice held as much fear in it as Chad’s would have if he had tried to speak. With all of the strength that he could muster, Chad brought his free hand down on the vampire’s injured stomach. The blow wasn’t much to the vampire, but it was just enough to make Marcus let go, and Chad scrambled toward the door. Marcus could only watch him go. Chad had then jumped onto the freshly fueled dirt-bike and cut through the woods in the direction of the highway. He had done it. He had made himself a real vampire and gotten away. Typical Oregon weather, (that is, a cool, depressing drizzle) had plagued Chad all afternoon as he covered as much ground as possible on the dirt-bike. Eventually, it ran out of gas and Chad abandoned it. Finally, as daylight faded he had made it to the highway. He turned in the direction of Portland. He had absolutely no money. Picking up hitchhikers can be very dangerous. Chad did not expect anyone to stop for him, even though he feverishly hoped that someone would. There could be no doubt that the terrible hunger that he now felt was for fresh human blood. Whoever did stop for him would die, there was no question. Chad didn’t like it but shit happens, that’s just the way the way it is. Picking up hitchhikers can be very, very dangerous. So what kind of foolhardy person stops for a hitchhiker? Barry Woodside drove an ’89 Lincoln Continental. He was fifty-four years old with four ex-wives. He worked as a real estate agent, mostly brokering time-shares at resort cabins on lakesides all around the mountainous region. Barry was a heavy man with a full head of wavy, grey hair, and not without his share of health problems. He was between wives right now so his life was terminally boring. Barry was not always honest in his everyday dealings with his fellow man, but he could be big hearted and sympathetic, especially to a poor wretch out walking down the highway on a cold, wet night. “Hey, pal! Do you need a ride?” he called after slowing his bulky vehicle. “Thank god you stopped,” said Chad as he opened the heavy car door. “I crashed my dirt-bike in the woods.” “Are you OK,” asked Barry. “Where ya’ headin’?” Chad wasted no time. It would be best to take this hairy-eared man before he got the car moving and during this rare moment of no other passing cars. Chad had only a jack-knife, which he now thrust into Barry Woodside’s shoulder. The older man had been totally caught unaware by the sudden move, and now he screamed in pain as Chad turned the blade. Blood oozed onto the thin material of Barry’s sweater. With his victim’s right arm completely incapacitated Chad removed the blade and fought to arrest the flailing defensive movements of the panicking man. Barry tried first to push Chad away and then to unlatch his seatbelt. He was successful at neither. He screamed and yelled, hit the car horn, finally gunned the engine in a kicking paroxysm causing the car to lurch forward. His left hand instinctively gripped the wheel trying to right the direction of the moving vehicle. The young vampire took the opportunity to jab the jack-knife deep into his victim’s throat. Barry now jammed the brakes and groped with his one good hand trying to remove the paralyzing blade. Chad quickly managed to throw the shift lever into PARK bringing the large car to gently skidding stop on the slick pavement Then, batting his victim’s flailing hand away he pulled the blade back out with a quick jerk. The exiting blade was followed immediately by a steady, pulsing stream of blood, and Chad sealed his hungry lips over the wound. A weak hand now pushed against Chad’s head in a last-ditch effort to rid the victim of this parasite, but Chad, without looking, drove the knife once again into his victim, this time in the poor man’s leg. His victim was now sufficiently subdued and the vampire finished bleeding him out with comparative ease. The victim smelled greasy, and the blood left a coat of film inside Chad’s mouth. At length, the flow of blood abated and Chad’s lips pulled away from the wound. He said with mock sympathy to the dying man, “Aw! Did you accidentally get pricked by an AIDS infected hypodermic needle? How sad! How tragic! I guess you’ll die.”

Tim and Desperado watched in silence, each man bored out of his skull, as the strange, white-haired man walked purposefully along a narrow country road. The smelly van was currently parked and the Vampire Slayer and his invisible friend sat in it waiting for their quarry to get a little further ahead. Presently, Tim would start the van again, drive a short distance ahead of the walking man, then stop again and wait some more. It was in this tedious manner that Tim and Desperado had followed the strange man in a seemingly random circuit around the United States for the last several years. It was only the man’s proven track record for leading them to vampires and other adventures that kept them going. It was dawn of the eleventh day since they had left the Portland metro area. Tim had been kicking himself for not storming the house where they had seen the vampire. Now the two of them watched as the wizard stopped momentarily to check his amazing tracking device. Tim and Desperado gaped as the tall man turned around and walked back toward them. “What’s this?” Tim wondered aloud. Was the funky dude coming back to ask Tim for a speedy conveyance in the van? But the man walked methodically by the van and its occupant. “He’s going back,” Tim stated in disbelief. “He’s going back! Oh my god!! He’s going back to Portland!! What the fuck?!” “Hey there, Mister Pottymouth!” Desperado chastised. But then he quickly turned frustrated as well. “I’ve had it with tailin’ this guy! I say we go back to that house in town and do our own raid. We know the vampires are there. After we take care of ‘em, we can catch back up with this dude if we want. We’ve lost him before and found him easy enough!” Tim was indeed frustrated, and it wasn’t the first time that they had struck out on their own to initiate an action. Still, something, he wasn’t sure what it was, urged him to stay on the strange man for just a bit longer.

CHAPTER II

“What is Bradley Holdings?” asked Detective Darrel Henderson, hoping that this nerdy little IRS bean-counter that had taken over the case files of one Suzanne Gold wouldn’t take the question as rhetorical. Gary Fox looked up from the documents he was reading and answered succinctly, “It’s a conglomerate of sorts; pretty large; lots of fingers, lots of pies; deals mostly with its numerous subsidiaries which in turn deal mostly in real estate, but they’re into a lot of other things as well. Very diverse,” he added with admiration. The IRS agent was in his late twenties and dorky beyond the point of typical. The front of his brown hair was carefully combed over but the back was greasy, disheveled and sporting an obscene cowlick. His tie was immaculate while his suit looked as if he had slept in it. Henderson could smell the scent of sour milk on the IRS agent’s breath, but he was just glad that someone at the IRS had agreed to work with him. Laughably, he had heard that the FBI, with its usual blunt lack of finesse, had been unable to coerce any cooperation out of the IRS on gathering a few details about Shannon Goulier. “Is its stock traded publicly?” asked Henderson. “It has the organization, the look and feel of a publicly traded corporation, but no, its not. Totally private.” Henderson sat across from the IRS agent at a desk stacked high with papers and files. Gary Fox’s plain, windowless office was claustrophobic and cluttered. “And I am correct in understanding that Bechard Properties has a deal pending with this Bradley Holdings?” asked the detective. Fox answered, “One of Bradley Holdings’ subsidiaries, yeah.” “Which one?” “An outfit called the Ava Group.” Henderson’s pulse raced at the mention of the corporation. “Do you have the details of that?” Gary Fox looked at the detective quizzically. “Why would we have the details of a pending real estate deal? The only reason we even know about the deal at all is due to a Notice of Interest recorded at the county building.” “Could the IRS complicate or prevent such a deal from going through?” asked the detective. “Oh, you bet,” answered Fox with a bit of gusto. “We could pretty much stop a deal like that dead in its tracks if we wanted to.” “How could you do that?” Henderson asked and blanched as his hand touched something slimy under the armrest of the chair in which he sat. “Oh, one little Notice of Lien against the name of the sellers filed at the county building would probably be enough to give the buyers cold feet over the deal,” said the nerd. “But you would need a judgment or an assessment or something like that before you could do it, right?” asked Henderson, looking nonchalantly for a tissue. “Naw.” Fox shook his head, silently laughing and pointing an imaginary finger of ridicule at Henderson. Obviously this detective, like so many other patriotic Americans, had no idea of the low down, unlawful lengths that the government’s collection agency could go to achieve its ends. “OK. So what is the significance of this Bradley Holdings corporation?” No tissues anywhere! “Well, its like I was telling you about Bechard Properties. Neither corporation has ever paid a lick of taxes.” “Because of loopholes in the law?” Henderson guessed. Not a single absorbent surface to be found!! “No,” answered Fox. “They’ve just never paid.” “How can that be?” Henderson asked incredulously as he wiped the offended finger on the back of his pant-leg. “I’m not sure exactly,” wheezed Fox. “In the Bechard Properties case the office could never get through an audit. Arthur Sherman, Suzanne’s direct boss, has been in charge of the case for years and hasn’t really done much with it for as long as I’ve been working here. Suzanne would have inherited the case when Sherman retired. Now, I’ll probably end up with it eventually.” “And Bradley Holdings?” Fox continued, “Bradley Holdings is a very similar story. Suzanne had not been able to pin them down to an audit. According to office records, no agent ever has, and the case had been in the office for over twenty years! There is a rumor going around the office that the case is cursed.” Henderson was getting tired of the silly bullshit. “Cursed?” he said, skepticism giving the word a cutting edge. “How?” “Apparently, some kind of harm has befallen every agent in the office who ends up with this case,” said Fox spookily. “What exactly?” asked Henderson with only slight interest. “Well, I don’t know all of the details but the first agent that received the case in 1980, Paul King, was killed during a mugging. Eric Sweeney inherited the case from King and was the victim of a hit-and-run. The third agent disappeared. They’ve never found him. The guy to have it right before Suzanne went crazy. Remember the shooting they had at that gay porn theater in southeast?” Henderson nodded, “Oh yeah. The dude took out four fags before someone finally wrestled the gun away from him.” “Yeah,” continued Fox. “That was our guy, Mitchell Johnson. And then poor Suzanne. You see? Now Bradley Holdings belongs to me and I’m afraid to touch it!” “Who owns Bradley Holdings?” Henderson asked. “Our records don’t have that information.” “Who runs the corporation?” asked the detective. Fox answered sheepishly, “We don’t have that information accurately, either.” “Well, what the hell was Ms. Goulier doing on the case, anyway?” barked Henderson. “Who?” asked Fox. “Suzanne! Whatever,” growled the detective. His patience was dipping on empty. Apparently Fox was more familiar with her alias than her real name. “Oh! Right,” said the geeky IRS agent. “Well, according to her file, not much. Just knocking on a few doors, kicking over a few trash cans. The file doesn’t show her finding anything that we could use. Nothing but big bad company no-no’s that so far we haven’t found any way to exploit.” “Like?” “Like get this – Bradley Holdings claims to have not one employee. Same with all of its subsidiaries! No employees; just independent contractors. Can you imagine that? Over 40,000 people nationwide, all getting paid cash under the table! Most are probably illegal aliens to boot! The IRS has open files on every known Bradley employee, but so far I have heard of little success in nailing anybody for anything. The company moves its people around if the IRS starts hounding them. It’s almost like a Mafia organization, except that I don’t see any signs of criminal activity, other than the tax evasion, and we can’t pin ‘em down for that.” Clearly, the beleaguered IRS agent was tapped of any more information that was going to be useful to the detective. “Thanks for your time Mr. Fox,” said Henderson, and he stood to leave Gary Fox’s cramped IRS office. “I appreciate your help. Just one more question. Is it a possibility that Bechard Properties might be a subsidiary of this Bradley Holdings?” “Nothing in our records indicate anything like that,” said Fox. “But stranger things have happened.” Henderson’s mind turned these new little tidbits of information over in his mind as he descended in the elevator and exited the Federal building. His theory was a little weak, but he had seen worse. As far as the detective was concerned Jimmy Bechard now had the means and motive for the Shannon Goulier murder. Bechard had more money than God and could afford to hire a pro to do the job, and he was protecting his interest in Bradley Holdings by preventing the IRS from stopping the real estate deal or worse. Perhaps Shannon Goulier was even going to make life hard for Bechard Properties directly. So he had her killed. With a little more digging, Henderson felt sure that he could figure out how poor little Peterson had been connected to the deal. Had similar circumstances in 1985 led to the demise of Harvey Madison? It was all circumstantial, but Henderson’s hunch told him that he was close. The necessary evidence for a proper arrest and conviction couldn’t be far away. A guy like Bechard gets his power from having certain government officials in his pocket. If Bechard could be stripped of his political connections….. Henderson had just reached his official detective car when the cell phone attached to his belt chimed the old theme song to the seventies hit TV show SWAT. “Yeah,” he said, almost cheerfully. “Henderson, get down to the Skidmore Fountain. We gotta John Doe suicide.” It was Rahal. “Another one?!” Henderson asked in disbelief. God! This was the third apparent suicide this week. Henderson didn’t want to suspect anything. “Yeah. If we get any more wrist-slashers like this, we’ll have to dedicate an investigation to it,” said Rahal with some fatigue in his voice. “But for now, just get down there and keep a lid on it. We don’t need any more attention right now.” Henderson sped through the crowded lunch hour streets. It would have been faster to hoof it! He fought the temptation to flash the emergency lights hidden behind the front grill. Right now it would be prudent to not call attention to himself. Blessedly, the scene at the Skidmore Fountain, when he finally arrived, was subdued. Only two other patrol cars were there, along with a pair of bicycle patrolmen. There were only two other people hanging about. The dead body was actually a fair distance from the fountain itself, laying slightly propped up against some garbage behind a dumpster in an alley just off a bit from the main plaza. One of the cops turned to Henderson as the detective approached. “Hey, detective. It’s cool. It’s a suicide. You don’t have to worry about it.” Henderson frowned seriously at the underling. “I’m not here for that,” he said. “I’m here for damage control. Cap’n Rahal wants to keep this under wraps for a while. So no press, and do something to placate those onlookers over there.” “They’re the ones that found the body and called it in,” said the cop. “Fine,” said Henderson coldly. “Make yourself useful and get rid of ‘em.” The homicide detective stepped down the alley and looked over the lifeless form. You know, it just didn’t look that bad. The face of the pathetic homeless bastard actually looked more at peace dead than it would have alive. His arms were held out as if to display the deep gashes on the wrists. The left hand still loosely held the bloody razor blade that had done the job. It was a perfectly convincing looking suicide. But where was all the blood? There should have been more blood…..

CHAPTER III

“Now that Miriam is feeling better, can we finally do something about Chad?” Janet asked. After three weeks at the cabin Mimi was at last getting over the symptoms of withdrawal. There had been some worry from the girls after Chad had disappeared. Everybody knew exactly what had happened. Of course, Janet had been the most upset of the group. If Marcus had been troubled by the incident he did not show it. “Chad has made his choice,” Marcus had said, “and he will now reap all of the effects of that cause which he has set in motion. No amount of worry or stress from you at this time is going to help the situation. It will only dis-empower you.” “But we’ve got to do something,” Janet had protested. “We can’t just sit up here and let this happen!” “Would you have tried to interfere at my own turning, child? Undo all that has happened since? Would you endeavor to stop the tide?” And so Marcus had simply gone on as before. He did not feel responsible for creating Chad, since the young man had done it of his own volition. There was nothing to be done. The old vampire tried to instill some peace in the worrisome Janet. “The situation will most likely resolve itself without any interference from us,” he said. Marcus hadn’t meant to go out and get shot. The vampire had been doing most of his feeding from his friend Scott and the girls. But feeding must be done with utmost care, even with three donors, and so it was that Marcus had gone out one night hunting. His donors had needed some time to recuperate. Initially he had come across a small encampment of three poachers. He was about to make a victim of one of them from the shadows when a single Fish and Wildlife officer came on the scene with the intention of making a grand and heroic bust. Marcus decided to feed on the law officer because, as he explained later to the girls when telling the story of how he had gotten shot, “While poaching can be a grossly inhuman activity in which to engage, enforcing arbitrary, statutory law is far more despicable and damaging.” It was simply a pity that Chad had bolted before Marcus had had a chance to tell much of his wisdom and experience on surviving as a vampire in the age of the communication revolution. Not that Chad would have been able to stay after having done what he had. The old vampire would certainly have killed him. Besides, Marcus was also scheming. He was pretty sure that Chad was on his way back to Portland to exact his revenge upon those persons that he felt were to blame for ruining his life. If Chad should be so foolish as to be found out and destroyed, the authorities might be quick to credit him with many or perhaps even all of the late murders and disappearances around town. With some careful planning such a scenario could be orchestrated. And so it was that as the sky began to darken over the mountain on the twenty-third day at the cabin, Marcus arose and found the girls anxious to get back to Portland; back to their lives – their new lives, as Mimi was now living drug-free, and Janet would most likely be looking for a new career. Even Marcus was to have business waiting for him, though he did not yet realize it. The annular report for Bradley Holdings was waiting at home for his analysis. Receipt of that report was one of the only things that kept the old vampire abreast of the passing years anymore. They loaded up the SUV, gave their hugs and good-byes to Scott, and Marcus piloted the vehicle down the twisting, rutted mountain trail to the road. Shortly after they had gotten underway, Mimi asked, “Marcus, you never told us about your friend Scott. I know that he was in the army and fought in Vietnam, but he never told us how you two had met.” “Shucks,” said Marcus modestly. The girls had come to really enjoy his story-telling. “I caught up with Scott once when I was trailing a certain army colonel whose station it was to track down deserters. I have been known to hang near the airport after dark. I can find victims there who are in town on business or whatever, and I have methods for finding out how much these travelers might be missed. “So it was 1969, and I was sitting at one of the terminal gates. When I saw the pompous, straight-backed walk of the young army colonel, I just knew that I had to have him. He walked with the air of someone who felt indemnified by some imaginary government for any action he might take. He fancied himself above the law, and maybe he was above the law of the land; that weak statutory law written by weak men to serve their political and financial ends. But he was certainly not above the Law of Nature, and I was hungry enough to teach him that final lesson seconds before he was to die. I was not so much in the practice of trying to educate my victims back then. “First, I picked his pocket, stole his wallet, and after finding no pictures of wife and children, I felt pretty fine about making him disappear. I noticed that the young man did not seem well-traveled or experienced. I watched him as he rented a car, which was perfect since I always parked near the rental lot myself just for this purpose. It was a cinch to follow him as he drove off in his rental car.” “Oh my god, that is so clever!” Janet said, musing. Only a month earlier she would have been abhorrent over the idea of someone hunting another person with such a murderous purpose. Now, after listening to the story of Marcus, her mind had opened up to the idea that such ugliness might actually have a small purpose in the workings of the world. “Yes, isn’t it?” continued Marcus. “So, anyway, I followed the colonel to a lovely neighborhood in northeast. He was staking out a house that I was soon to learn was the home of the Hinckley residents. Scott Hinckley had gone AWOL, as it is called, in Vietnam and had somehow managed to get back to the states. This colonel was there to find Scott and bring him before a court martial, and he was hoping and expecting to find Scott trying to hide at his own home. And as it turned out, the young colonel’s hunch was, in fact, correct. “Well, to make a long story short, the whole thing started out as quite a comedy surrounding a rather serious issue. I watched and listened from my car as the young colonel, my victim, knocked on the door and confronted a man on the door step of the house. A very heated debate ensued. Basically, the deluded soldier’s position was that he had every right to enter the premises and take delivery of the deserter. The middle-aged man said that it would require the force of a larger ‘army’ than the one present for the young colonel to gain entry. “Ironically, it was sort of a larger ‘army’ that did just that. From out of the shadows came a muscular man, and with stunning efficiency he ushered both of the surprised men into the house. I could tell that both the older man and the colonel were under the control of this third man, though I could not see a weapon from where I was. “I was not sure what exactly had happened myself, and being the curious cat that I am, I felt compelled to look into it further. You see, the darkness of night is my domain, I fancy, and if something is going to ‘go down on my turf,’ so to speak, I feel that it is my prerogative as a being damned to the night to know about it and involve myself if I am inlined to.” The girls listened breathlessly as the vampire continued. “I lit from my vehicle and ran to the doorstep of the house. The door had been bolted, probably by the third man in an effort to slow down any escape attempt by his prisoners. As I set about picking the lock I could hear voices from inside the house. Someone was demanding that Scott show himself or there would be dire consequences. Moments later I heard the muffled report of a gun, and then the horrified yell of a man. I quietly opened the door a crack and heard another male voice from further back in the house saying that he was coming out, ‘please don’t shoot!’ “A wide hallway ran from the entryway, past a staircase on the right and into what was probably a kitchen. Immediately to the left was a doorway that led into a front room, where I could just see the backside of the terrified army colonel. Suddenly the back of my would-be victim’s head exploded exactly at the same time as the sound of another muffled gunshot registered in my ears, and his body fell heavily to the floor in the doorway. I remember feeling a little disappointed that I had not had the chance to feed on the pompous ass. “Coming down the stairs was another young man, the man that was soon to become my friend. Alarm showed on his face as he caught sight of me and he asked ‘what do you want?’ assuming that I was the man that had been demanding his appearance. “A burley voice from the next room said for him to ‘get yer butt in here, before I waste yer old man!’” “So that was when you first met Scott?” asked Mimi. “Yes. Confusing isn’t it?” said Marcus. “Yes. Very.” Both girls nodded. “Yes, well, I guess it would be. Scott was most confused and fearful when he heard the other voice while I stood there silently with my finger on my lips. He called out asking if this was about his deserting in Vietnam. “The faceless voice from the next room answered, ‘I don’t give a rat’s ass about that.’ “‘Please don’t hurt my parents,’ said Scott, and he quietly continued the rest of his descent down the stairs. “‘Then you’d better hurry up, junior,’ said the voice. “I watched Scott walk to the far end of the hall and enter the front room from another doorway that was located there. I heard the gruff voice say ‘good’ right before I heard a third gunshot. I sprang into the room myself, jumping over the crumpled body of the colonel, and I daresay that what I saw then was quite haunting, and that is saying a lot. “There were two other dead bodies on the floor in addition to the dead army officer. One was a middle-aged woman, Scott’s mother, and the other was the older man, Scott’s father, just now coming to rest from where he had fallen from the clutch of the man that had just shot him. The man with the smoking gun was the muscular man that I had seen appear out of the shadows and so proficiently escort the other two men inside. Now I could see his slightly weathered features and his jet-black hair cut in a flattop. He was powerfully built and he exhibited the kind of fallacious, detached confidence that only comes from much killing. I recognized that look of satisfaction and pleasure on his face; I had seen it before in the mirror. He greatly enjoyed killing. Without a doubt, he was a professional. “I imagine that the only thing that saved Scott’s life was the start that the shooter got from my sudden appearance at the other end of the room. As I advanced, the large man fired a hasty shot that might have hit Scott squarely in the head, but instead, grazed his shoulder, spinning him around. That gave me just enough time to cross the room and disarm the man with a blow to his wrist. I surely broke it, but the man had an astounding tolerance for pain, probably even a love for it, though I am certain he was not expecting such a forceful blow. As is most often the case, notwithstanding my excellent first strike, his threat assessment of me came in low; perhaps one my biggest advantages in a melee. He assumed an attack stance and tried to take me, probably assuming that he would defeat me easily. Alas, he was a comparative novice. I ended up breaking his neck, carefully so as not to kill him.” “So that you could suck his blood?” said Mimi. “Smart girl,” said Marcus. “Yes. And by that time I was ‘working up quite an appetite,’ to borrow the phrase.” “So, who was the man with the gun?” asked Janet. “We were never totally sure,” said Marcus, “I tried to question the man, but he was tight-lipped and I really did not have the methods or the patience to torture him for information – distasteful activity! It was only after hearing Scott’s amazing story that I deduced that the man’s mission had been to eliminate Scott and anyone that he might have confided with about what he had seen in Vietnam.” “Was he a witness to war-crimes?” asked Janet. “War is a crime in and of itself,” said Marcus. “But to answer your question, ‘yes.’ He witnessed an incredible atrocity. “By 1968, there was already a lot of anti-war sentiment even among the American troops in Vietnam. They were only vaguely aware of all that was going on over here, but the general consensus among the troops was that they did not belong in Vietnam. Scott had heard rumors that the CIA was smuggling opium out of Thailand and selling it to finance the war, but it was considered conspiracy theory bullshit. Until one day he witnessed certain American troops massacring an entire village near the Mekong River. Scott had filmed it! Men, women, and children, all slaughtered. “Being a low ranking intelligence officer, he investigated the incident for his own satisfaction, and uncovered proof of the drug smuggling. In addition to that appalling footage of the massacre, Scott also captured on film and audio tape two of the kingpins of the operation handling contraband and issuing orders for its dispersion! It was not the CIA as an agency per say, but it was several individuals within the CIA, Navy, Air Force, and Congress, using their positions to coordinate and execute the entire operation. The heroin was produced in Thailand, and smuggled through Vietnam down the Mekong River by American troops who had absolutely no idea of what they were really doing. They just believed that they were fighting the good fight against communism for their country and president. The drugs were actually retailed on the streets and campuses of America. “Understand, I do not personally see anything inherently evil in drugs. They are a resource like anything else in this world. Depending upon their application they can be both harmful and beneficial. But because of the regulation of drugs, they have become like the gold of India. “So, the true purpose of all actions taken in Indochina was to protect this drug smuggling operation from certain Asian military leaders who would liked to have taken control of this cash cow for themselves. You see, American agents have been growing opium in Asian soil and using American resources to ‘export’ it since World War II. The profits from this enterprise have been ungodly. When the ‘powers that be’ in Washington eventually stopped funding the Vietnam War, without reducing the burden upon the American taxpayers I might add, these war-time profiteers continued using the American troops and resources to carry on the operation, paying for all of it out of their own over-flowing pockets, effectively prolonging the ‘war.’ “And this is the kicker – most of the individuals behind this horrendous business are still in Washington today, entrenched in positions of great power, and running this ‘country!’ They are the real vampires. They suck the blood not only out of this country, but of the whole world! They have made lifetime careers of destroying and stealing, and they are responsible for much suffering and death. They are the true Bringers of War. Their behavior has only worsened since Vietnam. Mimi said, “I think I am going to be sick.” Normally she would have been slow to take the word of just anyone about something so incredibly atrocious, but she believed the vampire. He had seen so much of the world in his life. His perception of the world and reality must be infinitely truer than hers or anyone else she might know. The sweet, emotional Janet sat quietly, wiping her wet eyes. “Because Scott already carried with him such a terrible secret, and the physical proof, I felt reasonably comfortable in exposing my own secret to him. We both knew that he would have to go into hiding, perhaps for the rest of his mortal life, so Bradley Holdings bought the cabin and the surrounding mountain property and there he has had as comfortable a life in secret as he could have. He was never so imprudent as to ask me to turn him. He probably fears that I would simply kill him if he ever did, and he is mostly correct in such a fear. Vampirism also scares him immensely; he is far too sentimental. Scott is a tender child, and being sent to Vietnam at nineteen was an enormous travesty in itself. He spends his time writing and now for the past few years he has been authoring an internet website that disperses valuable and empowering educational information. “Anti-government?” asked Mimi without any disdain. “Anti-external authority,” answered Marcus. For a time the three of them rode silently on into the night, each in deep contemplation of all that they had seen and heard in their respective lifetimes, toward the lights of the metro. Finally, Janet broke the silence. “Marcus, are you going to hunt Chad down and kill him?” It was obvious that the question had been difficult for her to get out. The vampire took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “If our paths cross, yes.”

CHAPTER IV

The clock struck one a.m. All was dark at the Reeves’ home. But through the house moved a shadow, quite familiar with the layout. The creeping shape bumped nothing, made no sound. Carl Reeves awoke from his fitful sleep with the paralyzing awareness that he and his wife were not alone in their bedroom. He could see the outline of someone standing at the door just inside the room. Carl gasped in shock even as he thought he recognized the familiar form. In a cracking voice he asked, “Chad? Is that you?” “Yeah, Dad. It’s me.” Carl started to rise. “Oh my God! Chad! Thank God you’re all right. How are you feeling? Did you have a good time?” The conversation roused Audrey from her own haunted sleep. Chad said, “Stop, dad. Stay in bed. Don’t get up. I can’t stay, but I wanted to see you, and talk with you.” There was a finality in Chad’s voice that Carl and Audrey found very alarming. “What is it?” asked Audrey to her son. “What’s the matter, babe?” “I just wanted to see you,” said Chad, his voice breaking with emotion. “I don’t know when I’ll get the chance to….” His words trailed off. “Chad!” said Carl. He had his feet out of the bed now and they were habitually feeling the floor for their slippers. “No!!” And Chad ducked back out the open doorway and into the hall. “I love you,” he choked. “We love you, too, babe,” said Audrey, not quite awake enough to fully realize what was going on, but Chad was already moving swiftly out of the house. The adjustment into vampirism had been easy, Chad fancied. Killing came naturally to the en-darkened youth. He was learning to enjoy feeding, and he was feeling quite clever about his technique. Chad was feeling invincible! He slept during the day in the basements of any one of several houses around town that he had learned were vacant due to pending bank foreclosures or some other reason. There was some anxiety felt every dawn as he ‘bedded’ down, not sure if this might be the day that a thorough inspection might be made by some bank official, or real estate agent. Of course, if he was found out, he would just be a squatter. They wouldn’t be able to throw him out directly. By nightfall he would be gone. At night, following the wise instructions that Marcus had inadvertently given him, Chad would walk the night in search of a good victim; someone that wouldn’t be missed by family or society was best; and, (something he had learned the hard way), someone who wouldn’t be able to put up too much resistance. Chad preferred feeding from the wrist. He couldn’t wait until he figured out how that charming trick worked so that he wouldn’t have to work so hard at controlling his victims. Holding the victim’s arm immobile, he would slash the wrist open with a blade and drink the warm living liquid. He would try to leave just enough blood so that it could bleed out after he gashed the other wrist. Hopefully, when the body was found it would be labeled as just another sad suicide. By and large, the whole thing was so easy that Chad wondered what the hell Marcus had been complaining about! The only thing that really bothered the young vampire was the dreams during day-sleep. The dreams were vivid beyond Chad’s ability to distinguish between them and waking reality. Chad would be sane and reasonable in the night, and then see the coming dawn and take cover for safety. And then, stowed carefully in a spot that would provide protection from the looming sun, relaxed and falling into the initial throws of sleep, it was as if the shadows would suddenly come to hideous, terrible life. The infinite, endless torment would go on until….. nothing. It never ended. Chad would just find himself no longer able to see his tormentors, but he knew that they were still there, lurking in the shadows. He could still feel their pricks and stabs and cuts into him, and he would get out of the shadows as quickly as possible back into the safety of the night. Chad knew that he wouldn’t be able to go on like this forever. Eventually, the authorities would realize that this was just too many suicides and they would start to look closer. When that happened Chad would go to Seattle. He would be able to pull off a lot of suicide jobs up there before anyone noticed! But first he had to find and pay back all of those responsible for ruining his life. This had proved to be more difficult than he had thought it would be. Everything was always closed by the time he could get up at night; at least, all of the government offices to which he needed access were closed. He was quite apprehensive about trying to get into the police station. And that is why he had come back to his home this night. He had wanted so badly to see his Dad and Mom, but he also knew that there was no way that they could ever find out about what had happened to him. He loved them and missed his family more than he could allow himself to feel. But he had allowed himself only to disturb their slumber to say good-by. Anything more was not practical. Chad was immortal now. He would see his own parents to the grave. His sisters and their children and their children’s children would all beat him to the grave. If there was anything that he had learned from Marcus, it was that there is no room for sentiment in the life of a vampire. A bleak glimpse of eternity laid itself out before Chad, and the interminable loneliness of it terrified him at his core. Denial would be the only way to survive it. Or maybe not – he wondered what Janet had told his parents when he had run away from the cabin….. Before waking his parents, Chad had sneaked into his old bedroom. After being diagnosed with HIV and hepatitis he had moved back home to this room, but had only stayed there for a few months before being hospitalized. Among some papers, old bills and junk mail, Chad found the old, fateful, difficult to read traffic ticket. ‘Bruce Nader’ read the name of the police officer issuing the citation. The honorable Perry Wright would be the arraigning justice. So there it was. Everything he needed had been sitting in his old room this whole time. After the emotional episode with his parents, Chad stole out of the house and ran through the backyard, jumped the fence into neighbor’s yard, and effectively cut through the block. He wouldn’t have put it past his father to try to come after him, so he effected a disappearance. Minutes later he was waiting at the bus stop on McLaughlin Boulevard for the bus to take him back into town. The unobservant young vampire hardly noticed as a black van stopped at a plaza parking lot across the street. Inside the van, Tim was watching the strange, white-haired man, still nearly a half a mile away, walking methodically toward them. Desperado said in a low, slow voice, “Man, I’ve got a feeling about that dude across the street at the bus stop. Look at him. He’s a little gothic wannabe. You know, the last time I saw a little gothic wannabe dude like that, he turned out to be a durned bloodsucker.” Tim inspected the black-garbed young man at the bus stop. He had learned to be wary of Desperado’s vampire-spotting skills. “We’ll see. Our friend is only a few minutes away. If dude is a vampire, the wizard will spray him.” But it was not to be; not this time at least. Just as the strange man was nearly upon the young man, a bus stopped. Chad boarded the bus and was gone before he even had any idea of his peril. Tim and Desperado watched as the stranger stopped, consulted his crystal device, then turned and walked back in the direction they had come. “That tears it!” screamed Tim. “We’re outa here!” “Now you’re talkin’!” exclaimed Desperado. “Follow that bus!” Excitedly, Tim spun the rear tires of the van taking off after the bus, but the rush of being in ‘hot pursuit’ quickly faded as they realized just how slow the bus traveled. It stopped frequently along its route, and all they could do was try to watch for the young man to disembark. They followed the slow moving transport all the way downtown. Presently, the bus entered the short span of the sixth avenue bus mall where normal vehicles were not permitted. Tim was about disregard the traffic rule and follow the bus when he saw a police cruiser up the street and prudently decided to turn, and that was where they lost their quarry. “Dammit! Now what?” said Tim. “I dunno,” grumbled Desperado. “You’re driving.”

CHAPTER V

The first week of being back for Mimi had been quite excellent, all things considered. She had gone back to dancing at the Bare Cage. The first night had admittedly been a little difficult. There was a lot of association to cocaine in the environment of the club. She made it through by thinking about Janet’s love and support, and, strangely, remembering Marcus’s story about Shalimar. Mimi knew that she loved dancing and entertaining men in a sexual way. That passion helped her stay high on her own. As it turned out, her shows had all been the best she’d ever done. Mimi had been ‘on’ all week. She had always been great – without a doubt the best dancer at the Bare Cage and probably the metro. Now, she absolutely shined, like a super-nova. By end of the first week, she was beginning to feel as if the dingy atmosphere of the Bare Cage no longer fit her. At the same time, she also found herself with a few hundred extra dollars at the end of the week. It had been her best week ever for tips, and none of it had been spent on a vice. So Mimi decided to take it upon herself to spend a little money on the club in the way of aesthetics. She organized a cleaning party Saturday morning with as many of the dancers as she could talk into attending. Surprisingly, it was a roaring success, and the group of about one dozen girls, including Janet and Donna the cocktail waitress, spent just a little over an hour cleaning, scrubbing, and disinfecting, and just overall removing the ‘seed out of the club’ as Mimi put it. Mimi was aware that she mostly had Marcus to thank for the change in her life. Janet definitely helped, but it had been the old vampire that had totally changed her perspective. Mimi also knew that she had very strong feelings for Marcus. She fantasized about what it might feel like to have the greatly experienced vampire sex her up. Janet, too, would have been lying if she had tried to deny her feelings for Marcus. After hearing his life story, she loved everything about him. She supposed that that is just what one does when they encounter another person with that much personal power. The girls had talked about their strong feelings and each admitted to the other that they both loved Marcus as a great friend. They both focused their deep, secret yearnings for the vampire on each other, and their romance grew even more intense. Janet had also had a great first week back. She had been fired from the hospital, but was immediately hired by Marcus and Gerald to be a live-in nurse for the ever-ailing Gerald and also to do a bit of housekeeping. The gig would not last forever, but Janet thought that it would be the first in a long line of private nursing jobs. She would acquire great references and be a nurse working in the private sector. She loved the idea! Janet did have a difficult moment when she had to inform Carl and Audrey Reeves that that their son had disappeared. It had been decided by the three of them that she would be the best person to break the news to them. Marcus had commanded that the Reeves not be told of the truth, and suggested that Janet placate them as much as possible. “You will need to show that you are worried about him, without playing it too harshly, or they might attempt something drastic,” Marcus had instructed. “Nothing will stop them from going to the authorities, but we want to try to delay that as long as possible.” Janet did as she was told, trying to en-hearten the distraught parents with the news that Chad had recovered much of his health before running away from the cabin. “He’s probably just out spending some time alone,” Janet had said to them over the phone. “I’m sure that he’ll come home very soon.” She said the words with just the right edge of worry. Hoping to assuage some of the poor girl’s stress, Carl and Audrey had then recounted to Janet the story of Chad’s visit to their bedroom a few nights before. Janet was truly relieved, but she had decided that she would not tell Marcus about that little story. Then, on a much happier note, Janet had informed the Reeves that an anonymous benefactor had come forward to pay all of their medical bills. That news was received with tearful relief. They all promised to keep in touch. Janet had spent the rest of her days this week talking to Gerald, and hearing even more stories about Marcus, some of them four and five times. Like Gerald, Janet found herself fascinated and compelled by vampirism. She pondered about what could be the cause of it. She grilled Gerald about what experimental measures had been undertaken to determine its cause. “Biologically, he’s a perfect male specimen,” explained Gerald from his EZ-chair. “Don’t I know it!” thought Janet as she straightened and dusted around the room. Gerald continued, “But as to why, I could never figure out. And why the need for fresh blood? You know, we measured the length of time that blood could be out of a body before it stopped ‘feeding’ him; you know, giving him what he needs, whatever that is; and it was less than a minute!” “How does blood change in one minute?” Janet wondered “Well, it can drop by a degree or two in temperature,” said Gerald. “Coagulation begins immediately, though it’s damn hard to see and even harder to measure in the first minute.” “So that’s why Marcus can’t just live on the blood from a blood bank?” Janet said it as a statement. “Exactly,” said Gerald. “And then there’s the whole mystery behind his photo-sensitivity.” “What did you find there, Jerry?” “Diddly-squat, mostly,” Gerald lamented. “We couldn’t figure out the why, but we did measure his tolerance to light.” “How much light can Marcus tolerate?” “Oh, hell, I don’t remember the exact measurements, but you know it has everything to do with proximity. See, he might be in trouble if he got too close to some halogens. Even a flashlight could burn him, if it was held next to his skin. Obviously, the sun is the biggest threat, because once it’s above the horizon it can be damn hard to get away from, but Marcus is OK in the pre- dawn and also just after sunset. “And now you see why the only way we could look at Marcus’s blood up close was with an electron microscope. Light microscopy was out! But the specimens always had to be processed so carefully for viewing; I think that the preparation ruined ‘em somehow. Did you know that tissue from Marcus can biodegrade even after its frozen? Anyway, we could never come up with a way to view a live blood sample.” “Do you think that the secret to Marcus’s vampirism is in his blood?” “Hell, I don’t know. It’s how the contagion is spread, we know that. The blood is a good place to start for trying to figure out any human physiological question, and we’ve never really been able to start there, you know what I mean? Damned frustrating!” Janet wondered, “Did you ever try any video-enhanced microscopes?” “Oh yeah. Sure. I’ve got dozens of films with about one second each of footage showing red blotches getting eaten up by the light. I never even had time to focus the lenses,” Gerald grumbled. “I guess this was all stuff that you tried years ago, before computers?” asked Janet. “Yeah, back in the day….. You know he can re-grow a severed digit in about four hours if he’s freshly fed. It just grows back. Amazing to watch!” “Yeah, I saw him after he had recovered from the bullet wounds up at the cabin. You could not even tell he had been shot.” “Did you happen to notice his body temperature before the regeneration?” asked Gerald. “Yes! I did notice, while we were helping into his bed in the cellar! He was burning up! I was so worried; I felt like I should treat him for high temperature, but he told me that it was normal.” “Yep! His body temp will raise to levels that are fatal to any normal person. It’s a wonder he isn’t deaf, blind, or sufferin’ from serious brain damage. And sometimes I think he does suffer from those afflictions temporarily.” The wheels in Janet’s mind started turning very quickly. “What about his waste?” she asked. “That’s a very good question,” said Gerald. “When he does poop, and that is not often, let me tell you, unless he’s been eating a lot of regular food…. but then, that’s the whole thing isn’t it?” The old man fought to keep from losing his train of thought and continued. “First, understand that he doesn’t have an appetite for solid food like you or me, although he can eat if he wants to. I think that he gets all the nourishment his body requires from blood. Marcus urinates more often than he poops, and even that is usually only once or twice a week. I think his body somehow uses just about everything that he puts into it. And if he doesn’t use it for some reason, then he passes it quickly, and it comes out of him looking very similar to how it did when it went in. That’s what usually happens if he eats solid food. “Now, if he’s just been sucking blood, then like I said, it doesn’t come out of him very often. What does come out him is absolutely devoid of every usable nutrient that a body needs. It usually consists of a material that’s mostly carbon and few other elements, metals, always broken down to their molecular base. Nothing living at all! Not a single bacteria or virus to speak of, and you know he’s got to be ingesting lots of those kinds of things all the time. Bet your glad you asked, eh?” Janet actually was glad. Her mind could not stop working on this puzzle, and it was hungry for all of the facts. “Yes, I am. Thank you, Gerald. So what was your general hypothesis?” “Well, that’s a tough one, and I’ve given the knowns a lot of thought. We’ve got something that causes Marcus to regenerate from injuries, and to show no signs of aging after centuries. It is some kind contagion that can be passed through the blood and other bodily tissues, but not through mucous, saliva or ejaculate. It is not visible to the naked eye. It is highly photo-sensitive. Tissue samples taken from the body are subject to accelerated biodegradation. And finally, it makes Marcus need to consume fresh human blood.” “Wow!” interjected Janet. “You sure are able to rattle off the facts.” “I should be. I memorized ‘em a long time ago. I’ve been mullin’ ‘em over since ’76!” “So, what is your prognosis?” she asked. “I can only think that it is some kind of micro-organism; virus maybe; parasite or maybe one of these prion protein thing-ies discovered by that Prusiner chap back in the 80’s. But until we can successfully isolate it, or even just look at it, we’ll never know for sure. And that’s assuming there is something to isolate or look at.”

CHAPTER VI

The night was unseasonably warm and that made it only slightly sticky for Marcus, as he was never out without his leather trench coat. The odors of filth and liquor along with the sounds of traffic were not suiting the vampire very well either. He stood in the shadows near the downtown corner of 3rd and Couch St. It was one of the few remaining places in Portland where one might go if they wanted to see a derelict, and Marcus was looking for a particular derelict – the junky that he had seen at the Public Safety building. Marcus had been planning on searching the homeless man out ever since he and Janet had had their first conversation at the Bare Cage. He had even spent one night that week, before spontaneously trekking out of town with the girls and Chad, looking around the downtown area where the homeless are known to linger, but with no positive results. At first, Marcus had not been sure why he should even care. He had been fully prepared to exterminate his unwanted protégé. Then, he had thought twice. Marcus remembered his own ignorant thoughts and ideas prior to his becoming a vampire. He had acted rashly. He had taken extreme measures to free himself and Maria. The thought of vengeance against Tarino had also been a strong motivation. He had not been fully aware of the consequences of his actions. Had Chad been any different? Marcus, if he could be so bold, had devised a sort of test for Chad. Marcus could identify the man that had planted a syringe at the Public Safety building. He would give to Chad the identity of the man responsible for giving him AIDS. Marcus wanted to see what the young vampire would do with the information. However, by Marcus’s hand or by some other means, Chad would meet his fate, whatever it might be. The old vampire had been back from the cabin for four nights, and had spent all of them haunting certain locations of downtown where the homeless folk were most prevalent. At least there were less homeless people in the metro than a decade before. His search was not completely like looking for a needle in a haystack – only mostly. However, an immortal can afford to be patient.

The night was unseasonably warm, and that suited Jamie Thompson just fine; he wouldn’t have to try to find room at the homeless shelter. Thompson walked unsteadily from a debris-strewn alleyway and turned in the direction of Rose Haven, one of the last remaining soup kitchens and homeless shelters in Portland. It was true that there were less of his kind about the metro these days. Where had they all gone? To California – where the days and girls are warmer? To rehab, perhaps? Had the State made room for them at the mental hospital? Had they somehow got their lives together and gotten off of the streets? Although his head was bowed, the homeless man was aware of someone walking toward him down the littered sidewalk. Thompson allowed the cowl around his face to sag slightly to reveal a hideous bilateral cleft lip. It was extremely effective for garnering sympathy and handouts from passers-by. This passerby, a fashionably dressed, muscular young man, would have preferred to ignore the derelict, but he could not pull his eyes away from the shocking birth defect for a full two seconds. The mouth gaped open, unable to shut; the two separate upper lips ran up the face from the corners of the mouth to a point under a little hood that might have been a flattened nose. Two crooked front teeth protruded from a glob of gum tissue that seemed to be stuck there, as if in a futile effort to plug the cavernous hole. A thin scraggly beard framed the monstrous defect. “Dude! Fuck! I’m sorry!” said the young passerby, clearly at a loss for words more articulate, and, handing Jamie Thompson a convenient five-spot, he passed quickly on his way. Thompson replaced his cowl; no one would see his grotesque smile of satisfaction. The night was shaping up well for him. He would need only to get a bite to eat at the Rose, then he could be off again, to wherever. The world was his oyster. It was just too bad that he felt like shit! What he really needed was a fix. Or maybe not. At least not any from his current brown supply. He made a foggy mental note to throw that bad stuff away the next time he thought about it. How long had he been trippin’? Gin was no longer keeping the shakes at bay. He needed more cash. He needed more of these sympathetic and generous passers-by. It is said that we are all born naked and equal, with the same opportunity for success available to everyone. Jamie Thompson scoffed bitterly at such sentiment! Life, he felt, had bummed-rushed him at the moment of his conception, and it continued its onslaught upon him at every turn. He felt truly like a victim of circumstance. His young mother had not wanted a baby, but she had wanted a way that she could manipulate and trap the man who was his father, whoever that was, and so her pregnancy had remained a secret until long after an illegal abortion could be considered a feasible option. She had also been addicted to nicotine, alcohol, crack, and just about anything else that could help her to escape from her own wretched reality. In 1981 Jamie had been born seven weeks premature; small, weak, palsied from crack withdrawals, and with little more than a gaping hole in his face where a mouth and nose should be. At the behest of one particularly over-zealous social worker, Social Services immediately confiscated the infant, much to the relief of his mother, and probably to the relief of the unknown father, as well. But then the State couldn’t find any foster family willing to take the little monster. Jamie Thompson was truly the child that nobody wanted! In addition, nobody had felt inclined to cough up the money to pay for the surgery to correct Jamie’s birth defect. Not the parents, not the State, not God. Guilty eyes looked away from him. On top of all that, Jamie’s biological mother died of the mysterious new disease HIV less than a year after he was born. At the time, nobody said anything out loud, but everyone at Social Services secretly suspected that young Jamie might have been born with the dreaded plague. So, for the next twelve years Jamie had been passed from one reluctant foster home to another. The idea of a normal education in a public school was the height of ludicrosity. Jamie eventually ran away from a particularly unenthusiastic foster home and faded away from the focus of any ardent social worker. Everyone had been relieved by the ‘disappearance.’ Jamie had been a little young for a street kid in Portland. Luckily, there are always those older street kids eager to profit from showing a young new-bie the uncomfortable ropes. Unlike most of the other runaways that were only there in an attempt to get away from their over-bearing middle-class parents, (and because they thought it was cool to be a ‘street kid’), Jamie had a sadly obvious reason for being on the streets. The street punks liked Jamie because he was quiet, completely silent rather, and they didn’t mind his ugly deformation as long as he kept it covered around them. They taught him quickly how to benefit from it by using it as a most effective panhandling gimmick. Young Jamie’s ‘income’ made him very popular with nearly all of the other street kids. And, in no time at all, Jamie had learned also that drugs were the ultimately easy escape from this hard life; they just about made all of the pain worth it! It is amazing how much abuse the physical body can take and still live! Jamie Thompson was now only twenty-two, and looked much older. Jamie did not care about his health, or lack thereof to be more precise, or his appearance. He couldn’t be bothered with taking care of himself. The stench of not bathing clung to him. His long, thin, greasy hair hung down in dark, dishwater gray strands over the collar of a medium-length coat tattered and worn with gapes and wounds displaying lining and stuffing. His head seemed permanently bent to the ground. A cowl covered the lower half of his blotched and puffy face, concealing his underdeveloped nose and cleft mouth. Jamie didn’t care about his arms with their red trails that erupted down each vein, though he did try to hide them at times. Showing off track-marks was bad for business. Looking pathetic was actually valuable to the derelict, and he knew only too well that it increased his revenues from panhandling. Getting together gin money was easy enough. But just now, gin was not enough. The sooner he had enough cash for some smack, the sooner that he could get back to feeling like his regular, fine self. And that was all that Jamie Thompson cared about. If you should ever spy Jamie around town, you would never see him without his Magic Slate. Because of his tragic defect, and his lack of education, Jamie was essentially a mute. His voice did not resonate in his head and he despised the sound of it. Besides, no one could understand a word that he ever tried to utter through his severely cleft palate, so Jamie carried with him an old, frayed and beaten Magic Slate – the innovative sketchpad owned by every young child of the 70’s; the toy that allowed children doodlers to write or draw with a red plastic ‘pen,’ and instantly erase and start anew by lifting the two thin sheets of plastic away from the soft and malleable, black surface. Jamie’s was a dandy ‘Land of the Lost’ Magic Slate, featuring a picture of the Saturday morning TV show’s Cro-Magnon character Cha-Ka, a volcano, a pterodactyl and a few assorted dinosaurs; no sign of the Marshalls. But it was showing its age. The clear plastic sheet had been ripped off a long time ago and the opaque sheet stayed attached by only god knows what. The black surface was deeply gouged and the red ‘pen’ had long since joined the Marshall family in the land of the lost, leaving Jamie only his fingernail to write with. His scrawlings were childlike, letters often written backwards or capitalized, spelling phonetic or worse, grammar and full sentences never used. Jamie had lived on the streets of Portland for almost ten years now, and he did not care about that either; he had never really known a home. He no longer hung out with the street kids, as he had graduated further and further from their ranks with every new influx of runaways to the streets. Portland was a pretty good town to be homeless in – relatively mild winters, and lots of sympathetic, generous, liberal altruists. Why, Jamie was practically a Portland personality now; a fixture of the downtown Portland scene! Of course, he was not as outgoing as some of the other homeless folk. He did not play an old guitar on the corner for handouts, or sing, or whittle little thing-ies, or sell pencils, no! Those were not his gig. There were others that played the sympathy card to receive handouts, but there were even more bleeding-heart altruists out there with spare change – plenty to go around. Jamie just tried now to stay out of sight as much as possible, and stay high. With his gimmick, a junkie like Jamie Thompson could make a fine ‘living.’ Without the overhead of rent, and with the expense of meals handled by taxpayers and aforementioned altruists, all of his ‘income’ could go toward improving his quality of life – the only luxury that Jamie cared for – heroin. So if a low-life drug dealer should approach Jamie with the offer of free smack in exchange for carrying out a little mischief, what should it matter to Jamie? The dealer had promised that no one would get hurt, and so far nobody had been, really….that bad. The deal had gone rather swimmingly in Jamie’s opinion. But now, after nearly one hundred infected syringes fixed strategically throughout the downtown area over the course of the past eighteen months, and a fair amount of complimentary heroin graciously provided for Jamie’s splendid enjoyment, the long- running arrangement had apparently come to an end. Stan the Man, a relatively successful drug-dealer had informed Jamie that his services were no longer needed. As a token of appreciation to Jamie’s faithful service over the last fifteen months, Stan the Man had bestowed upon Jamie one last gratis brown supply. The funny thing is, Jamie mused now as he walked groggily down the sidewalk, is that the last batch of product from Stan the Man, the parting gift, had been terrible! Absolutely horrendous! As was Jamie’s general MO, he had enthusiastically tried a bit of the brown very quickly after taking delivery of it from Stan the Man, and he had noticed right away that something was ‘bad with it.’ He had wretched and vomited at least double his normal amount, and then the rush was accompanied by a most disconcerting falling sensation. Jamie was only just now recovering from the bad trip, or so he thought. He couldn’t even be sure of how long he had been badly tripping. And he had absolutely no inkling of just how closely death had come to him. “Hello, my friend.” The chilling voice had sounded so close to Jamie’s ear that his clammy skin crawled and his heart palpitated dangerously fast. After all, his ticker wasn’t the strongest to begin with. Jamie wanted to jerk around and see who it was that had startled the b’jeezus out of him, but his neck muscles were uncooperative. As it was, he only let out a startled noise that sounded something between a grunt and a squeak, and slowly turned his head. His glazy eyes eventually landed upon a distinguished-looking young man with long brown hair. There was nothing inherently frightening about the young man, still Jamie felt the impulse to shy away from him and get moving, and he acted upon it. “I’m sorry,” said the young man with ice-burg politeness, walking after Jamie. “My name is Marcus. I have seen what you do with your syringes, in the shadows, when no one is looking. Do you plan to do it again?” “Eep!” Another frightened squeak escaped the sad derelict. He was unaccustomed to anyone accosting him in this manner. Had this dude really seen Jamie plant syringes? The junkie continued his ambling gait down the sidewalk. Surely this fellow would eventually leave him alone. Suddenly a bony, firm hand was on Jamie’s shoulder, turning him around. The piercing hazel eyes of Marcus inspected the derelict with detachment. Marcus’s smooth hand carefully lowered the cowl slightly. It was too grotesque to pass up, even for a five hundred year old vampire. Marcus looked deep into the dilated pupils of the derelict, noticed the slow, shallow breathing, the slightly jaundiced pallor of the skin. Something there was definitely wrong beyond the normal effects of heroin. “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” mused Marcus. “Maybe it’s true what they say about learning something new everyday.” And, holding Jamie’s track-marked arm, he sent a wave of adrenaline coursing into the derelict. It was the only thing that the vampire could think of to do to help the dying man, short of taking him to the hospital, and that just wasn’t going to happen. “You must not die just yet, my dismal friend. I have someone whose last hope for rationality might only be in talking to you.” Jamie felt instantly better, but he was still extremely leery of this inauspicious man. He was further relieved when the young man released him and he was able to resume his lurching pace. He just wanted to be left alone! And sure enough, when Jamie turned slightly again to glance at the young man, he saw to his relief that the dark young man was no longer on his shoulder. Then a nauseating feeling of foreboding rippled through him as he realized that there was no sign of him at all. The disconcerting young man had disappeared.

CHAPTER VII

The damn light didn’t look as if it was going to turn green anytime soon, and Officer Bruce Nader was anxious to get home; actually to his girlfriend’s house. He had recently moved in, or closer to the truth, had let the lease run out on his own apartment. Why pay rent on a place when you’re not even there most of the time? He was tired of waiting for the traffic signal to turn, so Officer Nader hit the switch that controlled the chase lights of his police cruiser and ‘bwooped’ the siren three times as he cut through the intersection at 39th and Division. He had been waiting for a whole two seconds. Officer Bruce Nader was a hard-working cop who loved his job. He felt lucky to have stumbled into the career because after his stint in the army he had felt like his life had no direction. Nader had been a cop now for about two years, and he had the gig nailed. He’d be making detective soon, so long as he kept hitting his quotas, and he had no problem hitting his quotas. Nader actually enjoyed completing all of the necessary paperwork after issuing a citation, and his work was prompt and thorough. He could issue as many as two dozen on a good day; all good citations – the kind of tickets that don’t usually get dismissed at the arraignment. Yes, he was sticking it to all those slobs out there who thought that the traffic laws applied to everyone else but them! Nader was appalled at the number of moms in minivans he would stop for speeding through school zones, elderly folks for rolling through stop signs, and brand new teenaged drivers for just being reckless behind the wheel. He took a lot of pride in thinking of all the automobile accidents he prevented, and other crimes that he surely thwarted. How satisfying his job was! He was also quite amused at the games people played behind the wheel. It was hilarious to see how everyone would slow down whenever they caught sight of his cruiser. But he always got the biggest laugh from clocking people after they had passed by him – without fail everyone sped back up to whatever speed they had been driving before. Nader stopped his cruiser in front of his girlfriend’s house. Rachel’s neighbors loved him because having a cop car parked on the street was an extremely effective neighborhood crime deterrent. A child’s bicycle sat upside-down on the front walk. It belonged to Adam, Rachel’s eight year-old son. Nader managed to just tolerate the child because, like it or not, Adam was a part of the Rachel package. It seemed to Nader that women over twenty- two years old without children were getting more and more scarce. A guy like Bruce had to take what he could get! He stepped past the bicycle and continued up the walk, to the front door of the quaint neighborhood house that was just older than he was at twenty-five. Rachel wasn’t the picture of neatness, but then, neither was Nader. She certainly spent more time picking up the house than he did maintaining it. The structure was showing its age. Hell, weren’t the landlords responsible for taking care of any of this shit? Nader opened the flimsy screen door, wondering what was holding it still to its hinges, and turned the knob on the front door. It wasn’t locked and that lightened his mood a little. For one thing, the lock was stubborn; he would eventually need to stick a little graphite in the damn thing. And it always seemed to Nader that if the door was unlocked that Rachel was anticipating his arrival; he felt like a welcome guest. You see, deep down, Bruce Nader felt like an intruder everywhere he went, especially when he was behind the shield. But that was one of the things that he loved about being a cop – it gave him the right, along with his co-intruders, to go anywhere they deemed necessary for the sake of the public good. Society needed his rough insertion. His uniform provided him a sort of costume, anonymity; the badge provided him with the indemnification to take the necessary measures. Without them he was a just the unwanted and unwelcome Bruce Nader, but with them it did not matter if he was unwanted or unwelcome, his intrusion was somehow needed. “Hey Baby!” he called as he entered. It was oddly quiet. Bruce stepped through the dingily furnished front room and into the kitchen, expecting to see his girlfriend, but she wasn’t there. “Rach?” Bruce stood quietly and listened. Had he just heard a faint sniffle from the bedroom? What the hell was she balling about now? He walked softly down the hall. The door to the master bedroom was open and in the dim light Bruce could see Rachel lying on the bed, her face wet and red. She was definitely upset! He prayed that it wasn’t something stupid that he had done, or not done. “What’s the matter, baby?” he said in his most tender voice as he entered the room; then he saw what was upsetting his girlfriend. Sitting comfortably on the laundry hamper in the corner was a young skinhead holding tightly to Adam and touching the end of a gun barrel to the child’s head. “Don’t move,” said the punk coolly. Officer Nader’s police academy training, token at best, was momentarily lost to him. Not that it would have helped him much anyway. He was paralyzed in a terrible state of acute indecision. It took him a full three seconds to even tally his options. By the time he had done that much the young man was breaking into a wide grin. The man said, “I’ve dreamed of this moment, Officer Nader.” He seemed oddly more relieved than malicious, as if peace was finally washing over him. Bruce would like to have come back with some snappy answer. Something like ‘Well, here’s your wake-up call, asshole!’ would have been perfect, but he simply did not dare. He would need to remain perfectly polite and compliant until he ascertained whether or not this punk actually had the balls to pull the trigger. However, testing a gunman’s resolve is extremely tricky, for obvious reasons. Bruce couldn’t let anything happen to little Adam, no matter how many times he had wished that the little shit would disappear. Bruce realized that the room was dark because the curtain had been drawn tight. Rachel lay on the bed unrestrained, but afraid to move for a very good reason. Clearly, this intruder wanted leverage against Bruce, and right now he had it! An intense rage began to boil in Bruce’s blood. How dare this asshole invade his house and terrorize his girlfriend and her son!! Let the men fight like men, leave the women and children out of it! Bruce would crush the little pansy coward if he ever got the chance! God! He felt so helpless! He couldn’t do anything with the boy so compromised. Bruce couldn’t stand the idea of this asshole getting the best of him. He was supposed to be the hero after all! He longed to do something heroic, something that would save the day. A fleeting fantasy of an immensely grateful Rachel throwing her tender little body against him played in his mind; Rachel feeling his bulging muscles as he holds the heart of his enemy tight in his large hand. The smooth voice of the young man brought Bruce back to the frustrating, infuriating moment. “Well! Now that you’re here, let’s get on with the fun.” Bruce did his best to smile through his rage. He had been taught at the academy to remain genial and stress-free when confronted by a gunman; anything to help keep the gunman at ease. The last thing you need is a stressed out man with a gun. “Can we talk this thing over?” Bruce asked as accommodatingly as he could. “We’re going to,” said the young man. “But first you’re going to perform for us a very slow striptease. Throw your weapons on that pile of clothes over there.” Bruce entertained the fantasy of going off and capping everybody in the room. He could start by putting a bullet into Rachel. That would wake that stupid little son of a bitch up – so much for the goddam leverage! If the dude actually had the presence of mind to cap the kid then Bruce could fill the little punk with lead. And if the little asshole actually shot at Bruce, the bullets would bounce off of his kevlar and Bruce would still fill the dude up with lead. And if a stray bullet caught the kid, too bad; life would go on. ‘Cause little punks need to learn that they can’t just come into your house with a gun and expect you to take it up the ass! Bruce did as he was told, tossing his gun and night-stick across the room to a pile of laundry that had made it only as far the doorway from the master bathroom on its journey to the hamper. Hopefully, the gun would be close enough for Rachel to jump for if a fight broke out. “Keep going,” said the kid with the gun. “I want to see your underwear.” His frustration mounting, Bruce slowly removed his precious uniform. Maybe if he took his time something would give. He started methodically on his kevlar vest, stalling as much as he dared, and it seemed like an eternity until it was finally off. He placed it nonchalantly on the foot of the bed, hoping again that Rachel might be able to reach for it if bullets started flying. The young man didn’t seem at all bothered by the slow pace, but he didn’t let the kevlar vest get by him. “No, no, Officer Nader,” he said, contempt and scorn permeating the name and title. “Off to the side!” Again, Bruce complied. At length, Bruce stood before the gunman in his briefs. “Now,” said the young man, “handcuff her.” Again, Bruce tried to get by with leaving the cuffs loose enough for Rachel to slip her little wrists out of, but the gunman wouldn’t have it. “No, no, Officer Nader,” he said even more contemptuously. “Behind her back. Interlock the cuffs. Tighter!” “I’m sorry, baby,” said Bruce. He could hardly maintain his own composure over her terror-filled sobs. “Use you belt on her ankles,” said the punk, still cool as ice-cubes as he held the whimpering boy. Bruce obeyed. The young man continued, “I want you to know that you are going to die. Put any hope of your surviving this out of your head. There is nothing to be discussed or bargained for, except for possibly the lives of this woman and child, but you will have to convince me that they are worthy of living. I am simply going to kill you, and you will have the exquisite pleasure of seeing death coming from a long way off. Before death comes to you, however, you will lose all hope; you will feel damned!” Bruce wanted to say something – anything! But his heroicness would not allow him to put the boy at risk. This guy was sick, no doubt. But the situation was far from hopeless. Every passing second was a chance for something to break, a chance for the tables to turn. Finally, with astounding contriteness, Bruce asked, “Who are you?” The young man looked full at the cop. “I was Chad Reeves before I died. Now, I am simply Death.” Bruce racked his brain trying to recall anything about a Chad Reeves as he finished securing Rachel’s feet. He came up fully blank. “I see you’re trying to remember where you know me from,” said Death, and he leveled the gun at Bruce. Rachel lay on her stomach, still on the bed, and she could just see what was going on by twisting her head. She let out a breath of relief as the immediate threat against her son was abated. Bruce was also somewhat relieved, but now also saw his own peril looming closer. The words of the young man echoed in his ears. Death now directed the boy to face him as he held the gun steady on Bruce. “Adam,” said Death without a trace of condescension, “Do you have a lot of friends at school?” The boy was frightened beyond his ability to respond at first. “Its OK, Adam,” said Death in a sweetly soothing tone. “Do you have friends around the neighborhood?” Timidly, the boy nodded. Death nodded, too. “Do any of the bigger kids pick on you?” The boy continued nodding. “Do you pick on any of the other kids that are littler than you?” Adam stopped nodding abruptly. “Do you?” Death persisted gently. The boy shook his head slowly, still not uttering even a peep. “Don’t lie to me,” Death said softly, but firmly. “Do you bully any of the smaller kids?” Chad had followed the child’s after- dinner activities the previous night and knew that he in fact did. Relatively harmless bullying, perhaps, but even now the terrified boy had in his pocket a magic marker that he had forcefully taken from a smaller child that lived two doors down. Still, the child denied it. “You can’t lie to Death, Adam. I already know. What do you have in your pocket?” Guilt morphed onto the face of the boy. “It’s OK, Adam. Pull it out.” Slowly, fearfully, the boy did as he was told and produced the red-inked magic marker – a simple, little item that is a commodity if only for a brief flash in the span of many childhoods. “Good,” said Death. “Does that belong to you?” The child was frozen. “Does it?” At last Adam shook his head slowly. “No, it doesn’t, does it? Did you take it from the smaller child?” Still, the child hesitated. “You can’t lie to me,” said Death. Adam finally nodded his head, looking contrite. “Do you bully the smaller children?” Looking even more penitent, Adam nodded a little faster. Death nodded as well. “Yes. You do. Is that a good thing? Is that right?” Adam shook his head, almost quickly. “No, its not,” said Death. “There. You see? It’s good to tell the truth. Now tell me, Adam, what do you want to be when you grow up?” Bruce was starting to put this together in his head. He was aware that the boy fully idealized him, and he was afraid that if the boy answered it might enrage this insane gunman. “Adam,” he said apprehensively, and then Death cut him off. “Quiet,” he said coolly, not changing his tone. “It’s not your turn to talk. I’m talking to Adam. Adam, it’s OK. You can tell me. What do you want to be when you grow up?” Hesitantly, the boy said in a small cracking voice, “A policeman.” Death nodded, “Mm-hmm. OK, Adam. Can you write in the dark?” The obscurity of the question further frightened the boy and he didn’t answer. “It’s OK, Adam,” said Death again. “If you are going to be a policeman you will need to learn to write in all kinds of crazy places. So I want you to practice writing on the wall in the closet with the door shut. You can write or draw anything you want. Use the magic marker. You may want to write the name ‘Chad Reeves’ and you can also write about what’s happening here today and what we’ve talked about.” Tears began streaming down the frightened boy’s face. He hesitated, waiting for instruction from his mother or Bruce. “It’s OK, Baby,” said Rachel finally mustering some bravery. “Don’t be scared. Just do what the man says.” Slowly, the boy opened the sliding door of the closet and stepped in. He was comforted by his mother’s scent on the clothes. He slid the door shut. Bruce had stopped puzzling over the question of who Chad Reeves was. Now he was trying to figure out why the crazy punk had put the kid in the closet with a magic marker. It frightened him even more for what might happen. Hope did indeed abandon Bruce Nader.

CHAPTER VIII

Marcus sat comfortably on the couch between Sarah and Tina. Lying peacefully asleep on the floor was Jagger the Pit-bull. It looked nothing at all like a conventional family, and yet there was certainly something very homey and family-esque about the three of them sitting there. The scene could have been a Norman Rockwell painting on the cover of the Saturday Evening Post. Sarah and Tina were enthusiastically catching Marcus up on their lives. Tina was working hard at the supermarket and had already received a small raise. It wasn’t much, but it did make her feel like a valued employee, and Marcus knew that she would go far in anything she tried. He encouraged her without sounding patronizing, condescending, or pious. The little girl looked even more healthy and vibrant – alive! Sarah had also entered the labor market for the first time in her life. She had managed to land herself a position in telemarketing. She pretty much hated it, but at least it was something. Sarah just wasn’t quite ready to relinquish her claim to government benefits at the death of her husband. Marcus blanched at hearing that, nevertheless he believed that Sarah would continue to work hard to establish her independence. On the positive side, however, Sarah was already looking five years younger and fifteen pounds lighter. Just getting up from the bed and out of the house had done wonders. Tina had also been putting slight pressure on her to quit smoking, and Sarah was now in the process of cutting down. Tina was still obviously quite enamored with Marcus. She was increasingly exerting less effort to hide it from her mother. But honestly, what red-blooded girl wouldn’t be totally into him? With that long beautiful hair, those brilliantly light brown eyes, and that perfect body, he was absolutely gorgeous – marvie! What’s more, Tina also knew his incredible secret; that made him all the more desirable in her eyes. Sarah was, of course, also quite taken with Marcus, and, except for the obvious reasons, couldn’t figure out why – specifically, why it was that she should feel like a giddy school-girl whenever he was around! At length, Tina asked kittenishly, “Marcus, would you like to go for a walk?” The vampire’s dark gaze fell to Tina’s left hand where a large, suspicious-looking bandage spotted with relatively fresh blood was adhered to her palm. Where had he seen that before? “That would be nice, darling,” he said, and Marcus excused himself to Sarah as they rose to go. Outside it was an enchanting night, notwithstanding that only a handful of stars could pierce the glare of the metro lights. Endless rows of virtually identical three bedroom, two bath homes manufactured from a cookie cutter by some slick developer over twenty years ago stretched over the gently rolling terrain. Being a fair distance from any major roads, the neighborhood was mostly quiet with the constant roar of traffic reduced to only a faint ambience. Marcus and Tina talked very softly as voices would carry easily down these suburban streets. “I was hoping we would get some time alone,” said Tina. “Since you refuse to spend the night.” The little girl would be lucky to pass for fifteen any more. Six weeks of not dancing, smoking, drinking, and doing whatever drugs happened to be around had transformed her nearly completely back to the young girl that she was supposed to be at seventeen. Her visible tattoos seemed severely out of place, and most of piercings had grown over and healed. Marcus now had high hopes that she might grow into a greatly empowered and productive individual. “I need to talk about something in particular,” said Marcus. “I gather that you are pretty familiar with the downtown scene?” In the past, such a question would have opened the door for Tina to go on about how hip and down she was with the coolest of the cool. Being socially connected with one or more of the charisma endowed street urchins could be considered bragging rights for any low-self-esteem teenaged loser that turned to downtown as both a source and an outlet for their angst. But Tina somehow felt ‘over it’ now. She did not understand the growth and change that she was going through, but she liked it. She answered simply, “Yes.” “Do you know a particular homeless chap with a severe hair-lip?” “That could only be Jamie,” she said. “What do you know about him?” asked Marcus. “He’s been on the street forever and he’s addicted to heroin. Jamie is one of the sadder cases downtown. We’ve hung out. He bought H from me a few times.” “Does he have AIDS?” “Um, I think so,” Tina replied. “I think he was born with it.” “Does he have any friends, partners, lovers?” “Not that I know of,” said Tina. “He can’t talk and he’s not real sociable.” “How does he buy his drugs?” asked Marcus. “I’m sure he gets the money from begging. He probably makes a hundred dollars a day. Maybe even more. He has a thing-ie that he uses to write on when he needs to communicate. What is your interest in a guy like Jamie?” asked Tina. “I’ve been following the chap for four nights, and I haven’t seen him interacting with anyone,” Marcus said with mild frustration. “Why have you been following Jamie?” “I saw him plant a syringe, Tina. I believe he is the one who has been planting infected syringes around town.” Tina’s face registered shock, but she did not doubt the vampire’s word. “But,” Marcus continued, “Someone else either knows or is in on it, because there has been an anonymous call to the police with a warning every time a syringe was planted. Jamie could not have made such a call.” “Wow,” was all that Tina could say, and it came out in a stunned breath. “I know I have just laid a lot of shit on you, and I am sorry, but I believe you are mature enough to handle it. It is not any bigger than the secret you keep for me. Anyway, Jamie must be doing all of his heroin purchases during the day, because I have not seen him talking to a single soul. I was really hoping that you could shed some light on the subject. Who made those phone calls? Who might Jamie’s accomplice be?” Tina could not hide the pleasure she felt at having the vampire again come to her for assistance. She glanced as the bloody bandage on her hand. “It’s working!” she thought. Then she said, “What would you like me to do?” in a sensual tone that more than hinted that she would be willing to do anything for the vampire. “Perhaps you could take a day and watch him for me.” Marcus was aware of Tina’s servility, and the significance of her doe-eyed, adoring gaze hadn’t escaped him either. Maybe he should not do this; she would undoubtedly feel very much invested. “Oh, yes!” she said, excitedly. “I will do that for you!” Well, it was done. Marcus said, “Fine. When is your day off?” “I can go the day after tomorrow.” “Good. The sooner the better. Follow him discretely from a distance and tell me who he talks to on an average day.” The two of them walked along for a minute, silently. Tina was entertaining fantasies in her head of Marcus lavishing love and every kind of gratuitous affection upon her. She was certain that she was already seeing the positive results of the magic spell that she had cast on Marcus. Marcus’s thoughts, as usual, were a bit darker. There could be no doubt that the girl had a lot of emotional healing yet to do from the damages done to her in early adolescence. To her credit, the old vampire had to admit that she had already made outstanding progress. She did not fit the victim profile. That is why she had chosen at such a young age to run away from the abuses of her step-father and the co-dependence of her mother. She had already felt all of the pain that she was going to allow herself to feel over that situation. Her strength was in her ability to forgive – both others and herself. Her maturity was quite beyond her seventeen years; there was no denying that. Marcus had definitely taken a liking to Tina, but not in a romantic way. Maybe in few years, a decade more likely. It would be delightful, he thought, to watch as she grew and developed. In the mean time, the girl would have to be set straight. “Tina,” Marcus began. “Yes, love?” she answered quickly; she had been startled from her daydream and hadn’t quite emerged back to reality yet. “Tina, my sweet, you are dear to my heart, but you must put any romantic notions that you may have for me out of your head. Disappointment and frustration washed over the girl. At first she thought that she should try to deny it, to play it cool, but then she remembered exactly to whom it was that she was talking. He obviously could tell that she was into him; she would not be able to lie to him. She said, “But it’s not fair.” Marcus said nothing for the moment and she continued. “You get to use all kinds of magic on me. You get to live forever. You already have my heart and I get nothing. Marcus, I don’t want to grow old and die… alone.” “You mean, like your mother is doing?” “Yes,” she answered quietly. The vampire mused at this girl. Even as young as she was, she still had a sense of her own mortality. It may have been partially the result of having been suicidal in the past; partially the result of watching her mother age beyond her years in too short a span. “Tina,” he said tenderly, “It will be hard for me to say this without sounding self-righteous, but I’m going to try. For what it’s worth, neither one of us has any guarantee to immortality. But I would never wish this life of mine upon you, my love. Living by ending the existences of others is the ultimate immorality. Would that I could quit it.” “But you wouldn’t have to kill, Marcus. We could create a secret clan of donors; people that would all keep your secret.” Apparently, the little girl had been giving this some thought. “Yes, and people that would incessantly badger me to make them into a vampire,” Marcus added. “That has been tried in the past with extremely limited success.” The disappointment and frustration redoubled on the girl. “But I love you, Marcus. It’s not fair that you can make me love you and I can’t make you love me.” “Tina!” Marcus said in a mock scolding. “I do not make you love me. And if you do indeed love me, you could hate me just as easily.” “But you’re a vampire. You charmed me. If only I had your magic, I could charm you; I could make you fall in love with me.” “Tina, my sweet, you have been reading too many vampire stories. What did you think, that you could cast a spell of fixing upon me?” Tina looked sheepish on top of her disillusionment. “Yeah,” she nodded. “Let me guess,” said the vampire. “You had a little ceremony with candles and statues of saints. You probably used my shirt that I imprudently left behind when I last visited. Is that why your hand is bandaged?” “Something like that,” said Tina. The ritual she had performed was starting to seem rather silly. “Ah, my sweet, sweet Tina. You are as adorable as you are romantic. But listen to me carefully. I do not want to try to tell you that there is not magic in the universe. But I do wish to impart with you this one wisdom – there is no such thing as calling upon unseen forces to carry out your wishes. In all of my life I have never seen any kind of evidence that would support the notion of magic in its most popular sense. There are a lot of truths in this universe that we do not yet comprehend. Those unknown truths, for the moment, may seem as magic to us. The real magic lies in the joy of the pursuit of truth and knowledge.” “But you’re magic,” Tina protested. “You are immortal and you have amazing powers.” “I regenerate,” Marcus corrected gently, “and I do have some amazing abilities, but I am not magic. I do not know what it is that allows me to do what I do, but I can assure you that it is nothing supernatural.” “What can I do, Marcus, to make you love me?” “Tina, my love, there is nothing anyone can do to make another person fall in love with them, or do anything else. You have control over one person, and right now in your life, I would say that you are exercising excellent self control. You are working hard; you are improving your life and your mind. You are bettering yourself and you are growing. You are doing the things that lead to happiness and a good life. These things do take time, however. Even though we do not know what will be after this mortal coil finally comes to an end, I believe that you will be more empowered by living as if you already knew that you were going to be around fifty million years from now. It helps to keep you focused on what is truly important, and will prevent you from wasting your time on the immaterial. “You will have forever to develop and grow into a splendid being; a being that will attract and have many friends and loved ones over the course of eternity. You will not have the power to make people love you; no one does really. But that is not really what you would want, is it? What you do have is the power to make yourself a lovable person, and believe me, you are already skilled in the use of such power. “Tina dearest, do not be frustrated if you do not receive certain desired feedback from certain individuals. Hoping for or expecting more from people around you opens the door to disappointment. You can save yourself heartache by simply accepting from people what they are willing to give to you.” The dark couple had stepped into the shadows of several trees growing at the edge of a public park area. The vampire now stopped and faced the little Tina, tipping her head up with a gentle hand on the tip of her dainty chin. Single streams trickled down from each of her dark eyes, but there was no longer any sign of frustration in her face. She had been profoundly affected by Marcus’s words, and now her young, angular face reflected determination, power, with only shadows of fleeing doubts. “And Tina,” Marcus continued. “I do love you.” He kissed her lightly on the forehead. “Now,” he continued, “How do you think your mother would react to learning of my secret?”

CHAPTER IX

This was a hell of way to start off the day. Hell! To start off the week! Detective Darrel Henderson entered the residence of Rachel Keller. Uniformed street cops were everywhere! Word travels fast when a fellow officer gets taken out. It’s almost as if it is compulsory for everyone on the force, whether they know the guy or not, to show up at the scene and make a show of how well-bonded the members of the police force are. Henderson had had to park his unmarked Crown Victoria over two blocks away for all of the patrol cars in the street. At the sight of all the uniforms, Henderson groaned. The crime-scene was bound to be tainted by all of the activity and foot traffic. He stepped down the hallway and looked into the bedroom over the hardly recognizable pieces of Bruce Nader; difficult to recognize perhaps because the severed body parts were mixed together in a gory pile with the body parts of someone else – a female, probably Rachel Keller, though Henderson had never met her and would have to check it. The real difficulty lay in trying to get over the expansive pile without stepping in gore and disturbing the crime-scene evidence. Several of the uniformed police officers had already attempted the jump with negligible success and were looking around the room. Careless bloody tracks spanned from the pile in all directions over the carpeted floor. Henderson exploded, “What the hell are you doing!?! You fuckin’ clowns are contaminating the crime-scene!!” The first impulse of most of the cops, (which they successfully suppressed), was to respond belligerently. But, one by one, they adopted a hang-dog posture and moved in a congested attempt to exit the room. “God DAMN it!!” yelled Henderson in frustration, as he surveyed the obvious disturbances to the evidence. He breathed deeply trying to calm himself as the cops exited the room one at a time, then he asked, “Who was first on the scene?” “I was, sir,” said the last cop inside the room. “I was radioed and asked to check on Bruce after he didn’t show up at the station this morning.” Guilt was tattooed on the officer’s face and Henderson was certain that this was one of the imprudent cops that had called everyone with the grotesquely fascinating news. “I don’t want anyone else in or out of this room,” barked Henderson, “until I’ve had a chance to retrieve all the forensic evidence.” “There’s also one in the closet,” said the cop solemnly. “A child – shot.” Henderson tiptoed gingerly through area trying vainly to step between the strewn limbs. Once past the macabre obstacle course he examined the closet. The bottom of the door showed the damage from several passing bullets. In addition to a few sporadic bullet holes there was a fair chunk of the door blown completely away. Henderson slid the door to the side just enough to poke his head inside. His flashlight beam illuminated the still form of a fair-haired boy; the little body pulverized and broken by the same bullets that had perforated the closet door. Detachment abandoned the ‘battle-scarred’ detective. Henderson was horrified. His illusion of safety was fast dissolving. He could imagine finding his own family like this and the mental picture struck a chill through his core. “He’s graduated to the next level,” Henderson muttered, even as he wondered how much worse than this any deranged person could get. The detective maintained his composure just enough to examine and analyze the scene. He noticed that Nader’s uniform and vest were piled near the bathroom doorway. A blood-encrusted pair of handcuffs had been dropped near the main pile. There was no sign of Nader’s gun. Laundry seemed to be just about everywhere, some of it stained with blood. Six bullet casings were found near the laundry basket in the corner, presumably where they had fallen after being ejected. How would the FBI profiler try to reconstruct this mess? Henderson had wanted the Psicko Killer to strike again, but not like this. This double job was especially grisly and the kid was like the cherry on top. Of course, something deep inside the detective was actually glad that it had been a cop. Now he would be justified employing extreme measures to apprehend this killer. It wouldn’t matter if no one cared for or even knew Nader, every cop on the force would take his murder as a personal attack. Collectively cops always enjoyed playing the victim because then they could all come back snarling and biting like a cornered wild animal. It is fun to dispense righteous vindication. At length, Henderson had bagged everything that he could see to bag. He had taken the crime-scene photos himself. He had, in fact, taken it upon himself to do just about everything that was normally carried out by one of the lower-ranking officers. It pissed him off because it was obvious that the killer had arranged the pile in the doorway on purpose just to make it hard on the cops; and it pissed him off even more that his comrades had ‘walked right into the trap’ so to speak. Even in the midst of his pistivity, Henderson discovered one major difference between this murder and the previous jobs – this scene was comparatively loaded with forensic evidence. There was a fourth set of fingerprints this time; on the handcuffs, the bedroom doorknob, the bathroom sink. This job had plainly been sloppier. The detective was actually a little encouraged, hoping that the additional evidence wasn’t simply the trace of clumsy policemen. Henderson authorized the coroner team to remove the bodies, and then he left the scene quickly, feeling queasy. He couldn’t decide which sight was more sickening – a body bag filled only with pieces or a body bag filled only halfway with a small body. Upon arriving back at police headquarters, he quickly prepared his compares and then ran a check for the unknown set of fingerprints on every database available to him. An hour later the results were in – no matches. Stymied again! At least the prints didn’t belong to any of the cops. Henderson was just about to look for his favorite brick wall when the SWAT theme chimed. “Yeah,” he said flatly after punching the button on his cell. “Henderson? This is Mike Stone,” said the apprehensive voice. “Uh, you still investigating that Nader murder scene out in southeast?” “I just finished up. Why?” Henderson said, trying to hide his distrust. “Well, uh, I was hoping that we could compare notes on a couple of my cases that just showed some similarities to a few of yours.” “What the hell, Mike? Have you got missing persons cases that connect to the supposed serial killer?” “You could say that. But right now I’m working on another murder case – Judge Wright and his family! And I’ve also got another –” “Excuse me?” interrupted Henderson, then he immediately tried to soften his tone. “I mean, when did you start working homicide?” “Since yesterday morning,” said Stone. “One of my missing persons turned up dead. Rather than turn the case over to someone on homicide, Rahal just decided to transfer me and stay on it. I mean, you guys have kinda had your hands full.” “Well, congratulations,” Henderson said lamely. His mind churned. First the FBI, and now Stone was crowding him. Were they chasing the same guy? That was the first thing that Henderson would have to verify. Apparently Stone thought that they were. It was true that the homicide division was quite busy lately. There had been a lot of dead bodies turning up with slashed wrists; mostly homeless people, some drug dealers, gang bangers and prostitutes. It would have been easy to just say ‘Hey, they couldn’t live with themselves anymore – good riddance!’ But it was all too obvious that they were the victims of a very clever repeat killer. Henderson was just grateful that the case had been assigned to someone else in the unit. But why couldn’t the Cap’n have put Stone on the suicide case and left Henderson to his own devices on the Psicko Killer? On the other hand, what if it was all the same guy? The words of Travis Noonan echoed in the detective’s ears. Just how many sickos could one metro area accommodate? Could these mock suicides also be the work of the Psicko Killer? This would be the beginning of the information exchange game with Detective Stone. Henderson didn’t like playing it, but he was very good at it and sometimes it was the only way to get and keep the edge over the other competitors in the dog-eat-dog glory race that was homicide or any other division at the police department. Sure they were supposed to be on the same team, but everybody knew that that was bullshit. Still, pretenses had to be carefully maintained. “Yeah, thanks,” said Stone in response to Henderson’s felicitations, with equal insincerity. “So, uh, anyway, you know the judge, don’t you?” “I know who he is,” said Henderson. “He was cut into pieces along with his wife and daughter,” Stone said with some reverence. Again Henderson’s mind reeled. It was official – Stone was working cases that by right belonged to Henderson. Son of a bitch! But, there was no use crying over Rahal’s spilt milk. Henderson would just have let Stone do his thing, and then wease information out of him slyly. His next trick would be to get as much data about the Judge Wright murder as possible. This would be done by offering some information; hopefully making some little tidbit sound far more important than it really was and getting Stone to open up. “That sounds like the serial killer alright,” affirmed Henderson. “Yeah, but I was under the impression that the perp on your jobs left no trail,” Stone said. “That’s true,” said Henderson with syrup. He smiled devilishly; apparently Stone had found traces of the Psicko Killer at his latest murder scene as well. “I believe Cap’n Rahal has a written report of the FBI’s psychological profile if you want it. It would contain the FBI’s analysis of what little forensic evidence we did turn up on the Peterson and Goulier murders/” “Yeah, Rahal already gave it to me,” said Stone. “Jesus!” thought Henderson. “Cap’n must be pullin’ for Stone!” He was feeling left out and dejected. He asked nonchalantly “So, what did you find on Wright?” Stone could hardly hide his superciliousness. “Well, I think I’ve got the killer’s fingerprints for one thing.” “Wow!” Henderson tried gamely to sound surprised and impressed. He was pretty sure that he had pulled it off. His gut feeling was telling him that Stone’s mysterious prints would match his own mysterious prints, but they still wouldn’t lead to anyone that they had on file. “That could bust this thing open.” “I hope so, Darrel. We need to catch this guy. It’s pretty nasty up here.” “Yeah, I can imagine. Do you need me to come up and lend a hand?” “Oh, naw. We’re pretty much finished up here, but thanks.” “Sure. Just let me know if you need anything,” said Henderson, confident that Stone would tell all at some point. “Say, you said something about a missing persons case that you had that turned homicide. Who was it?” “Do you remember that guy named Bob Wilson, disappeared from the Public Safety building a few months ago? He was suspected of stickin’ those AIDS infected needles all over town, you remember?” “Oh yeah,” said Henderson. “He turned up chopped? Where?” “Are you sitting down? Get this – his body was found cut up like the others, and stuffed into an exhaust ventilation shaft on the roof at the county jail.” Stone then went on to tell Henderson the unbelievable story of how the decaying pieces of humanity might never have been found except that a smooth inmate had somehow managed to slip from his cell the previous Saturday night, and had made a break for it through the hazard-lined ventilation shaft. His escape attempt was thwarted when he came across the ghastly remains of the former probation officer and had the nastiest fright of his life. The new engaging bit of data turned itself over in Henderson’s mind like a rotisserie chicken. So, Wilson turns up diced like Peterson and Goulier, and now others as well! This was certainly an interesting puzzle, but at the same time Henderson felt a little disappointed. This would let Bechard off the hook. The idea of the rich old man commissioning his professional killer to kill the man suspected of planting hypodermic needles all over town seemed increasingly more and more far fetched. Henderson was at a loss for words. He managed, “How….?” Stone shook his head even though Henderson wasn’t there to see it. “No effin idea.”

CHAPTER X

This was Travis Noonan’s big moment. It had turned into a bright and beautiful summer day. An enormous crowd had gathered downtown at the red-bricked Pioneer Courthouse Square for the event. Flash in the Pan had been retained to play a short set, then, with the masses properly hyped up, the MC had announced Travis Noonan and then handed him the wireless handheld microphone. Noonan stood on the large construction of risers that were put together to form a stage. Behind him was the all of the music equipment, set down for the moment, as the stage had been fully relinquished to the politician. He had decided that this rally speech should be a little more casual, so there was no podium for him to stand behind. This wasn’t going to be a lecture after all; he was going to stir the people up with righteous anger, pride, hope, and enthusiasm. Allowing the intoxicating applause to ring on for a moment longer, Noonan looked out over the diverse crowd that was assembled before him. One of his aids had estimated approximately four thousand people. If every one of them voted for him, it would be just about enough, with everything else, to slide him into the governor’s mansion. Of course, not all of these people here today supported Noonan. As with any large assembly, certain special interest groups would take advantage of the crowds to demonstrate and try to gain support of their own cause. Lobby groups for everything from animal rights to anti-globalization were on hand to raise awareness for their cause. Leeches as far as Noonan was concerned. He had put this extravaganza on himself. Getting the necessary permits had been a breeze for the city councilman, and one of Bechard’s more apt secretaries had been loaned to Noonan to coordinate the entire event. She had booked the band and the production company. She had chased down the vendor’s who had been so willing and quick to commercialize the event. Money from the vendor’s had almost paid for everything else. The last bit of money necessary to bring off the event had been coughed up by Noonan himself. This was his show. Still, he was glad that the activist groups were there. Those certain, more controversial groups that did not garner a lot of support from the general public would be wonderful targets for the occasional comical and political potshot. There was even a small group of people showing their support for another politician running against Noonan. The competition was a semi-solid citizen named Von Raines. At that moment Raines’ campaign manager, a very able and handsome man named Kevin Greene, was fretting over the show of support that Noonan was receiving from the massive crowd. Greene turned to one of his assistants and complained, “Damn! This crowd is suckin’ Noonan off right now. Couldn’t we find anything to smear him with?” “We’re still lookin’ into that,” answered the stalwart assistant. “But so far he’s squeaky clean.” Presently, the solemn politician raised his hands in a modest gesture and the applause died. “My fellow Portlandians,” began Noonan. “I had originally hoped to come before you today with great tidings, but alas, my heart is heavy this day. I have just learned that one of this city’s finest peace officers, Bruce Nader and his family, and my colleague on the bench, Judge Perry Wright and his family, have all been the victims of the most heinous and terrible murders. I would like to call for a moment of silence to remember and pray for these lost friends.” With that Noonan bowed his head in an attitude of prayer, but he wasn’t praying. He was listening to the hum, the murmur, the gentle roar of the crowd as it subdued and went very nearly silent, solemn, reverent. Then he stayed alert to vibe of the assembly. In order to work this crowd Noonan would have to know exactly where the collective mindset of the crowd was, and he was definitely working this crowd. He waited, head bowed, for about a minute, until finally the gentle rumble of the crowd began again to rise ever so slightly. The light-rail train was pulling up to the square, and even though it was generally very quiet, against the backdrop of the silent crowd it seemed quite irreverent, so Noonan, not missing a beat, prudently began again. “Thank you! The losses of these men and their families are a great blow to our community. The police are certain that the murders were committed right in the victims’ homes by the Psicko Killer, and I find that to be very disturbing. I can remember a time not so long ago when we could feel perfectly safe inside the walls of our homes and walking in the neighborhoods of our fair city at any hour of the day or night. “As a judge I have seen the worst of the criminal element of this city pass through my courtroom. In the interest of keeping our streets safe I have been very tough on my sentencing of those found guilty. As a city councilman I have always pushed for increased police protection for Portland. It is those fine, hardworking officers who delivered to me in my courtroom that vile element that would take away your freedom and safety if they could. It is those fine, hardworking officers who everyday, put their lives on the line for you; to keep you safe and free. And it is those wonderful, brave officers who will bring to justice the Psicko Killer, and anyone else who threatens your safety and freedom.” The crowd erupted into applause. Noonan waited for the crowd to quiet only slightly before continuing. He spoke as if he alone led this mass of people. “I’m told that the authorities are investigating the possibility that the Psicko Killer might also be the one who has been depositing hypodermic needles in public areas around downtown. The police are working hard to bring this despicable person to justice, but they need your help. They need more money from the city. I hope that you will stand behind me as I push for Portland city to allot more money to the police department.” Again the crowd roared. Noonan had them. His magnanimous eyes scanned the crowd seeming to make eye contact with everyone as he talked. “I don’t have to tell you that it’s a little scary living here right now. However, we deserve to be able to walk down the streets of our beautiful city, and not have to worry about getting stuck by an AIDS infected needle. We have to send a clear message to the criminal element in this town! We’re not going to take it anymore!!” The crowd went wild with cheers and applause. Noonan’s eyes smiled down upon the people as he waited for the hubbub to die down so he could continue. “While we’re at it, we must put more money into our schools, so that our children can be educated and trained for the bright, wonderful future. They must be taught morals, citizenship. The hypodermic needle scare has been a frightening wake up call for all of us. We must teach our children what must be done to stop the spread of this evil disease, AIDS!” As he spoke his gaze meandered around a particular activist group demonstrating for the legalization of drugs, and finally came to rest on one person that was standing a short way from the group. Noonan focused on the person across the distance and stiffened. The person was a disgusting life-chewed homeless man. His face was half covered by a filthy cowl. Noonan’s next line escaped him, and as the applause began to subside, an intense sweat broke from his brow. He stammered, “We, uh, uhm, we have to, uh, give our support….” Blessedly, applause rippled gently through the crowd and gradually grew into a tumult as Noonan lowered the mic and held one fist triumphantly in a gesture that meant only god knows what. The crowd obediently mimicked his gesture and cheered. Noonan smiled broadly with the response. He said quickly, “Thanks for your support. Make me your governor.” His campaign slogan was momentarily forgotten so grasping at straws he added, “I love you all!” It was well received. He stepped hastily off the stage handing the mic to the MC and hissed to anyone within earshot, “Get the band back up there, quick!” The big man was soaked with sweat. No one out in the crowd, least of all Jamie Thompson, really noticed that the politician had lost his composure and cut his speech dramatically short. Jamie wasn’t even paying attention to what was going on. He was just standing near that particular group because one of his suppliers happened to be demonstrating and Jamie was, as usual, desperate to make a purchase. And standing a short distance away was Tina, faithfully keeping an eye on Jamie. It had been a few weeks since she had been downtown, so now she was surrounded by a small group of street kids and other downtown personalities that she had associated with when the street had been her life. So far, her surveillance had revealed little. She decided that if this went much longer without result, she would approach Jamie. There was at least a little rapport established between them. Noonan had stepped away from the backstage area to a payphone, and made a call where he said nothing, but punched a few buttons on the phone. By the time he had made his way back to the backstage area, his cell phone was ringing. “We need to talk,” was all he said after he pressed the button He had to raise his voice to be heard over the din of the band, but he was also trying to be careful to not be overheard. “You know where. Ten o’clock.” He terminated the phone call. Tina at last walked up to Jamie. He smelled horribly offensive, but she hugged him sweetly as she said, “Hi, Jamie. How ya’ been?” Jamie shrugged and made a ‘so-so’ gesture. This is where it got really difficult to carry on a conversation with Jamie. His condition kind of nixed the notion of small-talk. Tina put her arm around the pathetic derelict again. “It’s good to see you, Jamie,” she said sincerely. “I worry about you sometimes.” Jamie’s eyes seemed to smile for a moment; apparently he was touched. He produced his tattered Magic Slate and with the ragged tip of a brown fingernail scrawled, “H?” “No, Jamie, I’m sorry. I’m clean. When are you gonna get clean?” The derelict shook his head vehemently, lifted the one remaining grey sheet on his Magic Slate to clear his previous note, and then wrote, “FiND GoD?” “No, I moved home.” “Step DAD?” Jamie knew of her background. “He died in a car crash. Drunk,” said Tina, showing no grief. “GLAD?” Tina wouldn’t bother upholding pretenses with Jamie. “Yeah.” Jamie scribbled “i AM HAppy 4 U”. “Thank you, Jamie,” and she gave him another half hug. Jamie was feeling comfortable with the streetwise little girl. She had always been nice to him. Now, as he waited for his heroin contact to finish demonstrating, he decided that he could use a little sympathy from the sweet girl. He wrote, ”i ALMoSt DieD”. Concern flashed over Tina’s face. “You almost died?! How?” Lifting the sheet to again clear the pad, Jamie scrawled, “BAD H”. “Somebody sold you some bad heroin? Jamie, that’s terrible. I wish you would quit.” As Tina spoke, the junkie cleared his sheet and wrote more. “StAN tHe MAN GAve”. “Stan the Man sold you some bad heroin?” asked Tina, and Jamie responded by underlining the word ‘gave’. “He gave you some bad heroin?” she amended. Even as Jamie nodded in affirmation, the reality of the situation finally sunk in. Stan the Man had tried to kill him! Or, at least Jamie thought so. Tina had no idea why Stan the Man might feel inclined to give Jamie heroin, let alone bad heroin, but she decided that she would report this back to Marcus. She said, “Please be careful Jamie. I worry about you.” And, standing on tiptoes, she left a kiss on Jamie’s grisly cheek, just above the filthy cowl that covered his regrettable birth defect.

CHAPTER XI

The black van was parked at the same location up the street from the house where Tim and Desperado had most certainly seen a vampire about a month before. They had been watching the house for three days now, but this time there had been no sign of him. “We should have stormed the place when we had the chance,” grumbled Tim. “We still could,” said Desperado. “That place could be crawlin’ with bloodsuckers.” “Maybe,” said Tim, “But all we’ve seen comin’ and goin’ is those girls. We’re just gonna have to be patient.” But he was seriously tired of being patient.

“Where has Marcus been the past few days?” Janet asked. “I have a huge, huge idea.” Night was dawning on the city. Gerald sat on the front porch swing watching the city lights gradually becoming more and more present and luminous against the darkening background. He frowned for a moment thinking it over, then said, “He’s out, I imagine; stalking somebody, planning an execution; else he’s keeping his distance from his friends because he’s fasting again. I think he’s been gone for three or four nights, so if he hasn’t fed then he’d be starting to lose his sense right about now.” “Why does he do that?” asked Janet with concern lining her voice. “Well, Marcus simply can’t abide the idea of having to kill somebody, so he’ll often put off feeding until he’s mad with hunger. Or he may just be working out the details of a kill. Believe me, its much better when it’s planned. Spur-a-the moment killings are usually risky,” Gerald stated as if he knew first hand all about it. Janet said, “Well, I think we should go out and find him. I have a great idea about how we might be able to look at Marcus’s blood under a microscope.” “Don’t be silly!” Gerald’s tone was patronizing. What made this girl think that she could solve the problem that he and Marcus had failed on? She was just a nurse; Gerald was a doctor, and Marcus was a doctor several times over. “You need to leave Marcus alone just now. He’ll come home soon enough. Whatever it is you want to show him, it will keep.” “I can’t wait,” said the girl as she stepped off of the porch and strode purposefully to where her Mustang sat parked in the street in front of the house. “Besides, why should he have to worry about planning a kill, or have to carry it out when he’s got donors? He won’t need to kill if I can find him.” “Don’t be a damned fool!” called out Gerald. “If Marcus has gone grey, he’ll be very, very dangerous!” But Janet paid no heed to the warning as she hopped into her car, started it and drove away. The black van parked up the street did not catch her attention in the slightest. “That girl’s talking estrogen nonsense,” muttered Gerald, but he wasn’t overly worried about her. The city was large; Marcus could be anywhere. She wouldn’t even find the vampire.

Downtown on a weeknight isn’t crawling with nightlife like a Friday or a Saturday. Still there were plenty of young people cruising up Broadway in bright, noisy, shiny cars that were still being paid for by loving parents who had more important concerns than that of where their child might be on a school night. Manuel Stanley, the man with the exotic sideburns, stood on the corner of Broadway and Alder street watching the slow moving cars go by. Once upon a time he would have been supplying these awkward little teenagers with all the diversion they could afford, but now he had to let that lucrative opportunity pass him by. Through carelessness he had been caught, more than once. The only thing that had saved him from an extended stay in the hoosegow was a special business arrangement. The opportunity had not been as profitable as selling drugs, but then, when faced with the option of jail, Manuel had seen the merits of agreeing to the arrangement. It was really OK, though. He had gotten into dealing in the first place only to pay for his own drug habit, and under the terms of the arrangement, he still got all of the junk he needed, plus cash bonuses. All he had to do was follow instructions and keep his nose clean, and so far the instructions had been relatively elementary. And he had still been able to sell a little smack here and there, on the side. None of that tonight, however. Tonight, he could only stand and watch the revenues flow past him in a river of booming, bouncing, under-lit cars. One such car, a black pimp-mobile with gold trim and darkly tinted windows, boomed slowly along, prowling up to the curb, stopping where the tall, thin, dark-haired man stood. Manuel Stanley, aka Stan the Man, opened the passenger door of the car and quickly lit into the vehicle. “Jesus, Man!” said Stan the Man. “This is so tacky.” “It’s the best way for us to meet without anyone seeing us talking, or overhearing our conversation,” said the driver. “Whatever! What do you need?” “Jamie Thompson is still alive.” Stanley’s jaw dropped open. “No way! No one could live through the dose of shit I gave him.” “Well, he did. He must have a stronger constitution than we thought.” “I’ll take care of it,” said Stanley. He had no compunctions about murder. “Wait a minute,” said the driver. “I want this done a certain way. This thing has gotten way out of control. The body count is far higher than I ever wanted. With all these serial killings and pan-handler suicides, the police and the media are buzzing. It’s too much, and we need to pinch it off.” “Jesus!” said Stanley. “I had no idea you were behind all of that shit, too.” “I’m not,” said the driver of the pimp-mobile. “But something good can still come from all of this chaos if I just work it right.” “Cool! What’s your plan?” “The police know who is responsible for the all of the killings, one man, but he’s too slippery for them. The killer hasn’t left any evidence that they can use to get a conviction. They need an eye witness! So we’re going to give them one. We’re going to do our civic duty and bring this killer to justice!”

It was 1:35 a.m. Janet had been combing the city streets for hours looking for Marcus. No luck. Mimi would be getting off at the Bare Cage in a few minutes, so Janet decided to head in that direction. She simply had to find Marcus; that was all there was to it. Patience abandoned her in the face of something this compelling. Within minutes she was turning her Mustang into the parking lot of the strip joint. Janet was just exiting her car when she heard footsteps approaching her. She whirled, her heart racing, and saw a dark form moving quickly toward her. It might have been Marcus except that the figure didn’t have his movement. She gasped a short precursor to what was surely to be a scream, but then the dim light of the streetlamp caught the face of the dark form as it slowed. It was Chad. “Oh my god, Chad! You scared the hell out of me!” Chad was silent as he closed the remaining distance to Janet. He was dressed in black jeans and a black leather jacket. His fuzzy scalp was covered by a black leather skull cap. Janet’s speeding heart had not yet relaxed. “Chad?” “I’m sorry if I startled you, Janet. I needed to see you. I need to talk to you.” “Chad, are you OK?” It didn’t take long for Janet to fall right back into caregiver mode. “We’ve been so worried about you. How are you feeling? Where have you been?” Chad did not answer her questions. She would find out how he was feeling soon enough. And a retelling to Janet of his adventures as a vampire would probably not be prudent. In point of fact, Chad had been feeling very fine; quite excellent since exacting his revenge, except that he knew now that his revenge was not yet fully complete. But he was also ready to admit that in his waking hours he had been feeling a little down; ‘empty’ was a good word. Perhaps he would feel better upon completion of his vengeance…. Chad had tried female companionship as possible cure or at least a diversion from the empty, lonely feeling, but when it hadn’t helped, he had ended up feeding on the prostitute and faking her suicide. His mind kept coming back to the same thought, the same realization – that he wanted Janet. And that is what had brought him to this place. He had come here knowing that Janet would eventually show up to watch her girlfriend dance. If not tonight, then tomorrow night. Now that he was an all-powerful vampire, he was sure that could have Janet. What mortal could resist the charms of a vampire? But first, Chad needed to verify his safety. As much as he felt omnipotent, the young vampire also had a healthy fear of his vampire ‘father.’ However, Chad was very pro-active. In an effort to learn from Marcus, and hopefully to learn something of the older vampire’s intentions, Chad had been following the old vampire from a fair distance the last few nights. He had spied and listened as Marcus and Tina had gone on their walk, careful not to get too close and allow Marcus to pick up his scent in that powerful vampire nose of his. He had been following Marcus earlier this evening, hoping that the old vampire would lead him to ‘a particular homeless chap with a severe hair-lip,’ but Chad had only been able to watch disappointedly as Marcus fell deeper and deeper into the grey madness. Chad had contemplated killing the older vampire while his strength was down; that would surely solve a lot of his problems. But he just wasn’t sure that he could actually do it. How hard would it be to kill the old vampire? Probably very! So for now, Janet would be able to tell him what he needed to know. He asked bluntly, “Does Marcus want to kill me?” “He did,” Janet answered truthfully. “But he may have calmed down by now,” she added as if the whole thing had been years ago and Marcus had been hopping mad. “But Chad! I have the most exciting news! I may be able to find out what causes vampirism!” Chad did not even try to feign interest. He now had an idea of where he stood with Marcus – primary objective achieved. Now he had only to convince Janet of the splendid benefits of vampirism. He would use his astounding vampire powers and charm her. He would leave her with something to think about while he went back out in search of the pathetic junky that he had heard Tina call Jamie Thompson. Except, that now, suddenly there was another need that Chad felt – the now familiar, overwhelming hunger for blood. To Chad, it was as if all else could be put on PAUSE while this one need was adequately satisfied. His voice lowered ominously as he said, “Janet, you can save a life tonight if you will just give me some of your blood.” Janet’s face reflected a mix of horror and disappointment, and more; mostly confusion at feeling so much at once. Chad seemed not the least bit interested in her ideas! Moreover, he was now imploring her to let him feed off of her. Janet had been hoping that maybe Chad would be willing to accompany her to the lab, saving her from having to locate Marcus, but now she wanted away from this killer that used to be the sweet and lovable Chad. The worst of it, however, was that she knew without a doubt that Chad, true to his word, would go out and kill this very night if his hunger was not assuaged. Wordlessly, sadly, Janet bared her neck. She would at least prevent one death this night. Chad bit with his newly formed fangs and drank, hardly remembering to be careful to not suck too long. The bite made Janet go rigid with pain, as Chad had not yet mastered the art of secreting pain blockers. Marcus’s bites had been deeply pleasureful, sensual, even erotic; a very fair trade for the blood that she had given him. Chad’s bite, however, was merely the feeling of her life being sucked away; no pleasure, no passion; just all-consuming pain in a fathomless void that seemed to be the sum of all her fears to power of infinity. Chad was rhythmically sucking like a nursing infant lulled to sleep by its mother’s warm breast milk. Finally, in a wrenching of all her will, she whispered a solitary, “Chad.” It was all she could do and it was just enough to bring him out of his trance. Shame washed over the young vampire as he pulled away from his victim. Now that he was satiated, Chad could not remember what it had felt like to be hungry. The bloodlust was once again appeased. Why had he been so compelled to feed on Janet? The hurt, confused look on her face told Chad all that he needed to know about how she was feeling about him just this second. His own face fell, head bowed deeply in disgrace, then he turned and ran as fast as his could move, disappearing back into the shadows to which he was becoming so accustomed. Janet’s head bowed as well but for a different reason. She had managed to stop him before the blood-loss got too bad; she would be OK, she just needed a minute to rest. Janet did not know how to feel about Chad. She had always tried to give him the benefit of the doubt, but it seemed now to her that she had simply been her usual naïve self. Confusion hung over her like a thunderhead as she slumped back into her car. Marcus would know what to do – but she wasn’t sure if she should tell him about the visit either.

It always started with an annoying, grating tingle in his molars, accompanied with a heightening of already heightened senses, primarily the olfactory senses. He could literally smell the blood, the life in the people near him. The teeth wanted to gash and gnaw. It was an overwhelming appetite stimulator. The vampire could deal with these relatively minor discomforts. However, over the course of a night they would grow to a point somewhere beyond mere nuisance. The day-sleep after such a night would be especially horrifying, and provide no rest and little regeneration, if any was needed. The next night would be shear hell. Every part of the vampire’s body would be sending signal after painful, pulsing signal to the brain that it was starving, actually dying, breaking itself down just for the energy to keep going. Shakes, cramps, and random points of intense, stabbing pain would gradually increase through the ever-slowing night. This pain, the vampire knew, was as easy to abate as drinking blood; take a victim and the torture ends, it’s as simple as that. If the vampire could withstand that temptation, then by the end of the night his rationality would be slipping. For a final day, the body of the vampire would go into a hibernative shut down, in which the vampire would experience the most unspeakably horrifying nightmares of all; dreams in which he had no consciousness. The vampire would not regain consciousness again until the body had fed. In the evening the body would rise under the control of something else, something primitive, something base. The vampire would be gone; only a wild and very dangerous animal would remain. It would feed upon the first victim of convenience. Of course, this timeline wasn’t static. It was subject to shortening or lengthening by certain variables. And Marcus had become extremely well practiced in his ability to go without feeding and still keep the grey madness at bay. The pain was endurable. It was the nightmares that he hated the worst; the nightmares that became living reality for him as his body took over and did what it had to do to survive. Just now, Marcus was still mostly himself as he shuffled along Pacific Street. The driving pain was already enough to stop him every few feet, but that was only because his body knew that he wasn’t moving toward any potential victims. Even though Marcus knew that feeding was inevitable, and he already had a few hapless victims in mind, he was currently playing the game of staying as far from people as he could; keeping a fair distance between himself and the fine scent of that fresh blood, and his body was hating him for it. Nearby, camped out underneath the Grand Avenue overpass over the Banfield freeway, was a handful of unfortunate homeless sorts. The disappearance of one of them would go completely unnoticed. But Marcus would put off the feeding for as long as he could, dreading it as much as he dreaded the nightmares of grey madness. The vampire was looking like a homeless man himself. Personal appearance was always pretty low on the priority list whenever he fasted beyond his hunger. He was covered in loose dirt from the day’s sleep. Choosing to spend the day partially buried rather than at home in a comfortable, secure cellar might have been considered an indication of his loss of rationality, but it really didn’t matter to Marcus. Sure, there was less risk of being uncovered and destroyed at his house, but he would still have the terrifying dreams no matter where he bedded down for the day. He was, after all these centuries, still just a creature of habit. Marcus was vaguely aware that he was walking past a construction sight. However this fact was only logged somewhere deep in his memory for later use. There was something about the property that nagged at the back of his brain. Normally, he would recall everything perfectly, instantly, but on the edge of grey madness like he was. It would come to him…. He lurched down the street, walking in a broad, meandering circle of blocks around his pathetic and unsuspecting quarry. There were only a few people out and about in his wide circuit, and he avoided them. He generally tried to stick to the shadows; another habit. The shadows provided all the security he ever wanted. But the life of a shadow is so fragile. Shadows can be easily cut through, pierced, driven away, and disintegrated by light. Marcus was aware of the rustling of a cool wind. Movement caught the corner of his eye. His head snapped to see what it was, but there was only shadow, a slightly less inviting shadow. A prickly chill inched down Marcus’s spine. He was being watched – he just knew it! His nose told him that there was nobody near him, but he also knew from experience that the nose does not always tell the whole story. He turned back to walk in the direction he had been, now just skirting the edges of the shadows. Looking into another shadow he saw it again; the black swirl of movement. For a short second he could distinctly see dozens of pairs of eyes glaring at him from the shadow. Then they were gone and Marcus was just about to convince himself that he was seeing things when the unmistakable smell of rotting corpses crawled up his nose. Now here was a nasty scent that warranted moving away from. But it seemed to surround the vampire; his nose could not lead him away from it. The air grew thick and putrid. Marcus’s lungs no longer wanted to work. With all the pain and starvation, and now the deathly air, it seemed to Marcus that his ability to survive had finally reached its limit. He had already given up long ago, and so it would be here that he would finally lay down his body and await oblivion. The shadows swirled again then and suddenly the hordes of faceless tormentors were there for him again. Marcus was unable to move away from them. The shadowy creatures moved around him in a jerky macabre dance; their malice and hate emanated from their faceless forms. Several of them stepped forward and lay their bony hands upon Marcus, lifting him up with sharp, icy fingers. A voice boomed, “Marcus Lanchetta! You are damned to feed on death! Death will keep you alive! You must feed!” “No,” cried Marcus weakly. “I want to die. I do not want to cause death.” “Death is inevitable for mortals! You are Marcus the Vampire! You are damned to live from death! Such is your sentence!” “Lies!” cried Marcus. “Death must somehow be avoidable for I live! Do not make me cause death in order to serve my sentence!” From out of nowhere the shadow figures produced a rotting corpse. It had been dead for only a few months and Marcus recognized it as his late love Maria. Even looking at the decayed, brown face Marcus could still envision the fresh, young Maria. Why did this have to happen? It seemed so senseless, so wasteful. Where was the warm, loving, productive individual that had animated this body? “Eat of this body!” boomed the voice from nowhere. “I will not!!” cried Marcus. “Feed!!” “No!!” “Just do it, Marcus. Damn it!” The voice was different; it was no longer coming from nowhere. Marcus looked tenderly over the shrunken corpse of Maria. Grief overwhelmed him, but it did not overwhelm the pain and discomfort of the grey madness. Trembling nearly to the point of seizure, he fought to keep himself from satisfying the terrible hunger. “Feed!!” One of his shadowy tormentors jumped on his back and began pushing his head forward and down. Still, Marcus used the last of his strength to resist. “Be sensible, and drink,” said a voice. It was a soft voice, a woman’s voice. It was Mimi’s voice calling from the darkness. “Miriam?” Marcus called, groping blindly. Monstrous, swirling shadow creatures were still all that he could see before him against the shadowy waste-scape. “Marcus, I’m right here. Drink my blood!” He still could not see her, and it even seemed difficult for Marcus to interpret the sensations his hands were feeling as an outside force seemed to animate them momentarily. He decided that he would trust Mimi. An unseen vein pulsed with blood very near his mouth; he could smell and hear it even though shadows filled his vision. He had but only to move slightly to bring his lips into contact with the vessel, where he bit and sucked tightly. The life of the blood flowed into him like a spreading stain. Rationality and peace returned…. “Ow!! Damn, Marcus! This hurts like a bitch! How about some fuckin’ endorphins, buddy?!” The pain-filled voice belonged to Mimi, and Marcus found himself standing near the edge of the empty street, clutching tightly to the en-weakened amazon, and sucking mightily on her neck. Janet was pushing against Marcus’s forehead in a vain attempt to make him stop. She said, “That’s enough, Ghandi!” Marcus did stop. And he sent a wave of endorphins and other pleasure chemicals coursing through Mimi. The voluptuous girl swooned. “What are you girls doing here?” Marcus said finally after catching his breath. “I’ve been looking for you all over town,” said Janet. “It’s a miracle we found you. I have an idea for a way to examine your blood and I’m anxious to try it!” “You must be to have put yourself at this kind of risk,” said the vampire. He was amused that the young nurse had taken such an interest in solving the riddle of his vampirism, but he could not in all practicality see how she could succeed where a great mind like Gerald had failed. Still, at this point, there was no harm in humoring her. But he made a mental note to sometime soon reiterate to Janet and Mimi just how dangerous it was to approach him while he was ‘fasting.’ The trio got into Janet’s idling Mustang and the nurse began to explain her ideas as she drove. “Marcus, are you up on the latest in computer enhanced microscopy?” She immediately had his interest, though the vampire had to admit that with all of the advances being made in every field of technology, it would be quite a feat for someone to ‘stay up’ on anything. Marcus had been relatively slack in his studies. He had been too depressed, and time had run away from him. For the vampire there was no time of day or time of night; there was only sunset and sunrise, sandwiching a few futile, perishable activities, and regeneration nightmares. He’d seen it all before. The centuries of the habitual behavior of survival were becoming a blur, even though every specific memory was in his head somewhere; perfectly, easily accessible, like running a video in his mind’s eye. As if in the blink of an eye the decades now flew past him. Why, it seemed like only yesterday that he was working long nights in the lab with a younger Gerald, trying every conceivable method for a way to get a look at what was going on inside the vampire’s body. Janet asked another question. “Did you and Gerald ever try using infrared differential interference contrast to look at your blood under a microscope?” “Hah! Gerald helped develop that technology,” said Marcus. “It was the only method of microscopy that did not disintegrate the specimen; however, we were still unable to see anything out of the ordinary.” “And what is the biggest problem with light microscopy, especially a method like IR-DIC?” Janet quizzed. “Lack of contrast, of course,” said the vampire. The girl knew her stuff alright, but was she really onto something? “Now, tell me more about this computer enhanced microscope technology.” “Well, a huge innovation in microscopy came with the development of the digital camera. Digital cameras use a chip called a charge-coupled device. Are you familiar?” “Only vaguely,” said Marcus. “Well, simply put, the CCD is essentially a photo-sensitive computer chip. CCD’s have been developed in the past few years that are actually more sensitive to minutely varying light-waves than the human eye. They can ‘see’ things that we can’t, and because they’re digital, the computer can be used to increase contrast, making it possible for us to see microscopic things that were previously invisible to us.” Marcus felt his pulse quicken. Could this be true? Could he really at long last examine his blood for some abnormality? Realism slowed him back down. He would approach this skeptically, if for no other reason than to not get his hopes up.

Jamie Thompson woke from a funky fuzz, aware that someone was coming down the debris-strewn alley in his direction. His filmy eyes focused as best they could, and the form of Stan the Man resolved itself. Fear seeped sluggishly into Jamie’s slow heart and froze his already immobilized body. Stan the Man had not as yet noticed the junkie lying in the dark among the garbage. The derelict was effectively camouflaged by refuse. Stan the Man walked right past him, continuing to the end of the darkened alley, and it seemed to Jamie that the man had a truly murderous look about him. At last Jamie could stand it no longer. In a frantic, awkward movement he climbed to his feet. Stan the Man yelled to him as he scrambled out of the alley. “Jamie! Wait!” There was not another soul to be seen anywhere along the quiet street. Jamie ran for all he was worth, which wasn’t much. From behind he heard the quick footfalls of Stan the Man. Just ahead of Jamie was the vehicle access door into an old warehouse that he knew to be abandoned. The vertical door had been jammed slightly askew in its runners, creating a one foot gap between the bottom of the door and the cement. Jamie threw himself down and scurried through the narrow gap just as Stan the Man caught up with him. Stanley made a grab for Jamie through the gap space, but the derelict had just managed to scramble out of reach of the long arm. Cursing quietly at having missed his quarry Stan the Man trotted a little further down the worn sidewalk. He would have to find another way in. Jamie’s worst fear was being realized. Even in his foggy mind he could figure a reason for why Stan the Man would be trying to kill him. Jamie knew that he had come to a fool’s end. Moving with surprising stealth, Jamie climbed an old metal staircase up to a railed second level that overlooked the large interior of the warehouse. A door from the balcony led into an old, debris-cluttered corner office where light from a street lamp shone directly in through a window overlooking the street below. From a broken window on the facing wall, Jamie could look right down into the darkened alley where he had been blissfully tripping only a minute ago. In the stark light Jamie’s gnarled fingernail gouged a final message into his Magic Slate. The battered doodle toy was then dropped out of the broken window, followed by the dingy cowl and the ragged, sleeveless coat. Jamie could hear Stan the Man still down below, trying in vain to creep silently. It was time. Expertly, efficiently, habitually, Jamie engaged the activity that was his one talent. He could have been a doctor, he mused, with his skill of handling a needle; knowing right where to find the vein; knowing just the right amount of drug to use for a quick fix, or good high. Or an OD. With luck, the Goddess would take him before Stan the Man could find him.

The campus of Portland State University can seem quite gothic at night. It is a grand old campus cut through the middle by a long, public park one block wide, and spanning for twelve blocks. Marcus, Janet, and Mimi stayed to the many excellent shadows cast at all points throughout their covert sneaking walk to the biology building. With both the talents of Marcus and Mimi at their disposal, getting by security and gaining access to the lab was trouble-free. Having attended PSU, Janet was quite familiar with the interior of the building. It was her show as she brought the infrared DIC equipment and integrated computer system online. The trio then doused each of their penlights making the glow from the computer monitor the only illumination in the lab. It lit up her face as she performed the necessary computer operations. Worried about bumping something in the dim light, Mimi stayed out of the way and tried not to move. Without a word Janet pricked her own finger, prepared a blood sample on a glass slide and placed it on the stage of the microscope. She flicked switches on the microscope activating the light source and adjusted the focus knob. The three of them watched the grainy image on the computer screen as it resolved into a field of mostly black with numerous white circles. Other lines and specs of white floated among the bubble-like shapes. “OK. Those round things we’re looking at are my red blood cells. This is at a magnification of 100 times.” “Yes,” Marcus said, “And that other strange outline must be one of your white blood cells. Also, I can make out what looks to be crystals, possibly uric acid, but that would be difficult to determine without color. Some of your RBC’s appear slightly traumatized indicating stress or perhaps the presence of a parasite. And it appears that you have a mild erythrocyte aggregation.” “Never mind all that,” said Janet. “We’re here to analyze your blood, not mine. The computer is recording this image so that we can have something to compare your blood to.” “If this works,” Marcus amended. “Right,” said Janet only slightly peeved and in a deft movement she had pricked Marcus’s finger and squeezed. Marcus said, “It usually requires a gash,” as the poor girl was unsuccessful in acquiring a drop. He pulled out his knife and cut a tiny slash in his finger. “Once you have the specimen on the slide, you’ll have about sixty seconds before it completely breaks down.” Janet captured a drop of blood on a slide and quickly replaced the slide containing her blood with Marcus’s specimen, gratified to see that it seemed unaffected by the infrared light. Working quickly, she refocused the microscope and for the first time ever, Marcus beheld his own blood under magnification! It looked very much like Janet’s had, for the most part, except that there were no signs whatsoever of toxins or even the slightest malfunction in the cells. But there was something very different, obviously different about Marcus’s blood. The abnormality lay in the little lobster-shaped objects that darted about at relatively high speeds in the field of black. “Oh my god! What is that?” asked Janet. Marcus was equally stunned. “I have never seen anything like it before. Is there any way you can adjust the phasing to bring out the image?” “I can try, but we’re already looking at an image courtesy of the CCD. If it weren’t for tremendous contrast enhancement by the computer, we wouldn’t be seeing this at all.” The trio watched as the strange little shapes swam around. The little ‘lobsters’ were maybe a tenth the size of the red blood cells, but easily twice as numerous. They seemed to be attacking the red blood cells and destroying them. After nearly a minute, the red blood cells were virtually gone and the tiny foreigners began themselves to break up and disintegrate! Marcus was quiet as Janet transferred the two videos from the computer hard drive to a compact disk. They would be able to analyze the footage later on Marcus’s computer. Marcus could hardly wait to show Gerald! As the trio crept out of the biology lab and safely away, the vampire felt truly lighthearted and optimistic for the first time since he could remember. This night had seen the occurrence of a breakthrough! Nothing would ever be the same again. What other mysteries waited to be uncovered with the new and exciting technological advances of the twentieth century? Whoops! The twenty-first century! The night was drawing to a close. They drove directly to Marcus’s house and quietly entered the fine home, unaware of the black van that was parked up the street in which Tim the Vampire Slayer dozed. Once inside the home, Marcus knew something was wrong! There was a foul odiferous presence, unmistakably fecal. “Gerald!” Marcus called with no effort to hide the worry in his voice. The lifeless form of Gerald lay back in his recliner in the front room. Marcus knew before he checked the old man’s pulse that Gerald was dead. The old man looked as if he might only be sleeping, but his body was not the warm temperature of life, but rather a sickly cool. Marcus estimated that Gerald had been dead for only an hour or so, and he felt the beginnings of guilt and regret creeping into his heart for not being there when it happened. But now was not the time for emotion. Not a minute could be wasted in calling the emergency unit at the Oregon Cryonics Institute. The sooner that Gerald’s body could be put into cryo-stasis the more likely that he would have a successful thaw at some point in the future, or so it was postulated. There would be time to grieve after Gerald was safely preserved. Marcus was on the phone with the Institute dispatch in a heartbeat, and in another pair of heartbeats a special ambulance was on route. “Please take care of this,” he implored to Janet. “You know what to do. I must get to safety. You have full authority.” Janet, for as emotional as she could be, was almost always strong and cool in a crisis. “I’ll take of it, Marcus. Don’t worry.” He flashed a smile of genuine appreciation and love at the girls, then left the room. Marcus needed to be alone. He had lost another friend to death. Like so many before Gerald, Marcus had seen the end coming. The end must eventually come even if a body appears to be in perfect health, and to the old vampire the end always came with alarming suddenness. Time flies…. It was doubly sad that Gerald never even got a chance to look at Marcus’s blood. “I don’t understand why Marcus is bothering with this cryo freezing thing,” said Mimi. “He always makes so much sense in every thing he does. He has a way of cutting through the bullcrap and getting to the truth. How could he buy into this nonsense? As if they’re going to be able someday to thaw him out and bring him back to life. I don’t mean to sound negative, but it seems like a waste of money.” “It might be a waste of money,” said Janet. “And I’m pretty sure that Marcus doesn’t expect it to work. The thing is, he doesn’t know for sure. It just might be that in 100 years they will develop the technology to somehow preserve Gerald’s conscious, his memories, or whatever it is that makes him Gerald Harper, and then somehow transfer it to a clone created from his own DNA. OR maybe they will develop some other technology, maybe nano-technology, that will be able to restore Gerald. It might work to freeze Gerald, and it might not, but just puttin’ him into the ground will definitely not work.” “But you’re the religious one,” said Mimi. “Don’t you find this idea of freezing a corpse like an abomination? What about Gerald’s soul?” Janet sighed. “I don’t know, baby. I’ve had to re-evaluate my belief system since I met Marcus. The god I was taught to believe in would never have created someone like Marcus. I mean, he really is a vampire! To me that means that if there is magic in the universe, then anything goes, ya know what I mean? So much for order in the universe! “But if he is the product of some kind of science, as I am inclined to believe, then the universe must be truly ordered as science always maintains, and right now we simply don’t have any physical evidence to support the god hypothesis or the immortal soul hypothesis. “When I was younger I used to want very badly to have a perfect knowledge of God. I know that the bible said it is sinful, but I used to pray for a sign. I thought that if I could just have one little miracle, one little sign that God was really there and that he loved me then I could live a perfect life. But what sign did we finally get, baby? A sign that there really is no god; that the concept was invented by certain men in an attempt to rule and oppress the masses.” “That’s what I love about you, Janet,” said Miriam. “You make me think.”

Tim was awakened suddenly from his early morning doze by a commotion from down the street. Partially dried spit ran from the corner of his mouth to the edge of his stubble-spotted jaw. He blinked several times, trying to wet his tired eyes, then focused on the goings-on. It looked like an ambulance, but the words Oregon Cryonics Institute were printed on the vehicle. Three men and one woman were hurrying back and forth from the vehicle to the house with equipment cases. Presently, the activity stopped as the four spent a period of time behind the closed front door of the house. “Damn!” said Tim. “We’ve missed it again! I just know they’ve gotta be doin’ some kinky shit in there.” “Watch yer language!” growled Desperado. The sky had lightened considerably when the team finally exited the house wheeling out some kind of special gurney with a cumbersome, human-sized tank upon it. The equipment cases were then loaded back into the ambulance and then the vehicle sped off. “Now what?” asked Desperado. “We still haven’t seen any vampires coming or going,” said Tim. “Well, I say we storm the place,” said the rogue enthusiastically. “No!” said Tim decisively. “We gotta wait a little longer.”

CHAPTER XII

It didn’t look good for Dan Jensen. Here he was again, sitting in an interrogation room at the police station, waiting nervously but without anticipation for Detective Darrel Henderson to any minute come back in and harangue him about what he had been doing and when. Dan’s track record as a security guard was sucking. This was the second dead body, cut into pieces no less, that had been found on his watch. Dan had been the night watchman at one of Jimmy Bechard’s construction sights near Lloyd Center. He knew that something might have happened when he woke up lying on the ground missing a few hours out of the night. All he could remember was patrolling the area on foot, then an aerosol can floating in front of his face, a fine sweet, pungent mist, then coming to feeling like an elephant had tap-danced on his sinuses. Obviously, he had been chloroformed, or exposed to some other such knockout gas, but he had been hesitant to report the incident. He had felt that after the incident at the US Bancorp Tower his new employment with Bechard might be hanging by a string. Dan had checked the area over carefully with his flashlight after coming to, and saw nothing out of the ordinary. All of the expensive equipment that he had been commissioned to protect was perfectly undisturbed. So he had decided to keep his unscheduled downtime to himself. But then, shortly after dawn, just as construction workers were arriving and he was preparing to go home, one of the workers had seen blood on the inside of the large dumpster, and the hideous chopped up body was discovered only a little deeper inside of it. It had been the body of a homeless man. A generous supply of heroin had been found with the body along with several hypodermic needles. Later, cops had found blood in Jensen’s car. Dan shuddered at what this would do to his employability as a security guard, or anything else for that matter. Henderson entered the small room with the movement of a man that believed he was deity. The temptation for the detective to flaunt a smug smirk was strong, but he fought it. He said, “Mr. Jensen, it looks kinda bad for you. But I am assuming that you are maintaining your innocence.” “I am innocent. I haven’t done nothin’.” “I believe you,” said Henderson, smiling. “I really do. This whole thing could be cleared up if you will just consent to standing in a lineup.” Dan was definitely wary of this change of demeanor in the cop, but he knew that he was truly innocent. The only thing that he was guilty of was being a victim of circumstance. He agreed to the lineup. Henderson could not officiate at the lineup. He could not even be in the room while the witness was making the identification, lest he should subtly or subconsciously tip off the witness to whom he suspected for the crime. But Henderson had already extensively interviewed the witness, one Manuel Stanley, and the witness had described Jensen almost perfectly. Stanley claimed to have been a sort of business associate of the victim’s, one Jamie Thompson, (and Henderson could easily guess just what sort of business they might be transacting), and he happened to see a man fitting Dan Jensen’s description putting the unconscious form of Thompson into the passenger seat of a small car with the tell-tale markings of a security vehicle sometime after midnight the previous night. At the time, Stanley hadn’t been sure if it wasn’t a public officer picking up the passed out derelict, and so he had said nothing until this morning, when he had learned of Jamie’s death. Henderson had already verified that the blood found in Jensen’s car was in fact the blood of the victim, Jamie Thompson. Having a credible eye-witness just secured the conviction. Inside the small, dark room, Stan the Man and two cops stood looking through a window into another brighter room where two more cops herded and instructed the lineup of unsavory looking characters. Stanley knew most of those guys from the street. Presently, number five was instructed to step forward. Number five was a tallish balding, tired looking man wearing the uniform of a security guard and aging by the minute. “That’s him,” said Manuel Stanley. “Definitely.” Dan Jensen was escorted back into the interrogation room. Henderson let him sweat a little more by making him wait another five minutes by himself. The detective’s manner had returned to aggressive when he finally re-entered the room. “I’m sorry, Mr. Jensen. Your alibi for last night is so thin it doesn’t even qualify as an alibi, and we’ve got an eyewitness that says you were downtown last night at around 2:10 loading Jamie Thompson into your company car. That, along with where we finally found Thompson’s body, as it were, is all we need to charge you for murder one and hold you over for an appearance before a grand jury. And, quite frankly, we’ve pretty much got you for the Peterson job as well. You get one phone call; I hope you’ve got a good lawyer.” Dan turned ghostly white. “I don’t have a lawyer.” “Why don’t you call your boss?” Henderson cracked. “I hear he’s got a real shark of a lawyer! But I have a better idea. Why don’t you sing on your boss, instead? We know you ain’t got no motive for the murders; not personally anyway. My hunch told me a long time ago that the killings were contract jobs. If you can confirm that hunch, I’m sure I could make things go a lot smoother for you. Quite frankly, I’d be damn disappointed to find out that you are really just a sick bastard and not a pro after all.” The detective watched the confused face of Dan Jensen as he spoke. “This guy sure keeps up a good act,” thought the detective. But he was nearly positive that he had pretty much solved the case. Dan was confused, and frightened beyond anything he had ever felt before in his life. He couldn’t figure out what kind of game this cop was playing with him, but he surmised that now would be a good time to remain totally silent; at least until a better idea struck him. As for whom to call, Jimmy Bechard seemed like as good a candidate as any. As it turned out, he wouldn’t actually need to make the call. The sudden clattering of the door startled both men, mostly the beleaguered and fatigued Dan Jensen. Entering the room as if on cue and whirling almost like a Tasmanian devil, was a skinny man, shorter than the detective. The brown-haired man wore an immaculate, double-breasted suit and carried a leather attaché. Moving quickly, he fairly slammed the briefcase down on the metal table across from Dan. The fractured click of the dual spring-loaded latches released and flicking open resounded ominously through the live little room and seemed to send out the signal that it was time to get down to business. All of this happened before Henderson had even finished saying, “What the hell?!” His first impulse was to be belligerent and demand that the intruder to exit. After a split second decision he chose to go with that initial urge, even though his hunch was telling him that this little guy was a lawyer – probably Bechard’s lawyer! But before he could bring his temperature up to a sufficient boil for a good, indignant eruption, the little man had a card in the detective’s face. “Philip Lambert, Attorney,” he said, shortly, with clipped words. “I’m acting as legal representation for Mr. Jensen. Why are you holding this man?” The aggressive demeanor of the little man instantly put Henderson on the defensive, however the detective realized it almost immediately and he silently vowed that he would not let himself get on the losing end of a verbal joust. “Dan Jensen is suspected of murder.” “Is my client under arrest?” asked the attorney in his staccato speech. “Not yet, but he will be. I was about to –” “What have you got on him?” Lambert demanded in a voice that suggested that any charges made against the man must be false. Henderson considered not telling him, just out of principle. But the detective knew that there was nothing the attorney could do at this point, so why not put it in his face? “The dismembered body of Jamie Thompson was found on a site where Jensen was supposed to be keeping watch.” “So?” “We’ve got the victim’s blood in Jensen’s car.” “So?!” “And we got an eyewitness!” said Henderson, thoroughly enjoying the impending victory that playing this ace was sure to bring. Surely that would slow this lawyer down. “What exactly did your eyewitness supposedly see? Did he actually see my client commit the crime?” Henderson suddenly found himself floundering. He had fully expected the lawyer to snap his briefcase shut and excuse himself. “Well, not exactly,” he stammered. “But he saw Dan Jensen putting the victim –” Lambert interrupted again. “Pretty weak, detective! No grand jury will ever indict. You have no case!” But Henderson firmly believed that he had found the killer and he would not be put off so easily. He wished like crazy that he could think of something witty and sarcastic but “The hell I don’t!!” was the best he manage for the moment. He rallied quickly and continued. “And I don’t care what you say, Mister Big-shot Lawyer! His ass is mine! I don’t even need a reason to hold him. There are 1000 little shit things that I could book him on. Or you! How would you like to spend the night in jail?” “I am well aware of the many superfluous statutory laws on the books that you can exploit at any time to serve your ends,” said Lambert. “But there are 1001 ways to get out of any one of them. So, detective, I’m going to suggest that you let my client go free right now for lack of evidence.” “You’re high!” blurted Henderson. “I’m booking him right now for murder one!” “Or, you could do that, too,” said Lambert, sounding like some kind of nerdy game show host. “But I think you should be aware of the consequences of such an action. We’ll sue for damages.” “Are you threatening me?” God! It sounded so trite to the detective as he said it. The attorney was not defensive or denying. “I’m simply pointing out the logistics of cause and effect.” “I can’t be sued!” said Henderson. “I have immunity. I’m a public official.” “You’re half right,” said Lambert. “As a public official you are fairly well indemnified, as in the old saying ‘you can’t fight city hall.’ But as an individual, you are as responsible for your actions as any other citizen. And this is where you, as a law enforcement officer run into a hard place. You cannot enforce statutory law on any citizen without violating their civil rights. It’s logistically impossible. And it doesn’t even matter if the person is guilty as sin. The second you take them into custody, you’ve violated their civil rights. You have caused a damage, and any moderately decent attorney could get a judgment against you personally. I do it all the time.” Henderson was pretty sure that that last part, at least, was true. He had heard the rumors. “So you’re suggesting that I just let you walk outa here with the Psicko Killer?” “My client is not guilty of killing anyone, and if you let him leave right now we might forgive you for wasting his valuable time this morning.” Doubt formed like a cloud over the detective. He bit his lip pensively, deciding. “Wait right here,” he commanded, unable to hide a note of resignation. Henderson walked down the hall and through the door that led to a stairwell. He could have taken the elevator, but opted instead to plod slowly up the stairs and think about his situation. He had heard the ‘I’ll sue you’ threat from a million lawyers before in his twelve years working as a cop. You learned early on as a cop not to give any regard to such pathetic mewlings from lawyers and indignant arrestees and their ilk. But coming from Lambert the threat had seemed to carry substance. Lambert had spoken as one who had total confidence in his ability to execute such a threat, as if he were an old hat at such activities. The detective had a lot to lose. Inside Captain Rahal’s office, Henderson related the situation to his superior, summing up with his reluctance to make the arrest. Rahal’s response surprised the detective. “Well, Darrel, I gotta be honest with ya’. I’d be nervous to make the arrest myself with that hellhound Lambert around. You’re just gonna have to dig up some more evidence on Jensen.” Henderson was shaking his head all the way back down to interrogation room. It was still shaking, bowed, as he re-entered the room saying, “Alright, you’re free to go.” But the room was already empty.

Because many of the sidewalks of downtown Portland are brick, it can be difficult to ride a skateboard in some places. Tina, however, was an expert. This morning she fairly zipped down the gentle decline of the Sixth Avenue bus mall. Once north of Burnside Street, the going was even easier, since the city beautification efforts had stopped at that street, making it a border that seemed to separate the happy and safe southwest from the wretched, ugly and evil Old Town. As per Marcus’s latest instructions she was looking for Jamie, prepared to entice him with smack to get him off of the streets and to the ‘safety’ of Marcus’s house. There was cause to believe that Stan the Man or maybe even Chad might wish to prematurely end the life of the junky, and the vampire wanted another chance to talk to the derelict before fate caught up with him. Tina knew many of habitual haunts where street people like Jamie went to be out of the way and get high. Now she skated around, looking, asking discretely, learning nothing. Finally, she caught a glimpse of his familiar coat down an alley as she was zipping down the sidewalk on her skateboard. She stopped abruptly and walked casually back to the alleyway. It was his coat, alright, and his cowl, and his Magic Slate! But there was no sign of Jamie! The Magic Slate was blank, but when Tina lifted the single grey sheet, Jamie’s last message was read easily, gouged deeply into the malleable black pad. Tina feared the worst as she looked at the message – “StAN tHe MAN” “Marcus might want to examine this stuff,” she thought. But she wasn’t really hip to the idea of carrying the smelly items on her skateboard. She deposited the worn coat and the grimy cowl behind a trash can and underneath and empty cardboard box. She would take the incriminating Magic Slate with her to show the vampire.

CHAPTER XIII

When Marcus had arisen the next evening, he was nearly overwhelmed with news, on top of being very much in grieving over Gerald. The mood around the house was very solemn. It wasn’t so much Marcus mourning Gerald’s death as it was simply Marcus missing his old friend. As always, Marcus had to acknowledge that his grief was a completely selfish emotion. He grieved for himself now having to live without his friend. Tina had been waiting all day to tell Marcus about finding only Jamie’s ragged coat and cowl and show him the Magic Slate. “I suppose we must acknowledge the possibility that harm has befallen Jamie Thompson,” he said wryly. The vampire made plans to go on a little hunting expedition. But first, Janet needed to discuss the biology of vampires. She had been analyzing the video files of the IR-DIC microscope footage. For the millionth time Marcus wished that Gerald could have been there to offer his opinion on the incredible footage. Marcus postulated that the tiny lobsters were some kind of microbial bio-organism. It looked as if the little creatures might be capable of affecting any bodily function; probably for the positive, it seemed. “Assuming that my body is full of these unknown microbials, they could be the cause of my spontaneous, involuntary regeneration.” Janet was of a slightly different opinion. She spoke as the video footage continued to run in a loop on the computer around which they stood, in a lavish office at the house. “That much is apparently correct, but I would hesitate to label them as a microorganism. They don’t seem ‘natural’ to me, or, I should say, they would appear, to me, to be fabricated. Look at how they disintegrate after they break the blood down. It’s as if they’re covering their tracks.” “My dear, what you’re suggesting would also imply some other rather improbable ideas,” said Marcus, musing. “Assuming that they are also the reason for my craving for fresh human, what do you suppose is in the blood that they need?” But Janet had no quick answer. “Look at how perfect the blood in your specimen is,” said Janet. “Absolutely no sign of free radical damage, no parasites, no undigested proteins. It’s perfect! Can I take one more blood sample for more testing?” “Certainly, dear. Are we going to have to break into any more labs?” “No, I got what I need at the medical supply store earlier today. Gerald told me about one time when you guys were able to prevent some of the blood break down by extreme centrifugal agitation. I’d like to duplicate that experiment and then run some tests on whatever is left behind.” “As you wish,” said Marcus, and he noticed at that moment that indeed there was a small centrifuge sitting on a table in the corner of the office. Janet cut the lights off, leaving only the computer monitor to illuminate the room, then she stepped up to Marcus in the glowing light with an empty hypodermic needle. “Allow me, dear,” said the vampire, tapping the vein in his arm. He took the syringe and extracted twenty cubic centimeters of his own blood, pulling the plunger skillfully with one hand. Janet then took the loaded syringe from him and quickly squirted its contents into a test tube. After securing the vessel in its place in the carousel, she activated the device, which began spinning the test tube and the blood at blurring speed. “How long should I leave it running?” she asked. “Oh, three minutes should suffice,” said Marcus. “What you will have left will be mostly blood, but I can tell you right now that you will not find a trace of those little micro-lobsters. It will no longer be photo-sensitive, however, so you will be able to view it normally in any light microscope.” “That’s exactly what I figured, but I’ve got other plans for it,” said Janet, and she glanced at Marcus as if to ask permission. Marcus was pretty sure that the blood would be safe. Whatever contagion that the blood contained was somehow neutralized at the point that the blood lost its photo-sensitive nature and stopped breaking down. Maybe Janet could find something by examining the neutralized blood that he and Gerald had missed. “With that, I shall leave to your own devices,” said the vampire. “I have business to attend to.” Tina sat in a fine armchair out in the front room. As Marcus stepped out the office turned laboratory, she asked, “Are you going to go find Stan the Man?” “Yes,” said Marcus. “And I shall need your help. I don’t who he his, what he looks like, or where he might be most easily located.” Tina beamed; she loved being needed by the vampire.

Not even 200 feet up from the house, Tim in the van watched with anxious vindication and anticipation as the vampire and a young female victim exited the house by the front door. Dusk had nearly completed its transition into full-blown night, so Tim was using his super cool infrared night-vision goggles. “That’s him,” he cried, almost not believing his eyes. “That’s the vampire!” He had been watching the house for so long he felt blind! “And that’s the girl that we saw riding up this morning on a skateboard.” “She’s gonna be vampire-bait unless we do something!” said Desperado. “Let’s move!” And the two of them threw off goggles, grabbed guns and bolted out of the van. Tim was not thrilled about the idea of confronting a vampire after dark. It was so much better to get them in the daytime where they slept. That way if he got into trouble, he could retreat to a place where the vampire could not follow. At night, there was nowhere to run. But he had to save the girl! He would have to make short work of this vampire so he readied his shotgun as he ran. Marcus and Tina cut across the small yard to the driveway where the Cadillac SUV sat parked. As he was letting Tina into the passenger-side of the vehicle, he heard the growing sound of light, quick footsteps. Glancing across the roof of the vehicle and up the street toward the sound he saw the man bringing the sawed-off shotgun to bear. Marcus quickly closed the door, securing Tina inside, then dashed around the front of the vehicle. He could only guess as to the reason why this man would be chasing him carrying a gun. The man with the gun was charging around the rear of the vehicle. “Die, bloodsucker!” yelled Desperado. “Wait!” Marcus ducked just as an explosion ripped through the hillside neighborhood. It was extremely loud and seemed to echo across the area like rolling thunder. The angry swarm of buckshot pellets blasted just over the vampire’s head, tearing a ‘permanent cavity’ into the dense shrubbery that separated Marcus’s yard from his neighbor’s. “Jesus Christ!” yelled Marcus as the sound began to fade. “Do you want every single cop in this town up here?” He stood up just enough to see where his attacker was and caught the acrid, metallic smell from a body at war with itself; the scent that was often times an indication of mental imbalance. Marcus also saw where several errant pellets of buckshot had laid lines across the hood of the previously pristine automobile. Tina had ducked down at the first sound of the gun. Tim resumed running around the automobile, having recovered after the tremendous kickback of the firearm. However, Marcus moved with him, successfully keeping the vehicle between them. Tim finally stopped near the front of the vehicle as Marcus was at the rear. The nerdy slayer fainted to the left, then to the right, then again to the left, but whichever way he moved to go, Marcus moved the other way. Marcus took note of the sawed-off shotgun. A gun like that would have incredibly explosive blasting power at close range. Thank god the SUV was so big and long! He hoped that the gunman was not trigger-happy; one more report like that last one and the cops would be investigating. The situation would be resolved much easier without that complication. As it was, Marcus could only hope to have everything under control before the neighbors started peeking out their windows; fat chance of that! The big question that ran through Marcus’s mind at the moment was did this guy really know that he was a vampire? And if so, then how? The gunman would have to subdued and questioned. Marcus would have to disarm the gunman, first mentally, then physically. To do that he would need to respond to the situation the way that a normal person might, with realistic denial. He cried, “What do you want?” trying to sound decently scared and willing to negotiate. Tim turned toward Desperado who happened to be several feet off to his right just at the moment and exclaimed, “Get him! Cut him off!” Then he jumped again around to left trying to close some distance between himself and the vampire. “I’m trying, but he’s too fast!” Desperado growled back. Marcus witnessed the one-sided exchange with amusement and curiosity as he continued to keep the large vehicle between himself and the gunman. He could see no one standing where the gunman had been looking. “Please! Let’s talk this over,” he said. “Nothin’ to talk over, bud,” said Desperado. Movement on the front porch grabbed for a moment the attention of everyone chasing around the SUV. Janet and Mimi both screamed when they saw the gunman. “Stay back, ladies,” Desperado was heard to say. “This dude’s a vampire!” Marcus was very aware of the change that had come over the gunman as he spoke, especially the sharp increase in his pheromone secretion, a subtle change in body odor above the pungent smells of sweat and urine. Was that guy exhibiting symptoms of Schizophrenia or Multiple Personality Disorder? The vampire continued his plausible denial. “Are you crazy?! I am not a vampire. There are no such things as vampires!” Tim came back out. “You can’t fool me. I can tell vampires because they killed my sister, and you’re a vampire!” A drop in pheromones; a change in odor! Marcus saw his opportunity and took it. “I’m very sorry about your sister. Were you close?” “Of course we were close!” Tim yelled angrily. “Dude! This guy is trying to mess with yer head,” said Desperado, again standing a little way off to Tim’s right. “He’s got to be a vampire.” But Tim was starting to second guess himself, especially now that Desperado had spoken with such a surety. The rogue biker and comic book hero was handy to have around in a fight, and great for conversation, but his abilities in spotting vampires were weak at best. Most of the time, those whom Desperado labeled as vampires turned out not to be vampires at all. Tim looked at this partner and yelled, “Desperado, wait!” “Yes! Please, Desperado! Wait! Let’s talk about this,” said Marcus, trying to focus on the place where he had seen the gunman looking. Desperado spoke audibly, “Don’t look at me; he’s the one running this show. I’m just the side-kick. I take orders from him.” On the porch, Janet and Mimi huddled inside the doorway. Under her breath, Janet whispered, “Schizophrenia!” Tim kept the sawed-off shotgun leveled in the direction of Marcus and continued moving around the SUV, albeit a little slower now. Marcus matched the gunman’s movements, keeping the vehicle between them, preventing him from using the weapon. It seemed to be a momentary stalemate. Tim said, “If you’re not a vampire, you’re gonna have to prove it to me.” “How?” asked Marcus, doing a good job at sounding frightened and helpless. The vampire slayer knew that such a proposition was indeed difficult. He had learned from his years of travels and hunting vampires that many of the points of vampire folklore had been completely wrong. Holy artifacts did not always work against vampires. Garlic did not repel them either, but it could help you against their charms. Vampires could also cast reflections in mirrors, or at least create the illusion of it. They didn’t always have their fangs out. They really could pass for a normal person, and a normal person could pass for a vampire, though god only knows why they’d want to. Even sunlight wasn’t a completely reliable way to tell a vampire, because Tim had seen a few times when vampires had walked right out into the sun after that strange, white-haired dude had flashed them, or weakened them, or whatever it was that he did to them with his little crystal device. But for now, the light test would have to do. Tim holstered his weapon and said, “Desperado! Keep him covered. If he vamps out, let him have it!” Marcus put his hands up and tried to focus on the place where he believed Desperado to be according to the imagination of the little madman. Tim walked warily around to the front of the SUV and gestured for Marcus to join him. “Have your girlfriend turn the headlights on,” said the slayer. “If you can put your hand over the headlight without it getting burnt, then I’ll believe that you’re not a vampire.” “Oh shit!” whispered Mimi. As Marcus stepped around the passenger side Tim exclaimed, “Wait! Have your girlfriend turn the headlights on first! The high beams!!” Marcus nodded to Tina and she activated the switch, bathing Tim in the stark, bright halogen light. The slayer stood close to the driver side headlight, knowing that he would be relatively safe from a vampire in that amount of light. “Does he really have to point that gun at me?” Marcus asked, gesturing in the general direction of Desperado. “Until you step around here, he does!” commanded Tim. Marcus the Vampire held his hands high as if in respect of the imaginary gun that was surly trained on him. Held above the intense beam of light the bare hands would be safe. Marcus had only to hope that the leather of his trench-coat, his starched slacks, and his black turtleneck shirt would provide enough protection from the intense halogen beam that was bright enough and close enough in proximity to actually burn him. He stepped into the light, nonchalantly trying to keep his distance. Inside the cab of the SUV, Tina watched the tentative steps of the vampire. She had no way of knowing whether the light from the headlights would be harmful to Marcus or not, but being an all around clever girl, she prudently kept a hand on the switch, which she deactivated the second she saw Marcus make his move against the crazy gunman. Tim was momentarily blinded as his eyes made the adjustment back to the darkness. He felt only a nudge, then a sort of enlightened feeling, and he realized only a half a second later that both his shotgun and his pistol were no longer on his person. Marcus had both guns as he now charged to the place where he hoped that Desperado was standing in the alternate non- reality of this mad little would-be vampire slayer’s psychotic mind. He was hoping that his imagination might be at least temporarily in synchronization with that of the gunman. Marcus planned to let the imaginary man kick his ass. Apparently, this gunman hallucinated a partner that occasionally took over as an alter. Marcus hoped that by establishing a sort of familiarity with the imaginary Desperado that he would be able to bring the alter out. Occasionally in cases of schizophrenia, the alter can be actually be more empowered and reasonable than the principal. Marcus felt confident that this was the case in this instance. For his purposes, he would need to talk to the more reasonable delusion. He ran at Desperado ready to make use of the shotgun, but Desperado spun out a high side kick that sent the weapon flying across the length of the yard, (away from the slayer). Another very quick blow from Desperado’s left hand knocked away the pistol as well. Marcus tried a silly right-handed roundhouse punch, but Desperado blocked it with ease and sent his own right fist into Marcus’s solar plexus. As Marcus doubled over, Desperado knee-ed him in the face, throwing his head back. To Mimi and Janet on the porch, and Tina in the SUV, it looked as if Marcus was engaged in a beautifully choreographed pantomimed fight – which he was! Marcus rallied weakly, trying this time to land a quick left jab followed by a right upper-cut. But Desperado seemed almost to anticipate his attack and his muscular forearms deflected the blows. Desperado then grabbed Marcus’s collar and held him as he delivered three more powerful blows to his gut, followed by a wide right cross that spun Marcus around and laid him sprawling flat out on the lawn. Tim watched the whole thing with wide-mouthed amazement. Desperado was clapping the imaginary dust off of his hands. “See?” he said to Tim. “I told you he was a vampire.” Tim drew his sword, the only ready weapon that he had at his disposal; he would locate his guns later, just now he had a vampire to slay. Standing over the fallen form, holding his sword high in preparation for the killing blow, Tim said in his best slayer voice, “Die, blood-sucking vampire scum!” On the porch, Mimi gasped and moved out of the doorway as if to try to do something to prevent the inevitable, but Janet stuck out an arm to stop her. “It’s OK,” she whispered. “Marcus knows what he’s doing.” As the slayer began to bring the sword down upon Marcus, the vampire’s leg shot up, catching the slayer squarely in the crotch. The blow seemed to fold the slayer in half, and as he toppled over sideways like a felled pine tree, paralyzed with pain, Marcus’s left foot kicked the hilt of the sword from the slayer’s grasp, sending the sword spinning straight up into the air. Moving with amazing speed and grace, Marcus bounced to his feet and caught the sword in its descent. In another flash he had the en-pained slayer back on his feet and held immobile with the sword to his throat. Desperado probably said something like “Whoa, man. Let’s be cool here!” But only Tim heard it. “Desperado!” Marcus called. “Stay calm. I am not going to kill your partner. I just want to talk to you!” And with that Marcus shoved the still throbbing slayer away from him with a slight spin. After the poor little guy had regained his balance Marcus asked, “Desperado?” “Yeah,” came the voice of the gunman, but the pitch and quality was again that of the alter. Again came the boost in pheromones, and the increase in personal power. “You’re right,” said Marcus. “I am a vampire. But I am a good vampire. I do not kill people.” Marcus knew that that was a lie, but for now it sounded good. “Whatever!” said Desperado. “We’re just doin’ our part to protect the American way of life.” “Great!” said Marcus. “Let us just talk this thing over, and after we are done, if you still want to slay me then I will not try to prevent you.” “OK. So what do you want to talk about?” “How did you find out that I am vampire? How did you locate me?” “Hah!” Desperado grunted. “You blood-suckers stand out like neon signs. I can spot you a mile away.” Desperado knew that that was lie, but, like Marcus, it sounded good. “How long have you been doing this? How did you get your start?” “Well, I’ve been a crime-fighter ever since I was a kid. I am the result of government experimentation to create a super- soldier. I was side-kick to Captain USA for years. You’ve heard of him? Anyway, I hooked up with little Timmy a few years back when his sister was kidnapped by a bunch of vampires. I helped him try to rescue his sister, but we were too late – she died. That was when we ran into the funky Einstein-looking wizard. And we’ve been hunting vampires and slaying them all over the country ever since.” “Whoa! Back up! What about the funky wizard?” asked Marcus. “Oh, he’s just some strange dude with white hair that goes straight up instead of down. He has a vampire tracker, and another doohickey that he uses to make vampires weak so their easier to kill.” It would have been difficult to notice, but Marcus turned pale. He was certain that the white-haired ‘dude’ that Desperado spoke of was the one Slayer, the very same that John had so vehemently warned him of all those centuries ago. “Please, Desperado. Tell me more about the wizard.” “Well,” he hesitated, “There’s not much to tell. I don’t really know him. I’ve never just sat down and chatted him up, if you know what I mean. He just walks around and when he finds a vampire, he zaps him or sprays him with some little crystal doodad and that’s it. We’re usually right behind him to finish the job.” “Walks around?” Marcus repeated, and Desperado then told of how he and Tim had followed the white-haired man across the country from Detroit. “So the wizard is currently in Portland right now?” asked Marcus. “Yeah, we saw him hot on the trail of another vampire the other night.” Marcus was certain that Desperado was speaking of Chad. If the Slayer got to Chad, then it would seem that the situation did indeed solve itself. However, a glance over at Janet told Marcus that she was now nearly beside herself with worry. As they conversed, everyone migrated back into the house, so that they were all sitting around the front room when Marcus finally asked, “So, Tim, do you still wish to slay me?” The Desperado alter was gone, and Tim was suddenly back. He frowned a little shamefully, “No, I guess not.” “You know,” said Marcus. “I can totally appreciate what you are doing. A part of me wishes that you had been successful in slaying me. But I have to admit that right now is not a good time for me. Lately, I have learned things, and met certain special people that have caused to me rethink my life. For the first time in decades, centuries, perhaps for the first time ever, I am feeling a distinct passion for life. It seems to me that it would be a shame to die just now. Maybe the Slayer will get me, I do not know. But for the first time in my life, I hope not.”

CHAPTER XIV

As Halloween parties go, this one was rating quite high. The music pulsed and lights were low around the old state room at the Bismarck Hotel. Alcohol flowed as if from a fountain. An extensive assortment of goblins, ghouls, demons, monsters and characters danced, writhed, meandered, staggered, and crawled around the area. Half-naked, fully-stoned girls were everywhere. Every male in attendance would have in the course of the night at least one opportunity to be serviced; it would just be a matter of how much it would cost him. Stan the Man, costumed only in his standard lime green silk double-breasted suit, wasn’t sure who was actually throwing the party. But if he found out, and if he happened to locate the host, he would be sure to give them his finest compliments. The Bismarck, like the San Teresa, was a hotel from a different era, but its story for some reason was less known and less colorful. The Bismarck was a little younger, and it had never been as luxurious as the San Teresa. So now, as a cheap hotel, it lacked much of the charm held by its older sister, even though they both averaged the same number of used condoms and needles on the floor, and the same amount of graffiti on the walls. The Bismarck was just one among a dwindling collection of hotels around the downtown area where you could still rent a room by the hour, or by the week. The city wrecking ball was already on its way, but until it arrived there would be nightly parties held in the state room by the local downtown night life. Wild parties! And Halloween night boasted one of the wildest parties of the year! The state room was at the top of the five story building. It had housed political dignitaries of the 50’s and rock music celebrities of the 60’s. Along with a spacious main room and dining room, the suite had three once-lavish bedrooms and three bathrooms matching in age and wear. A rickety balcony overlooked Morrison Street, and through a fire-escape one could also access to the roof the Bismarck, where a large humming neon sign proudly displayed the hotel’s name in flickering red and blue lights. This was just what the doctor ordered for poor Stan. He had been deeply bothered all day after carrying out his grisly assignment from the night before. Stan the Man had killed a few times already; he didn’t like having to do it but it was no longer any big deal to him. If it was called for he could carry it off. But Jamie Thompson had been different. Stanley had never before been required to dismember a dead man. He was only vaguely aware that it was so the Thompson murder could be connected to other murders from a few weeks before. Stan the Man would have preferred to have recruited help for the macabre task but his boss had forbidden it. The stresses of a career criminal! He needed this party bad! Stan the Man marveled at how busy the party was as he walked around socializing. A DJ, who in return for his services had probably been promised sex, fame, and all the drugs he could do in one night, mixed MP3 files from a computer connected to a large stereo system. People, tripping on everything from pot to X, danced and grinded wherever there was a spot. Three girls were engaged in making out on the couch in the main room, and there was still room for two guys to be sitting on either side of the pile up; and it wasn’t that big of a couch. Writhing bodies were everywhere – the main room, the bedrooms, the bathrooms, the balcony, the fire-escape stairs and the roof. Discarded bits of costume were strewn about the place. All this, and the strip clubs hadn’t even let out. This party would go on all night long. Once the first batch of party goers had passed out, they would be replaced with influx of more people arriving after the clubs had closed. Strippers from the Bare Cage and Mary’s would be along shortly after two. Tina and the Vampire ascended the stairs that led to the state room. The walls vibrated with bass. The little ex-goth girl felt stoked beyond anything she had ever felt before. She was about to enter a party of the most beautiful of the beautiful people and she would be on the arm of the most marvie and amazing hunk that ever graced a party at the Bismarck. She felt only a little awkward that neither of them was wearing a costume. The little girl’s disillusionment was complete as she pushed open one of the double doors that led into the state room and laid her sober eyes upon the scene. It hadn’t been that long since her last party, but this was not the way that she remembered it. Having been a little high, and usually a lot drunk at her previous parties, it had always seemed to her that everyone there was so beautiful, interesting, witty, sexy, bright and shiny! But now they just seemed silly, stupid, shallow, childish in a bad way, not sexy at all, dull and ugly. She was immediately over the whole thing. “That is Stan the Man,” she said, pointing across the room to a slick-dressed Hispanic man with exotic sideburns growing across his cheekbones. Just around the corner from the Bismarck and across the street, at the parking lot of the Bare Cage, Janet stood next to her car. Naturally, as had been her habit of late, she was there to meet Mimi at the end of her shift. But Janet was also hoping for an appearance from Chad again. She was not disappointed. Chad, as had been his habit of late, had been watching the Bare Cage from the safety of the shadows, waiting for Janet to show up. Now that she was there, he fairly flew to her. He had again made the mistake of not feeding before he came to her, but he vowed to be stronger this time. “Janet,” he said with a soft voice. Janet looked up, her eyes bright. “Oh, Chad. I have wonderful news!” “What is it?” “I have analyzed some of Marcus’s blood, and I think I have an idea about what it is that makes you crave blood.” “That’s amazing,” said Chad, consciously trying to do a better job of sounding interested than he had the night before. “Yeah, it’s been a weird night,” said Janet, unloading all that was on her mind. “Marcus was attacked by a vampire slayer!” “Wow!” said Chad. “Is he alright?” Not that he really cared. His own situation would be greatly simplified if Marcus somehow died. “Oh, he’s fine. He’s at a party right now over at the Bismarck Hotel. He’s talking to someone who knows something about who was planting all those hypodermic needles around town.” Chad’s face darkened. “I gotta go,” he said and he suddenly left Janet’s side like a breeze, with the girl calling after him. Within a minute his newly sensitized ears were picking up the pumping of the music from the state room. Silently, he stole up the fire-escape and into the fifth floor door that led to state room. Inside the state room Chad saw a scene that fascinated his young wannabe-worldly eyes. Costumes dancing, naked bodies heaving and arching, the air thick with cigarette smoke and something else – pot. The entire room pulsed to the heartbeat-like thump of the kick drum and bass. The smells of hot humanity, beer, and assorted burning herbs served to remind the young vampire that he yet to feed this night. Chad scanned the room looking for Marcus, hoping to catch sight of the old vampire before the powerful predator caught sight of him. A very drunk, young preppy wearing a ridiculous Saddam Hussein mask on top of his head staggered toward Chad and slurred, “What are you supposed to be – a vampire?” He lurched away laughing. Chad exited the state room, back out onto the fire escape, then climbed past a few enraptured couples taking up space on the narrow steel stairway, to the roof where he immediately saw the vampire that he was looking for. He ducked into the shadows, hoping that Marcus would not smell his presence. In addition to the large neon sign and all its rigging, the roof was also dotted with several large ventilation fans. In the dark, lit only by the neon, they looked like giant mushrooms. Just behind the sign on the far end of the roof was the maintenance access door that led back down to a stairwell on the other side of the building. The edge of the roof was bordered only by a concrete lip about one foot high. There were plenty of places to hide. For the moment, Chad could see no one else on the roof; only Marcus, some little teenaged girl, and a tall thin, dark-headed man, all near the rear of the building. He could just hear their voices over the pumping of the music below him. Marcus was holding the dark man’s head almost tenderly with both hands and saying, “Believe me, Mister Stanley. You could live to pay for your sins. But you will die right now if you do not tell me what I wish to know. Why did you kill Jamie Thompson?” Stan the Man’s cool had abandoned him. His face was damp with tears. It seemed that he had no strength, no energy; that if he should try to strike out at this pale young man, he would move with nightmare sluggishness. Stan had always survived by staying one step ahead of fate. There had always been someone that he could cut a deal with who could stave off fate’s collection agent for just one more caper. But not this time, it seemed. Fate had finally called its note on Stan the Man due and payable, and was collecting; all of it; with interest! “Noonan kept me out of jail,” said Stan the Man while sobbing. “Jamie was a contract. Travis Noonan paid me to kill him and set up some guy named Bechard for a fall by fingering one of his employees. Noonan had me supply Jamie with heroin in return for sticking the needles around town.” Marcus interjected, “You would call the cops with the anonymous tips.” “Yeah. At first we expected Jamie to die of AIDS, so everything would be nice and clean. Noonan would have his crisis and nobody would ever find out the truth. But Jamie didn’t die and Noonan became afraid that he would expose everything.” His story was slightly less than coherent, but it worked. “That is enough,” said Marcus. “I see now exactly what is going on. You will not die right now. However, you will be soon forced to make restitution with one who feels that his life was destroyed by your actions. Taking into consideration what he will do to you, you may wish to beg me to do my worst right now. You may have bought with this confession some time. I hope that you use it wisely.” Marcus turned to leave, pausing only for Tina to join his side. They left Stan the Man curled up against the short wall that bordered the edge of the roof. Just before stepping onto the fire escape ladder, Marcus paused. “You can come out, Chad. I will not harm you.” When no one appeared Marcus added, “I can smell you distinctly. It is alright; I only wish to talk with you.” A hesitant shadow poked out from behind one of the large ventilation fans, stepped forward, and resolved itself into Chad. Marcus continued, “You are looking quite fit. It would seem that you are getting your revenge on those that you hold responsible for ruining your life.” “Yeah,” said Chad. “You said yourself that they deserve it.” “Was it everything that you imagined it would be?” Chad did not even try to hide his enthusiasm. “It’s fucking great!!” And Tina’s own face betrayed her envy. “I was able to give it to that fuckin’ cop and judge that got me into that AIDS mess in the first place.” Chad opened his coat to show the older vampire his trophy – a police-issue glock taken from the late Bruce Nader. Chad wanted very badly to impress the older vampire, much like a student might wish to gain favor in the eye of his teacher. The young vampire continued, “And I’ve been disguising my kills as suicide victims.” “I know,” said Marcus. “Very clever. I take it that you heard everything that Stan the Man just told us.” “Yeah! That’s unbelievable stuff!” “What do you plan to do now that you know?” asked Marcus. “Heh!” Chad scoffed. “I’m going pay ‘em fuckin’ back! For me and for everyone else that got their lives destroyed by this!” “I would admonish you to not do anything rash, my young friend,” said Marcus. “There are other dangers nearby right now. Dangers to you that are greater than myself. I would urge you to go far away for a time. Come back in few months, when it is safe. Then see if the idea of further revenge still strikes you.” Chad was not about to argue with the vampire, but he was also not about to alter his plans either. He could not quickly think of anything to say to placate Marcus, and the old vampire also could not disguise his mild disappointment. Marcus smiled coolly and said, “You will do whatever you want. It is up to you to either forget your injuries, or to exact revenge. This situation will now resolve itself without any further involvement on my part.” Chad lingered conspicuously as Marcus and his small female companion climbed down the fire escape and exited the roof. As Tina and Marcus left the Bismarck, she asked, “How did you make Stan the Man talk so easily?” “Its amazing what the right concentration of dopamine and estrogen can do to a man,” he answered. “These are the little tricks that Chad does not yet know.” “So what are you going to do about him?” Marcus knew that if Tina ever came across Chad in the right circumstances she would try to convince the young vampire to turn her. Her question was undoubtedly a fishing expedition for information on Chad’s standing with the old vampire. Marcus decided that he should nip this one in the bud. “I will kill him.” Tina nodded. As usual, the wisdom of the vampire made sense to her, but that didn’t make her like it any better; especially that part of his plan that involved him driving her home. “Come. It is past your bedtime,” he said. The girl sighed. She knew that he was not going to stay with her. Back on the roof, Stan the Man huddled alone near the roof’s edge. He didn’t know exactly why, but he could barely move. Perhaps it had something to do with getting the shit scared out of him. And that hit of X he had washed down with some Captain Morgan’s couldn’t be helping right now, either. The euphoric buzz was long gone, having been interrupted by the obtrusive and scary-as-hell young man with his mind warping interrogations and his horrific revelations. The only thing to be done right now was to wait until the sensation passed. “Hey, are you OK, man?” asked a young male voice. Stan the Man turned his head and saw the shape of another young man silhouetted against the light of the large neon sign. “I’ll be fine,” he croaked. “Damn,” said the young man, bending a little closer to the victim. “I didn’t want it to be like this.” Stanley could see now the white fangs in the mouth of this young man. Fear seized his already paralyzed body. “Who – What are you?” “I am Death. You killed me.” “Fuck!” cried Stan the Man. “Don’t you think I’ve had enough for one night?!” Chad, Death, the vampire, was hungry. He moved over his victim with the slowness of a romantic lover. Stan the Man felt powerless to move or even cry out. With his teeth, the vampire applied slowly increasing pressure on Stanley’s neck until finally the fangs pierced the elastic flesh, sliding in as if there had been a slot reserved for them. A pair of girls, wasted off their asses, hardly able to negotiate the steps of the fire escape, climbed onto the roof giggling and staggering. When they saw the young man with his mouth locked to Stan the Man’s neck one of the girls said, “I always knew Stan the Man went that way.” And the ditzy girls didn’t even give the pair of men a second glance. While the capricious girls writhed and fondled each other in their X-induced euphoric passion, Death cut off pieces of Stan the Man using a knife that he had conveniently found in the ex-drug dealer’s pocket, the very same knife that Stan the Man had used to carve Jamie Thompson, and casually tossed them over the edge of the roof and into the back alley below. First a right arm, then a left arm, then a foot. The pieces struck the pavement with nauseating thuds and splats. Finally, the head flew over the edge, followed by the de-limbed torso, forever disguising the true cause of death. After performing the grisly chore, a chore that Chad enjoyed perhaps a little too much, the young vampire walked nonchalantly back down to the state room. Laying about everywhere were tangled bodies; people too high or too involved in what they were doing to notice the vampire. As he proceeded to one of the bathrooms he casually smeared dabs of blood from his hands on the naked, unaware bodies. Chad washed the blood off of his hands and leather jacket in the bathroom sink while a guy and girl, high out of their minds, did it on the toilet, paying him absolutely no heed whatsoever. Running through his mind the entire time was what he was going to do to Travis Noonan, the splendid judge and politician extraordinaire. At last his vengeance would be complete! It would be a thing of beauty. The only problem is that it wouldn’t last near long enough. Chad wanted the guilty politician to suffer long and terrible. His warped, dark mind schemed and fantasized about the possibilities. He also knew that he would have to disappear afterward if he expected to survive. No problem there; he was fully burnt out on this burg. But he still wanted to take Janet with him. He wanted her to share his triumph and suffering. And he wanted her to be his forever. Freshly fed, cleaned, and vindicated, Chad walked back over to the Bare Cage and waited out of sight near Janet’s Mustang. A few of the dancers were already exiting the club, so he knew that it would not be long before Janet and Mimi would also be along. While he waited he thought about what he would say to her. “Hello, Janet. Come be a vampire with me!” It had a bad ring to it. “Janet, I love you! I want to be with you forever.” At least it was honest. Too bad it just sounded hokey. Presently, the entrance of the club did produce the girls. They walked across the small parking lot, looking as sweet on each other as they ever had. A dark thought crossed Chad’s mind, and he realized that he would have an easier time of charming Janet if Mimi was out of the picture. Who was the man here, anyhow?! Who now had the supernatural strength of a vampire?! He could take what he wanted! Except that he didn’t want her like that. He wanted her to want him. He would have to make her want him. There was no other way; no other alternative! And besides – who in their right mind would ever turn down immortality when it was offered to them? “Janet,” he said as he stepped out of the shadows, startling Mimi. “Chad?” The young vampire looked deep into Janet’s eyes and spoke quickly. “Janet, I love you. When I was sick I used to dream about being with you. I dreamed of it because the way things were I would never have imagined any way for it to actually happen, and that dream, as sweetly painful as it was because of its impossibility, was the only thing that could block the physical pain that I was feeling. Janet, I still have that dream, only now things are different! I’m not dying, and I’ll never have to worry about that again. I have the power to make all of your dreams come true! And I will, Janet. I’ll make you so happy; I’ll give you everything you ever wanted. I will make all of your dreams come true!” The question of becoming a vampire had been in back of Janet’s mind ever since Marcus’s unbelievable revelation on the way to the cabin. The girls had mused together about the idea, notwithstanding the fact that Marcus spoke adamantly for never turning anyone. They had tossed the possibilities about the same way one might ponder over what they would wish for if they should happen to come across a genie living in a magic lamp. Surely, the immortality aspect of vampirism was the most attractive feature. Pitted against that fine advantage were several cons, the biggest one being the need to drink fresh human blood. In their discussion, Mimi had kind of suggested that she might be able make such a trade for eternal life. Janet, as much she liked the idea of never having to die, could not get past the fact that she would be compelled to kill for such a gift. But she had never really been seriously faced with the decision. She and Mimi had only mused on the idea because they had assumed (correctly) that Marcus would never willingly go against his wishes. Now, here she was, with the dark gift being offered to her in exchange for her heart. Janet realized that she was not overly tempted by the proposition. She cared deeply for Chad, maybe even loved him, but certainly without passion. She did not wish to be beholden to him. However, she had to admit deep in her heart, if it had been Marcus making the offer, she would have had to think about it a little longer. But how was she going to be able to stand there and tell Chad, a vampire, (and one disconcertingly scary, Janet noticed) that her answer was ‘no?’ Janet had never been very good at rejecting the advances of an unwanted suitor. But then, her life had put her in that situation only once or twice. Janet just hated the idea of breaking someone’s heart; she didn’t want to hurt Chad. She hadn’t quite grasped the concept that she had no control over nor responsibility for other people’s feelings. Her mind racing, searching for the right words, she looked at Mimi and found strength. The answer was held in the dancer’s beautiful, steady face. Janet was free to do as she wanted, and Mimi, as her intimate friend, was ready to support her decision, and deal with the effects of the cause set in motion by that decision. “Chad, I love you as a friend, and I care deeply for you, but I don’t want to be a vampire. I’m very happy with my life as it is.” Janet would have loved to express some of the feelings of her deep love for Mimi, but she supposed that it might be prudent not to bring that to the center of Chad’s focus just now. As it was, the announcement was enough to blindside the young vampire. He had fully been expecting for Janet to take him up on his offer. Dark clouds seemed to form around him now. Hope was very quick to abandon him. Foul darkness bubbled up from Chad’s core threatening to consume him completely. But, from some hidden reserve in his heart, he summoned the very last of his good will, and pasted on his face a bitterly impassioned smile. He had to convince her! In a movement not absent of grace, he stepped close to Janet. His arm reached around the small of her back, and pulled her body tight to his. Still looking deep into her eyes he said, “This is life, Janet; what I have! Only I hold the promise of forever. Me! And I will share it with you! I love you!!” Chad was caught up in the exhilaration of the passionate feelings. Time seemed to hang for moment as he held Janet’s soft, warm, voluptuous body against his. His free hand tenderly caressed the back of her neck under the volumes of silky hair. Her smell filled his head and made him feel lighter than air. Looking into her deep, soulful eyes, he believed that he could see her internal conflict. What could possibly be clouding her judgment so as to make her bock at such a generous gift? Chad wished that this moment could be his eternity. But his eternity was interrupted with the force of Janet’s arms pushing him away. Chad had no sooner finished speaking his words than Janet managed to get her arms up and against him and push with all of her might. Mimi stood ready to defend her lover if Chad showed signs of becoming physically abusive. She would liked to have gotten the attention of the bouncer, but she wasn’t about to leave Janet’s side. The darkness that had previously gathered around Chad abruptly returned and dropped a shadow over Chad’s face so profound, that he almost seemed to blur right before the girls. He spat, “You’ll change your mind! When you’re old and wrinkly and your body is falling apart, you’ll wish you had come with me!!” But Chad wasn’t even listening to his own words, as true as they may have been, for if he had, he might have thought to be patient and objective. Instead, his dark mind turned over every possibility as to why Janet should wish to remain mortal. Every thought pathway returned to one idea – eliminate the competition! He pounced on Mimi! Notwithstanding her physical strength and power, he held her from behind, one arm around her neck, and one hand held tightly across her mouth. Janet screamed, but oddly enough, it was not for Mimi; it was for Chad! Walking toward them almost casually was a tall, thin man with longish white hair that stood up as if he was standing over a large vented fan. He was perhaps fifty paces away. Janet had an ominous feeling that this man must be the one that Tim the Schizophrenic had referred to as the wizard. Marcus had called him the Slayer! Her scream brought the door of the club bursting open and Quince the bouncer charged out of it. He crossed the span of the parking lot with an amazing speed for someone that appeared to have tree trunks for legs. “OK, pal, let the girl go now!” he commanded with a bellow. With a thwip-thwap-thwip, Quince quickly removed his thick leather belt from around his tight denim pants; it made for a resourceful weapon in the absence of a gun. Unfortunately, he would have to wait until the little punk had released Mimi. He couldn’t risk accidentally hitting her with it. Quince was a powerfully muscular bodybuilder, and he had no doubts in his mind that he couldn’t reduce this little punk to a puddle of goo. Chad paid no heed to the bouncer, to Janet, or the approaching white-haired man. He held Mimi’s head to the side and saw the two black puncture wounds like tiny opposing islands in a purple lake. (Mimi had concealed the mark during her show with a long feather boa). “I see you’ve been a meal for Marcus recently,” he said with a malicious smile. “You know, it would be a dreadful shame for me to kill you before I had a chance to do this!” And with that he moved both of his hands lustily over her enormous breasts, fondling her perpetually erect nipples. Quince the bouncer could not stand for such impertinence! His thick arms and hands moved to separate the accosted dancer from her attacker. The vampire had only a slight idea of where the strength came from, and for the moment he didn’t care. He was just glad that he had it at his command. As the bouncer put a meaty hand on the side of Chad’s face, attempting to pry him away from the busty girl, Chad’s hand shot out, catching the bouncer’s chin with enough force to spin the big man around while throwing him to the ground. Quince was momentarily dazed! Even as the bouncer fell, Janet was crying out, “Chad! Look out! He’ll kill you!” But again, she was not referring to Quince. The strange white-haired man had closed the distance between them and was now only ten yards away. Janet could clearly see him fishing for something in the pocket of his windbreaker. A strong feeling of invincibility swept over Chad. He had felt continuously more powerful ever since his change, but nothing brought out the feelings of omnipotence like the opportunity to set his strength against someone who would have normally been much stronger. He was on top of the world, and it was in this state that he bit into Mimi’s graceful neck, right into the same place that Marcus had the night before. Mimi went rigid. If she had thought last night’s bite from the maddened Marcus had hurt it was only because she hadn’t yet been bitten by a total novice. This bite, for whatever reason, was utterly excruciating! Janet was no longer concerned about Chad’s safety. If it came down to a choice between Mimi or Chad, Janet’s mind was already made up. She was no longer monitoring the Slayer. In fact, if it was a slayer as Marcus thought, she was hoping that he would get to the chore before Chad had sucked Mimi dry. Despite a terrible powerless feeling, she moved against the vampire and his victim, bent on doing whatever she could to stop him. In her peripheral vision she caught a glimpse of a glow in the direction of the Slayer. It was simply a sound that they all heard. It was like a high-pitched whine, or a whistle, or a dentist’s drill, that continued to quickly rise in pitch until it was ultrasonic. There was a flash of light so quick that those present weren’t even sure if it had actually happened. Chad abruptly stopped sucking on Mimi’s neck and released her. She fell against Janet’s car and clamped a hand over the painful wound in her neck. Something had hit Chad, or shocked him; he couldn’t be sure. He was aware of several sensations that had struck him with jolting suddenness. The first sensation was an intense pain in his left hand, the hand that had just struck the bouncer’s chin, and he knew that his wrist was broken. It hurt like hell! The second sensation was that of severe nausea, and he promptly bent over and vomited a red geyser. The last sensation struck him after his stomach had completely ejected its contents – the sensation of vulnerability, weakness, sickness, aging, death. It felt to Chad for a moment as if he was wasting away, utterly. But he wasn’t wasting away at all. Physically he was fine; great, in fact, if you looked past the broken wrist. However, he was a vampire no more. There were still fangs in his mouth, but they no longer seemed to fit; they no longer had a purpose there. Janet looked in the direction of the Slayer and saw that he was already walking away with the same casual speed. She realized that Chad had been so caught up in his feeding that he hadn’t even noticed the strange man. However, Janet could only guess as to what had happened to Chad. She wanted to ask him if he was alright, but first she had to check on Mimi. Janet stepped gingerly around the spreading red lake and laid a tender hand on Mimi’s back. The former vampire was even more confused than Janet. Shaking, he reared against the glaring night sky and cried, “It’s gone! IT’S GONE!!” The entire affair had happened before Quince had been able to stop the ringing in his head. Now he rose, just a little unsteady, but quickly regaining his bearings. He wasn’t sure how the little punk had been able to sucker punch him to the ground, but knew that he’d be damned if he was going to let it happen again. It was now his moral imperative to pay the little shit back in kind. Quince noticed the still spreading puddle of blood and then looked down at his blood-soaked pants. The regurgitated blood had covered his shoes and pants while he had been laid out face down on the blacktop. “That’s it!” he growled, the rage growing in his voice. He moved toward Chad. “I’m going to break every bone in your body!” Disoriented as he was, Chad was not so confused as to not recognize the advancing threat of the bouncer. He deftly pulled out a large gun from inside his leather jacket. It had once been carried by Officer Bruce Nader. Without thinking about it twice he pulled the trigger. The sight of the gun had stopped Quince. He had been about to say something like “Hey! Be cool, man,” when the gun cracked loudly. The report echoed endlessly between the downtown buildings and the humming sounds of downtown night seemed to halt momentarily as if to ask, “Was that a gunshot?” Quince felt a blow to his stomach that knocked the wind out of him. It took a second for the reality to sink in that he had actually been shot. After a moment of trying unsuccessfully to catch his breath, Quince fell to pavement for the second time in one night, his own blood now a tributary to the red lake. Janet was stunned by the sound of the gunshot but quickly slid into her best nurse mode. Reasonably sure that Mimi was pretty much all right, she got down on the ground next to the fallen bouncer and began to administer first aid. Mimi even straightened from the car, and knelt down to lend a hand. Chad looked down with jealousy at the girls giving their attention to the injured man. This had turned out badly! Practically the exact opposite of what he had desired in coming back to the Bare Cage had somehow come to pass. Losing his shot at Janet stung him to the core, but worse than that was the apparent fact that he was no longer a vampire. His special powers were gone. He was just plain old Chad again. A plain old Chad, and still without a Janet. His wrist was throbbing, and in a dark moment he had to stop and think of the last time that he had felt that kind of pain. The few weeks that he had been a vampire already felt like their own eternity; like a dream. Now he had awoken and learned that it had all been a dream. Now here he was back to his old life. Except that it wasn’t his old life. Chad really had died in the hospital. What was left was a dark, maniacally cynical, hateful, dismal creature that saw nothing but evil everywhere he looked. Chad was terminally tormented, and now heartbroken as well. He had failed to set in motion the causes that might bring about the effect of happiness, or the effect a love interest, but he did not realize this. Instead, he simply felt deprived by life, the universe. At first he wasn’t sure that he was going to be able to tolerate the terrible pain of his broken wrist, but then the old masochism surfaced in him like an oil spill on the ocean, and he slipped into the feeling of deriving pleasure from his pain. It was like putting on an old pair of sneakers. Chad looked down one last time at Janet. He wanted to say something to her, but she was heavily engrossed in treating the bouncer. “That’s just perfect!!” Chad nearly screamed and with a spring he bounded off. Janet was torn about what to do – follow and care for the hurting Chad, or stay and treat the patient that she already had. Quince would no doubt die if he wasn’t taken care of. “Can you go after him?” she asked of Mimi. “I’ll be fine,” said Mimi rising, and holding her breasts to keep them from flopping too wildly, she jogged after Chad. Several policemen patrolling various parts of downtown had heard the gunshot. It had been called in to dispatch, and within seconds they, and several more of their comrades, all responded to the alarm. One minute after Chad had bolted from the scene a patrol car arrived at the Bare Cage. Within another minute, the call went out from dispatch to be on the lookout for a male Caucasian, five feet eight inches tall, 21 years of age, wearing a black leather jacket and scullcap, and believed to armed and dangerous. Chad had run as far as Pioneer Courthouse Square before police caught sight of him. He did not attempt to elude them. Two police cruisers skidded to a stop on Yamhill Street and four cops lit from the vehicles as if on fire. “Freeze! Police!” one of them barked. “Drop your weapon!” Chad stopped halfway down the brick steps that also served as seating during events at the popular downtown square and raised his hands high. He still held the glock. On the other side of the Square three more cop cars pulled up spilling out even more zealous keepers of the peace. Chad looked behind him, up at the four cops closest to him. The officer that had spoken before commanded again, “Drop you weapon or we will open fire!” Chad grinned a twisted, maniacal grin. He did not drop his gun that he held in his gloved right hand. Instead, he lowered it slowly to his temple. “Not another step!” he cried, and the quaver in his voice was convincing. “Or I’ll blow my brains out.” All of the uniforms abruptly looked as if they had been reduced to moving in slow motion. “OK,” said the cop. “Now is the time for you to be cool, OK? Let’s all slow down, and be cool.” Even though it was in the middle of the night, there were still a few night-owl folk loitering around the area, mostly street people, but also a few other lost souls. Mimi had watched the scene erupt as she arrived at the square, and now Chad had the attention of everyone in the area. Five or six people could be heard chanting “Do it! Do it! Do it!” but it died out very quickly as one of the cops moved ominously toward the heart of the sound. The cop spoke again, now in a much softer, mock-compassionate tone, “OK, Mr. Reeves. Can I call you Chad? My name is Craig. Let’s just have nice, friendly chat, shall we? Don’t you want to put the gun down so we can just talk things over?” Chad mused at the whole scene, and it should be said that the experience for him was surreal to the point that he did not truly comprehend his own peril. He smiled sickly at the idea that just a second ago these cops were ready to fire on him and now they were trying to ‘talk him down,’ to save his life. He wondered what it was in their ‘cop training’ that taught such a paradox. As if they really cared whether he killed himself or not! Perhaps they were just doing whatever was necessary for Chad to not fire his gun at all. So they were there actually to protect the innocent onlookers. As if Chad, in the effort to kill himself, would miss his own head and take out one of those people standing around waiting with morbid anticipation for him to deliver their entertainment for the week. But on top of it all, Chad knew that the cops were just there to enforce the law. He knew that it was illegal to commit suicide. Because if it wasn’t, why would there be silly laws on the books like the Death with Dignity Act? The self-righteous sympathy feigned by the cops was enough to sicken Chad, but, at the same time, he felt the power of being in control of the situation. He had the gun after all! He yelled, “I want to die!” and he could see the ripple of frustration through the gathering policemen. In the distance, echoing a few blocks away was the wail of an ambulance siren, speeding Quince the bouncer to the hospital. Chorusing against the din were the voices of several of the onlookers, again engaging in their chanting, “Do it, Chad! Do it, Chad!” “Chad! Think this one through with me, pal,” said the cop named Craig. It was true that Officer Craig didn’t really give a rat’s ass whether this little mal-content lived or died, but talking down a suicidal was always worth bragging rights for a cop. He just hoped that he would be able to pull it off before his supervisor deployed one of the non-fatal incapacitating weapons. Officer Craig Lewis was a fairly young cop. He was a handsome man but just starting to develop the upper-body paunch that is so common with policemen. Craig was the kind of ultra-hairy man that had a perpetual five-o’clock shadow, even right after he shaved. Chad felt that power again now. He had control over these cops! Like it or not, they were compelled to respond to him. He would exercise his control. “Why don’t you want me to die?” “I don’t want that for anyone,” said Craig. He had to choose his words carefully; try to steer the conversation away from topics of death and pain. “But this is good, isn’t it? Just us good buddies talking.” The cop was less than twenty feet away from Chad now. He moved slowly, with an attempt at a non-invasive posture. Chad wondered at what point they would try something. He remembered watching a bit on some TV magazine show about the non-fatal weapons that police were using now to incapacitate subjects. There were now twelve uniformed police officers surrounding Chad and gradually closing the distance. His left wrist throbbed, and the pain brought a dark smile to his lips. Across the square on Sixth Avenue a KOIN news van stopped with an abrupt clatter and cameras were recording the drama only three seconds later. Chad watched the comedy and for a second thought of his family. They would be at home, perhaps, when this delightful news story aired. A twinge crossed his heart as he realized that they had watched AIDS kill him, and now they would have to watch this. This would end badly, Chad realized; it was inevitable. “Fuck it!” he thought. He had had his chance for revenge, and that had been all that he had originally wanted; the rest had all been a bonus. He had made pay those that he held responsible for his contracting AIDS; the cop, the judge, the drug dealer. The bastard that planted the needle was dead. The only person escaping justice would be Travis Noonan, and Chad found that he didn’t really care about that. His dark mind was content with how it had come out. An image of Janet entered his mind and Chad quickly banished it. “Lord, grant me serenity to accept the things I cannot change.” The only thing left for Chad was to see how far he could push the cops; how much control one person might have by manipulating hypocrisy. Putting on his most pathetic air he said, “Nobody loves me.” “Lots of people love you, Chad,” said Officer Craig. “Do you love me, Craig?” This was a loaded question here and Craig knew it. He could try to say ‘yes’ but if it wasn’t convincing enough, it could seriously upset the subject and destroy any trust that he might have been able to establish. But if Craig tried to tell the truth it could be worse, because, as the old saying goes, the truth hurts. And the middle ground was just lukewarm enough to initiate the gag reflex. Craig said, “I love everyone, Chad. And everyone loves you,” and he couldn’t stop the visions of purple dinosaurs from dancing in his head. “He’s playing to the cameras; can’t you see that?” came a harsh, commanding voice from far to the edge of the Square. “Get those newshounds outa here!” The ranking police officer had arrived, a tall, obese man with about two hairs left on his head, both of them coming out of his nostril. He held a peculiar twelve-gauge shotgun loaded with special bean-bag cartridges used for non- fatal incapacitation. “Stop it!” Chad barked, addressing the two cops that had moved to restrict the cameraman access. “Let the cameras roll, or I swear to god I’ll pull the trigger right now!!” The two cops froze, then backed away from the news van, stymied. Chad dropped his pretenses of anxiety, curious to see how the cops would react. “Look, Craig; and rest of you,” he said making an inclusive sweeping gesture with his swollen hand and he focused briefly on the big bald cop that would be ringmaster. “I appreciate your concern here, I really do, but I’m gonna kill myself and there’s nothing you can do to stop it! I can do it anytime and you have no power to prevent it. Are you guys gonna try to stop me from growin’ old and dyin’ of old age, too? Now, I don’t want to waste your time, so why don’t you just get back to your donut shop or bustin’ your traffic violators. And you can tell that fat bald guy up there with the goo-gun that it won’t work. I’ve lashed this gun to my hand, so there is nothing you can do to make me drop it. If you try to incapacitate me I’ll just shoot anyway and then you guys will have helped me to kill myself. Gosh! That’s aiding and abetting; you’ll have to arrest yourselves! So now go. Leave! Leave me alone!!” Not one single police officer on the scene had any idea on what to make of that. Their job was to protect and serve. They had to do whatever they could to prevent this subject from harming himself and others; others first, himself second. But their powers did have a limit. Perhaps they really were powerless to stop someone hell-bent on suicide. “What?!” Chad said trying to erupt. “You’re still here?! You’re not moving away! Go!!” His free hand, the broken hand, made an awkward, pain-filled shooing motion. “C’mon, Chad,” said Officer Craig. “Let’s just keep cool. Let’s just talk.” He was only ten feet away. Chad broke into a wide grin and laughed an amiable laugh. “Ha-ha. “I’m just kiddin’ fellas. I’m not gonna kill myself.” His face went cold, slack, expressionless; the look of a man already dead. “You are.” And he pointed his gun and fired nearly point blank into Officer Craig’s head. Time seemed again to stop for the young man, perhaps initiated by the crack of the weapon which echoed endlessly. For an eternity he studied the dark hole in Craig’s forehead created by the bullet and the look of shock and fear frozen on the young cop’s face. Somewhere, far in Tim’s periphery, were the horror-struck faces of Mimi and Janet. All of the training for rapid response in every one of the other police officers was stunned into temporary memory loss by this sudden reversal. In that one extra beat Chad fired on the cop that had been just behind Officer Craig. The bullet entered directly into the cop’s eye and ripped unimpeded through the brain to back of the skull where it blasted away a generous portion of head upon exiting. At that moment eleven guns fired as one, sounding more like a salute than a firing squad. The explosion seemed to swallow the decaying sound of Chad’s two gunshots, echoing and reverberating around all of the shiny, electric lit buildings of downtown. The sound did not decay right away as it was continually added upon by crack after crack, report after report, squeezed trigger upon squeezed trigger, until there were no bullets left in the eleven guns. Chad was pummeled from all directions, and so actually remained standing for a time, until a shot from somewhere finally hit him in the head, knocking him off balance. Red blood erupted from his body. True to his word, Chad did not drop the gun. Later, the police found a large patch of Velcro glued to the gun’s grip, and sewn to the palm of the black glove worn on Chad’s hand. Strangely, as Chad fell to the ground, he realized with some horror that he was still alive and coherent of what was happening. Where was the oblivion, or even the light? Where was Death? He lay there, on the red bricks of Pioneer Square, unable to move, his body permeated with pain and dread. And time finally did stop forever.

CHAPTER XV

Marcus looked at the woman, looked into her eyes, and did nothing to disguise the feelings of desire that he had for her. Sure, he wanted to feed on her, but he also wanted her heart. She had become his choice. Tina’s disappointment had been brief when Marcus had told her that he was interested in another woman. As much as Tina also desired him, she could, as always, feel the strength and wisdom of the vampire. What he said was always sensible, and he would always be there for her. Listening to Marcus talk of his feelings for her mother, Tina had known that it was the right thing for Marcus, at least for this moment in eternity. Now, at the very same moment that Chad was falling to the bricks of Pioneer Square, Marcus sat alone with Sarah for the first time. They were talking in hushed voices, like old friends, or co-conspirators, trying not to disturb the sleeping Tina. Marcus was listening to Sarah talk more of her life. She had not been a strong woman in the past, and she was only now just learning how to take pro-active steps as an individual. Marcus had, however, been able to see Sarah’s potential from the beginning. First she would learn to take action, and make it a habit. Then she would learn to take power, and she would have total control over her own life for the first time. Finally, she would learn to use the special powers that nature had bestowed upon her as a creature of estrogen. In Sarah, Marcus saw bits and pieces of his beloved Maria, Shalimar, Ava, yes, and even Cyllia, and his second Maria. To the unknowing onlooker it might have looked a little strange to see such a young looking man with a woman in her mid 30’s. Every now and again, Sarah would notice it herself and have to pinch herself and wonder at Marcus’s motivation. He had not yet told her. She asked, “What is it about you, Marcus, that intrigues me so?” Though he was only holding her hand, the look in his eyes spoke volumes to her about the depths of his desires for more physical contact. He had not yet initiated more. For Marcus, this self-imposed restraint was exquisitely delightful – a mental and emotional frolic. They talked as friends, rather intimate friends, with very little limiting to the topics. Marcus smiled his perfectly crooked smile of centuries and said jokingly, “Could it be my stunning good looks?” “Well, that’s part of it certainly,” said Sarah. “You make the little debutant in me swoon. But there’s more. I’m an older woman. I reached a point years ago where young men simply stopped appealing to me. It didn’t matter what they looked like, I just couldn’t deal with the immaturity. But you seem more mature than any man I’ve ever met. And wise, and smart! I hope this is coming out right.” “It is,” said the vampire. “I am so glad to hear of your perceptions. They do you credit.” “So what is it?” she asked again. “I am a little bit older than I look.” “Really?” “A lot.” “A lot older?” Sarah was just a little riled. “I thought you said you were twenty! How old are you, really?” “I am sorry I lied,” said Marcus looking directly into Sarah’s deep brown eyes. “I only did it because I wanted you to be at ease. I greatly wish to tell you now something that may be difficult for you, but hopefully it will answer all of your questions about me and more. Are you ready?” Sarah returned his intent gaze. Normally she probably would have been turned off by this sort of thing, and maybe even scared. But this was Marcus. She could see that his ageless eyes hid nothing. They told all, and now his lips and tongue would follow suit. She nodded. The hormones flowed. “First, I must start by telling you that you are a splendid woman. For what it’s worth, you have nothing to fear from me. I trust you. This is a very serious secret, however, so if you think that you will have any problem keeping it, speak now.” Sarah nodded again, trancelike. The vampire kissed her, like only a vampire can. Sarah knew that she should have been alarmed, should have felt pain! But for some reason all she felt was incredible ecstasy. Even as she felt the blood being sucked from her veins she realized that she had never felt so alive; brimming with life. Death was the farthest thing from her mind. She had an abundance of life, and she would happily share that life. Music, ethereal, sweeter and more passionate than anything she had ever heard, filled her head, vibrated in her entire body. Behind her tightly shut eyelids intense visions formed of… of what? Paradise? She was dreaming. She knew that she had to be because she was flying, and she only flew in dreams. But never before had she been so lucid during a dream. It was strange that she couldn’t remember what she was doing just a minute ago. When had she gone to sleep? Sarah looked down upon a richly beautiful landscape – intense, vivid colors of green grass, pink and blue flowers, magenta- blossomed trees. Even the bare patches of brown earth looked rich and life-giving. The landscape was made up of lavishly colored rolling hills bejeweled with a sparkling river that would have been perfectly clear, except that it seemed to be reflecting the vibrant blue of the sky in which Sarah now soared. It would have been perfect, except…. She looked over her shoulder and caught sight of Marcus. He was flying along with her, just a little behind her, but very close. Now it was perfect! They chased through the fluffy, moistening clouds for a bit, then he caught her in midair; a soft, sensual grasp around her waist. Together the two of them turned, spun, as they flew through the air over the stunning landscape. From the back of her mind it seemed, Sarah suddenly became aware that the two of them were naked, and the sensation of her skin against his as they flew holding together on the breath of the wind was for Sarah beyond erotic. It seemed to her natural on the magnitude of a light spring rain dotting the large pedals of an iris with jewels of precious moisture. And then, somehow, they were copulating. He was in her, completely, filling every part of her it seemed. Sarah felt a vast cavernous space in her soul filled for the first time in her life, and she knew suddenly that Marcus was not to be credited with all of her amazing feelings of wholeness. Her intense, erotic, elation was actually a reflection, an indication of her healing and growth of late. She grasped concretely that she was responsible for her wonderful feeling, and that she could get it back whenever she wanted. And, like a pure, innocent child, she was aware that her growth and healing was only just beginning! Sarah allowed herself to climax, and as the intensely wonderful and pleasureful full body spasm finally tapered down to just tingles and twitches, lovely little remembrances of the pleasure that she had just underwent, Marcus slowed his sucking; stopped. The flight over the heavenly vision was beautiful, and Sarah was reluctant to open her eyes and take in the ‘real world’ once again. When she finally did open her eyes, however, she was deeply gratified to be looking into the deep brown eyes of Marcus, and reflected in those eyes was all of the beauty in the world. The real world suddenly seemed to carry that same paradisiacal radiance that had been present in her vision. Sarah realized that it was simply because she suddenly seemed aware of the true value of every thing around her; not just the dollar value, which was relatively low, but the value to her in her life! The worn furnishings in the room had seemed drab to her before, but now it seemed that the items served her. The room was cluttered and unclean, but Sarah knew that it was only time and effort away from godly, and she knew that she could do it. She marveled at the entire experience realizing that with enough hard work, she could duplicate almost all of it in the ‘real world.’ The world and meaning of life all seemed so clear and apparent to her; she did not want to lose the feeling. However, Sarah knew that she needed to address one very important item – the fact that Marcus had just sucked her blood! Did she want to risk losing her epiphanous state to try to find out what Marcus had just done to her? The answer was ‘yes,’ but at the same time, she forced her mind to work over the mystery rationally. Boldly, but with the tenderness of a lover, her fingers reached up to Marcus’s face and lifted his upper lip, exposing his still extended, still blood-rimmed canines. She knew that she should have been horrified, or at least shocked; and maybe she was a little bit, but it did not show on her face. He had told her that she had nothing to fear from him, and she trusted that implicitly. As she watched the gleaming teeth contract back into the gums to take up their normal position, she wondered if she was only dreaming all of this. Lovely as it all had been, this was way too weird to be real. Slowly her finger left Marcus’s lips and touched the hot burning bite on her neck. Applying a little pressure to the wound made it seem to sing loudly with a passionate sweet agony as if it had a mouth of its own intoning a beautiful, haunting song. Still, Sarah couldn’t fully convince herself that she was not dreaming. “It’s real, Sarah,” said Marcus in a firm whisper. “Somehow, due to a science that I have only just discovered and am beginning to understand, I am over 500 hundred years old. I am what folklore refers to as a vampire.” Still looking deep into his eyes, Sarah pondered for just a second over whether this could true or not. It seemed extremely fantastic; mind-bogglingly fanciful. But her experience had been undeniable… “Am I dreaming?” she asked. “If you were, I would still tell you that you were not. Deal with reality as you perceive it, my love, striving always to see it for what it truly is, and knowing that it is possible.” “What if I can’t trust my senses?” “Do the best you can. You are not ready for the loony bin yet.” Sarah laughed delightedly; a vampire with a sense of humor! She decided that she would open her mind to the possibility. She believed (correctly) that Marcus would either convince her, or reveal his true self as a raving lunatic, or she would eventually wake up from this delicious nightmare. Curious, she thought, that she wasn’t in fear for her or Tina’s life. Sarah remembered how she had first met Marcus; she had seen the bullet wounds! Then later he had seemed fine; no sign of injury. As implausible as it was, his revelation could explain fantastically how he had recovered from seemingly fatal wounds the way he had. “Does Tina know?” she asked. “Yes,” said Marcus. “I am sorry. I did not realize just how young the girl was when I first encountered her. She is quite mature beyond her years. Tina was very receptive to my secret, and has prudently maintained absolute discretion.” Sarah asked, “Why did you wish to tell me your secret?” “Sarah, my love, I have felt a fondness for you ever since I first saw you. My fondness for you has grown as you have grown. It is particularly delightful for me to watch as a passionate woman discovers the beginnings of her potential.” The answer had been a little deeper than Sarah had expected, and she realized with some self-amusement that she should have known that Marcus’s answer would exceed her expectations. Then she thought about the answer itself and, in spite of herself, felt touched. From any other young man she would have felt patronized, and Sarah was aware that she was having difficulty cramming the wizened mind and mature heart of a five-hundred year old man into the young body of a beautiful twenty-one year old. But Marcus had delivered the answer with such a lack of prejudice, such objectivity, that Sarah could not help but feel as though he should know what he was talking about. So what was he talking about? Her eyes grew damp as she asked, “Potential? For what?” “Potential for anything you want; potential to live whatever life you choose to live with great passion, independence, love, and happiness.” Sarah had heard those words before and knew that women today were supposed to be able to experience them. Why hadn’t she, she wondered? It had always seemed that those words applied to other women – married women with husbands that were strong, true, and handsome; not her. Even now she unconsciously regarded those qualities as gifts bestowed upon her by Marcus. Her eyes and the tone of her voice reflected that sentiment as she asked graciously, “Why me? I don’t understand why you chose me.” “Nothing I can say to you will answer that question to your satisfaction. Everyone has the light inside of them, but not everyone can see their own light. When the time comes that you can see your light, you will know why I have strong feelings for you.”

CHAPTER XVI

Henderson took some measures to keep the job separate from his life at home. He was determined that Melody, his wife, would not be another cop’s wife. His efforts were largely successful and as a result his beautiful wife had very little notion of what he did on a daily basis to keep the city safe for her and their three children. Darrel loved his family dearly, and as far as he was concerned, everything he did on the job was to make the city safe for them. Darrel liked the part of his job that was about bustin’ the bad guys, but he was always careful to avoid situations that put his life at risk. For hazardous duties he was quick to delegate or pass the buck. He had not needed to put himself at risk to earn measured success as a detective. Darrel marveled at crime-drama TV shows and movies that showed police detectives putting their lives on the line and dodging bullets. Those situations were real, (for the most part), and he could be in them if he wanted to, but he didn’t know a single cop that really wanted that. If his life as a detective had really been like a TV crime-drama he would have found another line of work. But above all, he did not want his wife and family touched by the shit that he dealt with every day. Hence, his wife did not hang out with other cop’s wives. They never attended police social functions. He had refused the standard police protections over his family, opting instead for an extremely sophisticated home security system covering their house in a gated neighborhood that he could hardly afford to live in. Darrel felt proud that he had done everything he could to keep his family safe without the involvement of the department. Henderson had decreed that a call from anyone at the station to his home phone was a cardinal crime. He had his special cell phone for those purposes. And so it was that as Henderson answered the ringing ‘SWAT’ phone this morning, the voice of Captain Rahal on the other end answered snidely, “I hope I’m not interrupting family time.” The detective was just on his way out of the garage this morning. One minute earlier and the Cap’n would have been interrupting his long and sensuous good-bye kiss with Melody. He was in a pretty good mood and responded with sincere gratitude, “No, your timing is good. What’s up?” “We had a very busy night. I take it you haven’t heard?” “Nope,” answered Henderson with an aloofness that he was proud of. “What happened?” “Well, first, we had a real messy suicide downtown at 2:30 in the morning. Are you acquainted with Officers Lewis and Tidwell?” “Yeah, I know ‘em.” “They were K.L.O.D. last night, trying to talk the suicidal down.” Henderson was aghast at the news. Talking down a suicidal seemed like an unlikely place to get killed in the line of duty. But he didn’t really know either of them all that well, and the main thought that was running through his mind as he piloted his special issue unmarked police automobile past the security gate at the entrance of his suburban neighborhood was not for the fallen men or their families left behind in mourning. He was thinking, “Sure am glad it was them and not me. I’ll have to get the details on this later so I can avoid such a thing happening to me!” Only sensible. Rahal interrupted the detective’s thoughts. “But there’s more, Darrel. Stan the Man was found about an hour ago in an alley behind the Bismarck Hotel cut into pieces.” “What?!!” Henderson almost screamed. “How?” Rahal continued, “I called Stone in on it, since you were at home.” Henderson could only stammer, “But, Cap’n –” “I’m sorry, but I didn’t want to bother you with it at the time. Give Stone a call if you want the details.” “Thanks, Cap’n,” Henderson said resignedly, and flipped his middle finger at the phone as he hung up. This would be the kind of phone call that Henderson loathed to make. He was being forced to basically beg Detective Stone for information that was concerning the case that had belonged to Henderson since the beginning. Henderson realized that he didn’t even know Detective Stone’s cell number. He had to place a call to Miller, his virtually invisible partner at the station and have him look it up. At last he was dialing, and seconds later Detective Mike Stone was greeting him on the phone. “What’s up?” asked Henderson flatly. “Nothin’ much,” answered Stone casually. “What’s up with you?” As if he didn’t know! Henderson wanted to reach through the phone and strangle the junior detective, but now more than ever, this situation called for a cool tack. He used a voice that was firm, without (hopefully) sounding too demanding. “What can you tell me about Manuel Stanley?” “He was found sometime around 6:10 behind the Bismarck Hotel. We found traces of his blood and few other scraps on the roof, so we suspect that the doer killed him, and cut him up on the roof, and tossed the pieces over the side of the building. We also found a knife, also apparently tossed into the alley with the remains. We’re pretty sure it’s the knife that was used to cut Stanley up. I checked with Miller and it also looks like it might have also been the blade that was used on Jamie Thompson.” There was a slight pause as Henderson waited, hoping that Stone was just catching his breath and would continue presently. Finally he asked, “Is there a connection between the murder of Stan the Man and the suicide at Pioneer Square?” “I doubt it,” said Stone. “Just a full moon on a Halloween night.” Henderson knew that he had tapped out the other man for information, at least for the time being, so he graciously terminated the phone conversation. He needed to think about this latest development. So, his eyewitness was dead! And the murder smelled a lot like the prime suspect grasping at straws to avoid getting nailed. Henderson mused at what an idiot Jensen must be if he thought he could get away with this latest move. The only question that remained was did Henderson have the balls to make the arrest with that predacious lawyer Lambert lurking in the shadows, waiting to pounce on him? An idea came to Henderson; a very pro-active idea! He had an ally, someone in his corner who just might be able to pull the leash on Lambert. With a quick call to directory assistance, Henderson soon had the number to Judge Noonan’s office. The sweet voice of the young secretary answered the phone, but the detective was connected very quickly to the Judge upon identifying himself. Noonan’s voice came bellowing across the digital microwave phone lines, compressed but still squawking loudly in the ear piece, “Darrel, it’s good to hear from you! How goes the good fight?!” “It’s good, Judge. Thanks for asking. I have all but busted the case of the Psicko Killer wide open. But I do have a wrinkle.” “Oh?” said Noonan. “What is the matter?” “I think I can pin at least one, maybe more of the dismemberment murders on one guy. I even had an eyewitness until this morning when the poor guy turned up dead! Guess what? Dismembered!” “Oh my God!” Noonan exclaimed with genuine shock. Then, with his voice cloaked in nonchalant innocence, he added “Who is your prime suspect?” “The security guard from the Bancorp Tower – Dan Jensen.” “Ah yes,” said Noonan, sounding quite guru-ish. “Exactly who I thought, too. You know, he’s working for Jimmy Bechard now.” “Yeah, I know,” lamented Henderson. “That’s the problem! Bechard’s lawyer Lambert was at the station yesterday blowing legal smoke up my ass.” “Listen to me, Darrel. I trust your police instincts! I know you’ve got the right man and I’d be willing to stake my reputation on it. What’s more, I’m positive that Bechard paid Jensen to do it. Nobody profited more from the deaths of Peterson, Goulier, and Stanley more than Bechard. I’ll take care of Lambert, and then you can do your job and apprehend Jensen. Once you have him in custody, do what you gotta do to make him talk. He’s not a strong man; I know you can break him. Get him to implicate Bechard, then you can bring down the mastermind behind all of these terrible crimes!” Something about Noonan’s instructions sounded sleazy to Henderson. But, he reasoned, how would he even be able to carry them out if Bechard wasn’t guilty? He felt strength and reassurance from the Judge and his directives. “OK, Judge. You got it. Just let me know as soon as you’ve got Lambert on ice.” “Well, things are very busy right now with the election, but I should have time to do what is needed to tie his hands.” “How soon?” “Before the middle of next week,” answered Noonan.

Carl and Audrey Reeves were faced with the second greatest heartbreaking task that a parent can have to do next to burying a child. And that particular task was not far off in the future. Now they had to identify the remains of their son Chad. A perpetual chill seemed set into the halls of the building that housed the Coroner’s offices and laboratories. The pale green walls seemed painted with solemnity and morbidity. The eeriness of the place could make the most hardened skeptic jump at the slightest movement in the corner of their eye, certain that some miraculously animated zomboid corpse was coming eat their brain. Ghosts were everywhere! The Reeves walked down the haunted hallway, escorted by the coroner, a Doctor David Breaux, an older man that was expanding slightly with age and had a couple of caterpillars crawling along the top of his tinted trifocals. They entered into an even colder room through a pair of swinging insulated double doors with little rounded rectangular windows. The largish room contained rows of tables, most of them covered completely with a mountainous sheet-scape that followed human corporeal contours. Audrey hesitated and Carl could not suppress a shudder. As they walked past table after death-cloaked table Audrey asked, “Is this really necessary?” “Believe me,” said Dr. Breaux, “if there was any other way for us to get a positive identification on this one, we’d do it.” “Honey, you don’t have to do this,” said Carl taking her shoulders. “You can wait outside. I’ll take care of it.” “It’s OK,” she breathed. “I want to do this.” They were both numb. They had been anticipating Chad’s death for so long that they were temporarily out of emotions. Naturally, the Reeves had been disturbed by the story that the police had given to them about the circumstances surrounding Chad’s death. It seemed to them that there was definitely some strange mystery here that they could only hope to solve. Dr. Breaux stopped at a particular table and paused after grabbing a corner of the thick, pale sheet. “Like I said before, we wouldn’t normally need for family to make a positive ID in a case like this except that we’re wholly unsure if this is Chad’s body. This body does not match the medical records or the dental records that we received for your son. Are you ready?” The Reeves stood in a half hug, both of them wondering just what it meant to have medical and dental records that didn’t match a body, and hoping beyond hope that there had been some mistake and that Chad was not underneath this sheet; that he was in fact, out there in the city somewhere, enjoying his last days alive. It didn’t matter. If it wasn’t Chad under this sheet, he’d be under another one soon enough. They all would be – life is too short! They nodded solemnly, and Dr. Breaux slowing pulled the sheet down just far enough to expose the head. The corpse was pale, its face completely drained of blood. The eyes were closed and the corpse looked simply not alive. The stubble-covered head sat slightly tilted to the side; the ghastly wound from the bullet that had finally dropped Chad could have been seen if someone had turned it, but the coroner wasn’t about to do that. As numbly prepared as they were, recognition still smacked Carl and Audrey in the face. Tears sprang from Audrey’s eyes as if under pressure and she buried her face into Carl chest. Carl looked at the somber face of Dr. Breaux and nodded. “Are you sure?” asked the surprised coroner as if he had fully been expecting them to confirm the negative. His detachment lost its veil of solemnity. “Take another look. I need you to be positive.” Carl erupted, “We are positive, goddamit!! What’s your problem?! Jesus!!” “I’m sorry,” said the doctor. “It’s just that these discrepancies in the medical and dental records are kind of strange.” “What the hell are you talking about?!” barked Carl. Flustered and frustrated, Dr. Breaux rattled papers as he spoke, “It says here that Chad underwent a tonsillectomy at age eight. Is that true?” “Yes, it is! So?!” “Well, this guy has tonsils! Chad’s dental records show caps on three of his molars, and this body has perfect teeth! Perfect!” Carl was immediately quiet, though not calm by any stretch, and Audrey was sufficiently mystified to momentarily forget about crying. “And there’s one more thing,” continued Dr. Breaux a little quieter now. “Chad had been diagnosed with HIV. After noting the other discrepancies, out of curiosity, I had some blood from this body tested. It came back absolutely negative for HIV!”

CHAPTER XVII

Marcus listened with acute focus as the girls related to him all that they had seen transpire in the parking lot of the Bare Cage and at Pioneer Courthouse Square. Little deranged Timmy, who had accepted Marcus’s invitation to stay at the house for a while, corroborated on their story relating numerous accounts of similar situations that he and Desperado had witnessed. The group, consisting of Janet, Mimi, Tim, and the vampire, sat around the front room of the house. Desperado was also around, showing himself occasionally. The room was rather plain, furnished simply, with well-kept (hardly used) older furniture that was strong on quality but without any flash or luxury. The walls were practically bare; neither Marcus nor Gerald had ever been a collector of ‘things.’ They had already had a moment of silence for Chad. But the mourning had been brief even for Janet. To her, Chad had died a long time before. The group talked and surmised about whom the Slayer might be and what it was that he did to vampires. Marcus mostly brooded while the others theorized and speculated. Even though he didn’t want to think about what the Slayer might be, he had a very good idea about what the Slayer might be doing to vampires, and it was calling his long-standing denial to the mat. Marcus had always maintained that he, along with all of the other vampires, were the evil anomaly in the world, that they did not belong, that their existence upset the universal equipoise. To correct that he had killed nearly every vampire that he had ever encountered, partially in an attempt to right a little of the wrong that was his own existence, and partially in the hope that one day some vampire would get the best of him and end it for him. Marcus wanted to believe that if he had ever discovered a way to be cured of vampirism, or even a way to die, he would promptly exploit any such opportunity. Now, here he was, faced with such a possibility, and feeling hesitant. Was he really ready for the ‘hell’ to end, or had he simply been self-righteously fooling himself for five hundred years?! He kept these thoughts to himself. “There’s something I’ve been needing to tell you, Marcus,” said Janet. “I performed a series of tests on your blood from last night. One of the things that I found was that it had absolutely no enzymatic activity. None at all! Normally blood should have at least some enzymatic activity due to the presence of metabolic enzymes. Keep in mind that metabolic enzymes are the catalyst for virtually every bodily function, and that the body can produce only a limited number of them. “I think that it may be possible that whatever those little lobster thing-ies are, they may require human metabolic enzymes to function. This theory may explain why you need to drink fresh human blood; it would naturally be the most readily available source of metabolic enzymes. And it has to be metabolic enzymes apparently, because otherwise you would be able survive on stored blood, or perhaps even enzyme rich foods, and we know that is not the case!” “That all makes sense,” said Marcus, and he radiated his pride and respect for the clever nurse. “Do you have ideas on how I might be able to supplement on metabolic enzymes?” “Unfortunately, no. If such supplementation were ever developed it could theoretically treat a myriad of illnesses associated with everything from allergies to organ failure. So far, the best thing that I have been able to come across is food enzyme supplements.” Janet held up a plastic bottle full of non-descript capsules. “They’re basically a supplement derived from plant foods that are extremely high in enzymatic activity. The theory proposed by their manufacturers is that the ideal diet should consist of foods that are rich in enzymes, to ensure proper breakdown and absorption of the food and its nutrients. They suggest that the modern day diet of the average person consists of too much cooked and processed food; enzymes die at temperatures above 117 degrees. In the absence of enzymes in the food, the body diverts its limited supplies of metabolic enzymes from other functions in order to aid in the digestion process. Supplementation with food enzyme capsules could help to make up for what is cooked out of the foods we eat, so they say!” All eyes were upon Janet as she continued. “So! My theory is, if all that is true, that you would receive more of what you need from a donor that has a lot of metabolic enzymes in their system, as opposed to someone with only a few. Does your experience by some chance support that idea?” Marcus was intrigued at the thought. He was also more than a little amused that the girl had given the subject so much thought and research. He had to admit that it sounded good. “Your ideas do make sense. And I can tell you that there is a difference between the blood of someone in good health as opposed to someone who is not.” “Good!” said Janet, brimming with satisfaction and excitement. “As an experiment, Miriam and I are taking huge doses of these food enzyme supplements to see if our blood becomes more satisfying to you. Perhaps you will be able to go longer between feedings!” The old vampire couldn’t suppress a large, genuine smile. These were certainly exciting times. Sneakily, covertly, while he had been distracted by cynicism, hope had crept back in to his heart. Now would be such a bad time to die. Now might even prove to be a very good time to be a vampire! Marcus took charge of the meeting then. “Janet’s news is indeed the most exciting news that I have heard since I first became a vampire. And so I feel a renewed desire to live. This Slayer menace must be neutralized. According to Tim, and Desperado, the Slayer is probably on his way here; probably on foot, but still close nonetheless. I believe that since I spent my day-sleep in Hillsborough, he will be approaching my location from that general direction. I need some more intelligence on this fellow, but I will need your help to get it.” The vampire paused and waited for affirmation from all of those present. After everyone had chimed in with his or her willingness, Marcus laid out his plans. Not even an hour later the group moved into action. Marcus, Tim, Janet, and Mimi piled into the SUV drove a short distance in the general direction of Hillsborough. They ended up stopping near Washington Park. There they waited, somewhat anxiously for the Slayer. Tim had his handy night-vision goggles, and still wore his strong smelling band of garlic around his neck. His job was to hopefully spot the Slayer while he was still some distance away. Within another hour, he was successful! “He’s comin’!” Tim said excitedly. “It’s lucky we did this, ‘cause he woulda gotcha if you had been at your house tonight. And if he hadn’t gotcha then, he woulda gotcha tomorrow during the day.” Through the dim light of night, Marcus laid eyes upon the Slayer for the first time as he stepped under the stark illumination of a street light. Even in the distance, the old vampire recognized the strange man immediately. It was as John had said so many years ago – the Slayer was the beautiful blue-skinned being that had appeared in every one of Marcus’s dreams since he had first become a vampire. Marcus recalled John’s words the night that he had first told him of the Slayer. “He looks like a man, naturally, but understand, you will never wish to lay your eyes upon him. If you are ever that close, he will already have you!” “Like hell!” thought Marcus. “We did not have sport utility vehicles back in 1524!” Phase two of the plan involved dropping off Mimi and getting Marcus the hell out of there, which didn’t happen quite fast enough to suit Marcus. Still the SUV got away before there were any bright flashes or high pitched sounds. Mimi, dressed sexily in a tight, revealing top, mini-skirt, stockings and five inch stiletto heels, would be the one to attempt contact. Additionally, she would basically be checking for the presence of a penis on the Slayer. Marcus had instructed her as to what he wanted her to say. The strange, white-haired man walked steadfastly in the direction in which the SUV had sped away, showing no signs of hurry or frustration; only, perhaps a deep, ancient grief that time had resolved into a simple sadness, like wind erosion that transformed the craggy rock over the millennia into a smooth stone. Mimi approached him and said flirtatiously, “Hey, stranger.” He regarded her for maybe one half of a second, and didn’t even break his stride. The long-legged amazon took up pace with him and turned up her charm as much as she knew how. “Hey, handsome, you look lonely. Would you like someone to talk to?” He continued on, without a word or a glance. At this point Mimi changed her tack. She looked at him closely, looking for any sign of comprehension. Surely, the man spoke English; had Tim spoken a lie when he told the story of giving the Slayer a ride to Detroit in his van? She noticed that in spite of the look of calm maturity, the man looked extremely young; as young as Marcus. And the man was more than handsome; he was beautiful! She recited the words that Marcus asked her to say to the man. “I must warn you that the one you hunt has reason to fear you. That fear will compel him to continue to evade you, and fight to the death if he should find himself trapped. Wouldn’t you prefer a more reasonable resolution?” At this the strange man did stop. He brought out from his pocket the bright blue smooth orb-shaped crystal and examined it. After a moment he regarded the busty girl with a cocked eyebrow while he returned the object to his pocket. Then he continued on his way. Marcus spent the next few hours leading the strange man on a merry chase. He never let the distance between them shrink to below one hundred feet. From that safe distance the vampire observed the strange hunter. The wizard behaved exactly as Tim had said he would. He walked, never ran, after his quarry, as if he had walked forever. “How often does he have to buy new shoes?” Mimi asked of Tim, after they had circled around and picked her up. She had meant it as a quizzical jest, but Marcus was seriously curious. Tim said, “When he needs shoes or clothes, he usually just goes to the store; pays with diamonds! He never says anything to the checkout person; just hands ‘em a little diamond as he walks out of the store. I’ve seen him do it a few times. Once I bought one of ‘em off a clerk for 150 bucks. The stone appraised out at 750 dollars!” “So you’ve never seen him steal for anything he needs?” asked Marcus. “He might have stole those diamonds,” said Tim. Marcus doubted that, but didn’t voice that opinion. Instead he said, “Surely, we are dealing with an individual as immortal as I am. I have reason to believe that he has been traveling the earth on foot since at least the time of Jesus Christ. It may be reasonable to assume that whatever it is that keeps me alive keeps him alive as well. I imagine that he will be immensely wise, and strong. If he chose not to communicate with Miriam, then I am sure that in his superior wisdom that such a decision was made and executed with the utmost rationality and reason. Surely, I have been in such a place myself many times!” “There’s something else I forgot to say ‘til now,” said Tim. “He’s a shape-shifter! I’ve seen him do it a couple of times.” There was dead silence in the vehicle as this new information sunk in. Mimi’s eyes were wide with amazement at the thought of it and Janet’s generous mouth hung open. “It takes him a little while to do it,” Tim continued. “Usually a day or two. But he can totally morph! And I’m pretty sure that’s what he’ll do now since you’ve got a make on him.” Marcus was thoughtful. Could this be true or simply more delusional hallucination from the schizophrenic? Marcus decided that it could be possible. He said, “I might have known that he could do something like that. I had heard rumors that certain vampires had acquired such skills, though I never saw anything firsthand. I had always dismissed it as utter rubbish, because the purveyors of such rumors always talked of magic and other mysticisms. However, morphing at a cellular level is at least theoretically possible.” “Yes,” said Janet. “But it would require engineering cell reproduction, probably even altering the DNA.” “What could do that?” asked Mimi. Janet answered her with a satisfied smile. “Nano-machines could.” “Perhaps,” Marcus nodded. “If they existed. But I would consider that explanation only two steps higher than the ‘magic hypothesis’. We must remain scientific.” “Do you have a simpler theory that explains all the data?” Janet asked. She was not defensive, but earnest. “Well, no. Not yet. There is the ‘virus theory’ but it has as many holes in it as the ‘nano-machine’ theory. However, may I suggest that we not get too attached to any one theory lest we should become biased. The nano-machine theory is good, but the question ‘where did they come from?’ plagues me. Do you realize what that question implies? Such devices could only be other- worldly. I would need more evidence before I could accept such an explanation.” “Your evidence is walking toward us right now!” said Tim with alarm. “We’d better get moving!” Dawn was only a few hours away. Marcus knew that he would not be able to bed down for the day at his house. He would need to put some distance between himself and Slayer until he could decide what to do. In the meantime, the Slayer would need to be monitored. It was decided that Tim and Desperado would be perfect for such a job, and they agreed to do it after Marcus offered them the modest consideration of ten thousand dollars. Janet would stay in touch with Tim by cell phone. Tim was then delivered to his van, where he set about immediately to carry out his charge. Marcus and the girls sped west, out of town, trying in vain to outrun the dawn. The vampire took cover for the day at a hotel in Seaside.

CHAPTER XVIII

How does a man admit to a crime that he didn’t commit, and implicate along with him another innocent man? The process is fairly simple. First, he is presumed guilty. Then, he is stripped of all hope. Finally, he is offered a deal. Could it be that the ever-dutiful officers of the law consciously or purposefully play such a head-trip on a man? Let us give them the benefit of the doubt. They are, after all, only doing their jobs. And society needs that…..don’t we? Dan Jensen found himself once again seated in a small interrogation room across a stainless steel table from Detective Darrel Henderson. He would not have been nervous like the other day, except that today there was something especially smug about the detective’s demeanor. The detective moved with an air that suggested he had an ace up his sleeve, and Dan was uneasy wondering about what it might be. Detective Henderson had received an informative phone call from Judge Noonan just over an hour before. Lambert’s license to practice law was in suspension thanks to a complaint petition to the state bar review board. The news had given Henderson the courage to pick Dan Jensen up and bring him back down to the station. Noonan had conveniently forgotten to mention that the suspension was only temporary pending a hearing, but the Judge was pretty sure that he could keep Lambert out of action until Jensen and Bechard were safely out of the way. After that, Lambert could have his way with Henderson. “Get Jensen to sing on Bechard!” Noonan had commanded. It struck Henderson that this didn’t really seem much like detective work to him, let alone police work! But, Judge Noonan was a man to be respected. Henderson believed that good things would come from obeying the powerful politician. Besides, Henderson knew that Jensen was guilty of at least three of the murders, and if Noonan said that Bechard had conspired with Jensen, then that was good enough for the detective. He was ready for the big score that breaking the case of the Psicko Killer was going to give him. This was going to look great on his resume. “Where were ya’ the night before last, Jensen?” “I was working.” “Anyone with you?” “No.” “My eyewitness, the guy that was ready to testify against you, Jensen, was found dead!” Henderson was careful not to use Stanley’s name or how exactly he died. He was going to see if Jensen was foolish enough to let it slip. Dan’s confused mind raced. It seemed his life was spiraling out of control and there was nothing he could do to right it. He said nothing, waiting on the edge of his seat for the door to burst open again with Lambert, his savior. The sharp-talking lawyer had assured Dan the other day that everything would be alright. Lambert had believed that he was innocent! But where was the lawyer now? Henderson continued, “I know it was you, Jensen. You’ve got means, motive, and we found enough forensic evidence at the scene tying you to the murder to make it stick like glue.” “Don’t I get a phone call?” Dan asked. He wanted to be strong and sure like Lambert, but his voice broke with nervousness. “Sure ya’ do, and if you’re lucky it might even do ya’ some good,” said Henderson. “But don’t waste it trying to call Lambert, ‘cause his license to practice law has been suspended! Seems that he doesn’t have too many friends in the legal community right now.” Dan’s bare scalp began to ooze and then to drip. The corners of his mouth dipped involuntarily and his lip shook. He was doing his best to hold himself together, but a breakdown was eminent. It would have happened the other day after the lineup if Lambert hadn’t walked and saved him at the last second before the emotional core breach. Now, the news of the lawyer’s suspension was nearly the last straw for poor Dan Jensen. Henderson continued on relentlessly. “Your ass is so mine, Jensen! You will be convicted! There is a cell at the pen with your name on it, and you’ll never see the light of day again!! And there’s a big hairy redneck waiting there with the name ‘Danny Boy’ tattooed on his johnson!! Three counts of murder one is all it takes to make sure you die in the joint.” Dan Jensen, a grown man, lowered his head onto the cool steel tabletop and cried like a child. His life was over! He chided himself for not killing himself when he had the chance. He should have known that it would come to this! Stupid! Stupid!! What had he done to deserve this? He was innocent, after all…. wasn’t he? But it didn’t matter if he was innocent or not. Somehow, the police believed that he was guilty; they had the evidence to prove it. That was all that mattered. Henderson was right – Dan would die in prison. Just when it seemed that his suckin’ life couldn’t get any worse, this happened! Dan Jensen realized that the most suckinest life as a free man would be better than the best life as a prisoner, and he suddenly wished that he could have his suckin’ life back. Henderson fell silent for a moment, giving Dan a little time to collect himself. Finally the detective spoke again in a low, confidential voice. “But you do have someone on your side.” Dan raised his head revealing red, wet eyes, runny nose, and a questioning face. From nowhere it seemed, Henderson produced a handkerchief, and handed it to him. Henderson continued, “There is a certain person with the power to reduce your sentence. He could have you a free man in, oh, seven years. What do you think of that?” A confused look twisted up Dan’s grieving features. What game was this cop playing? Dan grasped desperately at the idea of hope. He had never really had any even before his life went to shit; the concept was foreign to him. The detective had paused the necessary beat to allow the Jensen a moment to ponder the possibilities; now he continued. “We know that you weren’t acting on your own. You give me the name of your employer and this whole thing could be lot easier for you.” The look of confusion intensified on Dan’s face. It had come back to this again! Why, he wondered, did this cop want so badly for him to point the finger at Mr. Bechard? Did it matter? The detective was offering him a way out….. sort of. Dan still couldn’t bring himself to say anything, but Henderson could see that the man was at least not opposed to what he was proposing, so he continued sounding thoughtful. “Of course, you’d have to sign a confession….. stating that you are the Psicko Killer….. but you could say that you did it all for the money….. you know…. someone put you up to it. So who was it, Jensen?” “Bechard,” said Jensen in a quiet voice. “Who?” asked Henderson, as if he hadn’t quite heard. “You’ll get me a light sentence?” Jensen nearly choked on the words. He had never uttered such a phrase, and previous to this could never have imagined himself in a situation where he would need to. The reality of his current state of affairs still seemed so unreal to him; more like a movie. Jensen felt like he was reciting lines. “Sure!” said Henderson, and he immediately kicked himself for not sounding more convincing. “You’ll get me outa prison in seven years?” Dan verified. The thought of any time at all in prison filled his heart with dark dread and sent coursing out to his every extremity. But seven was still better than a lifetime, and Dan would do anything to get out of spending the rest of his life in prison. “At the very most!” said Henderson sounding too much like a used car dealer. “OK,” said Dan. “Jimmy Bechard paid me to –” he choked, cleared his throat, “to kill all those people.”

All over the Great State of Oregon registered voters were traveling in herds to the voting booths. It was Election Day! Noonan had campaigned hard; had done all that he could to acquire voter support. Their support was all that he needed; he didn’t really need their votes. He knew before all of the ballots were in that he already had the position; Bechard had seen to it. The situation had gotten a little out of control, but Noonan had managed to keep a lid on it, and now the situation had cleaned itself up quite nicely. Noonan simply wanted the gubernatorial position and the increased police power in the metro area and statewide. All of those law enforcement officers under his control! But Noonan knew that it would not be enough to simply ‘assume the position.’ It was understood that in exchange for his receiving the position, he would be expected to play ball. Bechard would have the politician more in his pocket than ever before. Somehow the old coot had the resources to put Noonan into the Governor’s mansion, and it only made sense that he could also replace Noonan as well, crush him, make him disappear! Noonan despised the old man and his zany anti-political ideas. He did not wish to be obliged to Bechard, in Bechard’s debt, or under Bechard’s thumb! His only hope was to take Bechard down – in disgrace! Only then would his gubernatorial position be safe. Only then would he be free to attain to his own political objectives. As governor he would be able to take his shot at the presidency. And it all finally started with today.

CHAPTER XIX

The wheels of business turn, gratifyingly, much faster than the wheels of the ‘justice’ system. An agent of Bradley Holdings called Jimmy Bechard’s personal secretary at Bechard Properties. The agent was well received because of the long-standing business relationship between to the two companies. Was it possible, the agent wanted to know, for him to meet and have an audience with Jimmy Bechard? “Of course,” the secretary said. It was known without saying that such a meeting would be for the purpose of negotiating a large, probably complex, mutually profitable deal. It wasn’t the first time that the secretary had seen it. The high priority appointment was set for later in the afternoon. For more than one hundred years Bradley Holdings had operated and functioned as an actual corporation. It had come a long way from being the dummy corporation for a vampire. It was now a financial institution with subsidiaries and subsidiaries to the subsidiaries. Bradley Holdings had its roots from old European money, and even though it was a lender and depository, there was no way for anyone to invest in or own any piece of the old corporation. Throughout the years of economic boom and turmoil in the world, through two world wars and several smaller foreign and domestic conflicts, Bradley Holdings remained a financial rock, keeping a low profile at all times, quietly going about business. The company and its many numerous subsidiaries produced uncountable goods and services; everything from apples to zucchini, from car parts to computer parts, from home loans to legal services. The Ava Group owned large chunks of Oregon farmland and produced massive quantities of produce, never with the help or hindrance of government assistance, subsidy, or incentive. Bradley Holdings operated with a board of executives; every person hand picked by Marcus for his or her talents in making capital work. Marcus had instituted the twelve member executive board in 1890, putting them in charge of assets at the time that amounted to more than ten million dollars. Each of the members, ten men and two women originally, was paid a percentage of the profits that he or she generated using the leverage and power of the Bradley Holdings capital. At first, Marcus had monitored them closely, making sure that every person on the board comported him or her self with honesty in all of their deals, but after a few years he relaxed and allowed the members of the board to operate with little guidance from him. In the last century Marcus had been compelled to terminate only four executives from the board. All the rest had either retired extremely wealthy, or worked productively and happily until the day that death had caught up with them. The members of the executive board had no idea that they worked for a vampire. They believed that Bradley Holdings was an old company owned for many generations by the same family. An annual report, a complex summary of all of Bradley Holdings activities for the year and the activities of all its subsidiaries, was prepared and delivered to a special post office box. Occasionally, every few years, a written mandate from the ‘owners’ would be delivered to the board for their prompt execution. The mandates were distinctive, written on fine parchment and bearing a distinguished seal, so that there could be no mistaking the origin of the written directive. And today, as the executive board met for their morning conference, there had been one such mandate. The board was to obtain a lease on a particular plot of land currently owned by Bechard Properties, and the mandate instructed the board to pay any amount necessary to secure temporary control of the land along with its construction site. A lease agreement document had been included with the mandate. The document did not state what Bradley Holdings would be doing with the property. The property in question happened to be the plot near Lloyd Center that Jimmy Bechard was currently building on. It was to be the future site of an illustrious mid-town hotel; perfect use for the land being so near the convention center. A four-story cement parking garage had been already been erected. “I’ve been authorized to pay 250,000 dollars to procure temporary use and control of the site,” said Jeremiah Heinel later that day. Heinel was the agent from Bradley Holdings designated to meet with Jimmy Bechard, and also a member of the executive board. Heinel was accompanied by two members of his personal staff. They met in a lavish conference room that was part of Bechard’s suite of offices located in southeast Portland. Jimmy sat at the head of the table with one of his own aids to his right, reading over the lease agreement that had been slid to him across the table by Heinel. At hearing the money offer, Bechard could not suppress a thoughtful frown. After a pause Bechard said, “That is a very generous offer considering I only paid a skosh more than that for lot to begin with. I see that this contract doesn’t specify what you’ll be using the land for. Of course, if I were to let my imagination run wild with my memory, I might be inclined to surmise that someone from your company was looking to clean up a mess before any more batches of bones turned up.” “I honestly know nothing about it,” said Heinel, and Bechard believed him. “I am simply carrying out my instructions.” “I will need some assurances in writing that I’ll be compensated for any damages to the property, its fixtures, and the equipment located upon it in the course of your stewardship, plus indemnification for any damages or loss that Bradley Holdings might incur. I assume that you won’t be carrying insurance.” Bechard knew that one of the many subsidiaries of Bradley Holdings happened to be an insurance underwriting company. “Bradley Holdings will put up a deposit of 5,000,000 dollars, and the lease agreement states that Bradley Holdings will pay any and all damages and/or losses. The document also includes an indemnity clause.” “I get the feeling that you have your heart set on this. That is a bad position for you to be in to negotiate,” said Bechard, and he turned to his aid. “Normally, if it were anyone else, I would exploit that, but I’ve had a long-standing business relationship with Bradley Holdings.” Turning back to face Heinel, Bechard continued, “I’m sorry, Mr. Heinel. I do not mean to drive a hard bargain, but I gonna need for you to sweeten the pot just a little more.” “We’ll pay a half a million dollars to secure the lease,” said Heinel without pausing. “We’re prepared to purchase the property if we have to.” Bechard blushed; he hadn’t meant to take advantage of the negotiations to that extreme. “That won’t be necessary. You’ve got a deal.” And just like that, Marcus the Vampire had acquired a suitable place where he would attempt to capture the great Vampire Slayer.

It had been all that Henderson could do just to recruit six other policemen to accompany him to the large, modern home of Jimmy Bechard. Even though he had an arrest warrant, volunteers had been unenthusiastic for apprehending the feisty old man. Henderson would have preferred to carry out the arrest a little later in the evening. It was always fun to shake up the subject as they were just getting comfy for the night on their couch. Following a hunch, however, that may have also been a lack of patience, Henderson had decided to pick up Bechard just before the dinner hour. A bitter disappointment came to Henderson and his cronies when they arrived at Bechard’s domicile to find him not at home. Damn! He’d been so ready to bust the old coot right in his front room. His impatience spiked as he got back to his official detective car and issued an APB on Jimmy Bechard. The old man was probably still at his office, or on one of his properties. They’d find him, and in no time.

In addition to procuring the lease on the Bechard property, the executive board had been instructed to make immediate purchase of an airplane refueling truck, and have it delivered to the site. Needless to say, the members of the executive board were confused and curious about the reasons for their bizarre instructions. Janet had been asked to direct the rest of the preparations, and by the time Marcus had arisen in the evening the trap was nearly set. It lacked only the bait! The vampire had to admit that the timing for all of this was good. The season was well past the fall equinox. The nights were now gloriously long. Marcus drove to the construction site and double-checked all of the preparations. Everything was indeed in readiness. A call from Tim informed him that the Slayer was closing, maybe two hours away. “Thank you, Tim. Please keep posted me on his approach.” The vampire had not told Tim exactly of his plans to capture the wizard. He wanted Tim to believe that he was simply carrying on with his reconnaissance. Marcus felt it was possible that Tim might feel some attachment to the strange being that he had stalked for the last six years. Marcus sat cross-legged on the cement floor of the second level of the empty parking garage. Next to him was a switch box with two round buttons on it. Running out of the control box was a long, thick cable that snaked across the short distance where it disappeared into an empty shaft still waiting for the installation of an elevator. Marcus would have preferred a smaller, more graceful control switch, but naturally he hadn’t been able to oversee the daytime crew that had rigged the mechanism. No matter; it would serve. The old vampire meditated as he waited. At long last, after five hundred years of nightmares, he would finally face the Slayer. He had always hoped that this day would come sooner; that the Slayer would come to him in his feverish day-sleep and end it mercifully. Now Marcus was of a different mind. And he knew that deep down he always had been. Sure, he had all these years been basically suicidal, and there had always been the involuntary survival reflex that managed to keep the vampire from doing mortal harm to himself. But faced at long last with the opportunity, however painful or frightening, to finally bring it all to a conclusion, with oblivion or whatever might be waiting on the other side finally within reach, Marcus was reluctant, even unwilling, to embrace it. He would not cross blindly, ignorantly, over to whatever lay beyond. It was as John had always said – he had to live! Even at the cost of innocent lives? Marcus didn’t want to think about that. “Marcus, old boy, when did you cease your apathy? Is there really hope that you can improve things?” One thing was certain, though – Janet’s idea seemed to be working. With both of the girls taking mass quantities of food enzyme supplements, Marcus found their blood to be more satisfying, and he was able to go longer between feedings! Perhaps Janet’s hair-brained scheme truly would allow Marcus to live for the first time without having to look for suitable victims. A vibration in Marcus’s pocket signaled a cell-phone call. It was Tim. “He is about ten minutes from the site,” he said with some excitement. “Thank you, Tim. And give my thanks to Desperado as well.” It was a dismissal that Marcus hoped Tim would obey. The vampire had insisted that Janet and Mimi not accompany him on what might prove to be a very hazardous confrontation. Marcus stood up and took the night in, sharpening his senses. From his location on the second level of the parking garage he could see the emerald lights of the glass spires of the convention center, and in the opposite direction was the glow from the illumination of the Lloyd Center Mall. The dominant sound was that of the incessant traffic; wheels on pavement, the growling engine of a bus accelerating from a stop, the squeal of a car’s sudden stop, a car horn followed by two longer more belligerent blasts; city night sounds at their finest. The scent in the air seemed to be more of a temperature rather than a smell – cool, damp. Across the street from the parking garage a car sat parked. The vampire’s keen eyes picked out the shape of the person sitting in the driver’s seat of the certified pre-owned Lexus. It was unmistakably Jimmy Bechard, no doubt keeping a worried eye on his asset in spite of all the financial protection that he had been given by Bradley Holdings. Marcus smiled thinking about his old friend. This was so like him. And even though Bechard would be powerless to prevent damage to his site, Marcus could find no fault in the businessman’s curiosity and concern. The old vampire was rather proud of his protégé. Jimmy Bechard had made himself with out help from anyone; only words of objective wisdom from an old vampire. It was regrettable that Bechard would be a witness to what might be happening in the garage in only a few minutes, but it couldn’t be helped now. Marcus knew that he would need all of his focus to carry off the task at hand. This was one of those rare instances when he would have to act, let the chips fall, and deal with the aftermath after the primary threat was neutralized. Being tuned to his senses proved to be a fortunate stroke for Marcus, for he was totally aware when they suddenly failed him. In spite of the fact that both his head and the world was swimming, he could just make out the blurred figure walking up the ramp from the first level of the garage. Squinting in an effort to focus, Marcus finally managed to make out the form, and when he did his first impulse was to run and embrace the man striding toward him – it was John! How long had it been this time? Nearly two hundred years! Two hundred years since they had parted in New Orleans, and even though Marcus had felt loathing for the vampire John, he could not deny that he loved the man, his friend. And here he was, still young, still a vampire without a doubt, but what stories they could share. It’s funny, Marcus hadn’t been feeling terribly lonely these past few months, but now, at the sight of his old friend, the time that he had missed John stabbed at him with a bittersweet pain. But something was wrong. He looked like John, but he did not have John’s walk. John had always walked fast, purposefully, as if he had no time left to get where he was going. This John moved methodically, closing the distance surely, but without vigor. Like waking up from a deep, feverish sleep, Marcus came back to himself just as the being that would appear to John was fifty feet away. He knew that it couldn’t be John. It could only be the Slayer, being clever! Marcus held the control switch in his hand and immediately depressed the ‘ON’ button. A half a second later the fire control sprinkler system came to life, spraying nearly all of the second level with a noxious, pale pink liquid. The Slayer and a large area around him were quickly soaked. Marcus stood safely outside of the ‘sprinkle zone,’ and before the Slayer had even thought to try to escape the kerosene soaked area, the vampire had pulled a flare-gun from his pocket. “Don’t move!” commanded Marcus. “I do not wish to torch you, but I will.” His senses were returning gradually. The Slayer did freeze, head bowed, fully aware of his peril. However, it was obvious by his wide-eyed look that he was surprised at having been bested. The sprinklers, originally designed to help to prevent a damaging fire, continued to drizzle with the flammable liquid. Even if you didn’t know of kerosene or its properties, you could not mistake that the area simply smelled combustible. Normally, kerosene is not terribly offensive to the nose; however, it was enough in these amounts to be nigh overwhelming. “I know about your crystal devices,” said Marcus. “Pull them out slowly.” The Slayer hesitated. “Do it, or burn!” said Marcus, and the Slayer complied. “Put them down and back away.” The Slayer started by producing the object that Marcus knew to be the tracking device – the blue orb. He bent at the knees and carefully laid the item on the cement surface. Next came the small crystalline dish, then another light blue orb identical to the first, and finally a crystalline cylinder about five inches long and one inch in diameter. Each piece caught the dim light and seemed to magnify it, stretch it, amplify it. Marcus pressed the button on the control box that stopped the sprinklers from spraying out any more of the flammable liquid. “Now,” said Marcus, unable to conceal his relief. “Now that you are no longer a danger to me, you and I are going to have a little chat. I want to know who you are, where you are from, and what you are doing!” The Slayer bore the look of an ancient sadness. He slowly shook his head. Marcus shook the flare-gun as he spoke, “I do not wish to do this, but I will, so help me. I have no compunctions about roasting you alive. You must convince me that I should not!” The Slayer finally spoke. “I dare not,” was all he said. “Your fate for telling me who you are will be worse than a fiery death?!” asked the vampire. “My fate, and that of your species,” said the Slayer simply. “I dare not speak of it until you are cleansed.” “Cleansed? Is that what you do to vampires?” The Slayer nodded. “Why do they go mad?” asked Marcus suspiciously. “When that happens, it is for the same reasons that you are disinclined to cease your vampirism,” said the Slayer. “You do not kill them?” “It is you that killed so many of the vampires,” said the Slayer solemnly. “My purpose was only to cleanse.” It was strange, pondered Marcus, that the Slayer spoke of the other vampires in the past tense. A commotion of flashing lights outside on the street caught the corner of Marcus’s eye. Keeping the flare-gun trained in the direction of the kerosene-soaked Slayer, Marcus glanced out to see what was going on. The scene was rather alarming! Several police vehicles had pulled up and boxed Bechard’s Lexus in, as if in anticipation of his flight. Now they had the old man roughly out of his car, and Marcus heard the belligerent policeman in plain clothes announce that Jimmy Bechard was under arrest for the murder of Peterson and Goulier! Jimmy Bechard was as surprised and confrontational as he ever was. He had been busted many times before for everything from speeding to possession of a controlled substance, and it was never something that he could adapt to. Bechard consistently lost his cool whenever someone threatened his personal freedom. A stout cop, additionally thick with a Kevlar vest under his blue uniform, barked, “Stop resisting!” and an elbow from somewhere suddenly caught Bechard on the side of the face. “Get him down,” yelled another uniformed cop as he moved into the fray in an attempt to get purchase on one of the old man’s limbs. A second later the air was rife with the hot odor of pepper spray. Bechard was really trying not to resist, but with four police officers pulling him in four different directions, it was impossible for him to physically comply with their barked orders, so it was several more jabs, punches and sprays before the cops had wrestled the old man down to the ground and pinioned his arms harshly behind his shoulder blades. Like a thief rifling over a corpse for valuables, a uniformed police officer searched the subdued man. Marcus thought quickly. It simply would not do for his old friend to take the blame for the killings! He was compelled to intervene. Addressing the Slayer, he said, “We will have to continue this another time. You are free to go. Leave the devices! Stay close; I will come to you when I am ready.” Again the Slayer hesitated, and Marcus barked, “Go!” After a moment, the being that appeared as John backed out of the kerosene soaked area. Within moments he had disappeared down the ramp and into the shadows. Marcus quickly sloshed through the wreaking area and retrieved the four objects. He did not have time to examine them just now. With a quick phone call to Janet, he instructed her to initiate the clean up and restoration of the construction site, then he hurried down to the street just as three policemen were stuffing Jimmy Bechard into the backseat of one of the patrol cars. The rest of the cops seemed to be milling around, talking on their radios, generally doing whatever it is policemen do whenever they seem to be doing nothing. “I say!” said the old vampire to the nearest cop in his haughtiest manner. “What is going on here?” “Who are you?!” asked the cop in a voice equally puffed. “My name is Mark Lance, Esq. I am attorney for James Bechard.” Marcus made a point of appearing to take note of the name badge on the policeman’s uniform. The young policeman could not suppress a little anxiety as he called over his shoulder, “Lieutenant! This guy says he’s Bechard’s attorney!” Detective Henderson, wearing civilian attire, an expensive, casual tan suit to be exact, stepped up to the old vampire. “Is this some kinda joke?!” asked Henderson with all the belligerence he could muster. Marcus gave him a hard smile while discreetly secreting a special mixture of hormones and brain chemicals to help calm the detective and keep him confused. “I assure you that it is not,” he said, and he held out his hand in an amiable gesture. Henderson pretended not to see the proffered hand. “Let’s see some credentials.” Marcus reached into an inside pocket of his trench coat and groped elaborately for something that he knew was not there. This was one time when it wouldn’t work for him to try to pull the wool over the other man’s eyes and charm him into seeing something entirely different than what he was looking at. The vampire looked embarrassed without appearing like a con-artist. “I do not seem to have my bar association membership card with me. But no matter. I’ll pick it up on my way down to the police station.” Henderson and the other cop looked at the attorney with newfound fear. The kid didn’t sound like he was trying to pull a job on them. Neither man spoke so Marcus continued, “I assume that you will be transporting Mr. Bechard to the police station for your standard booking procedure!” Henderson cleared his throat nervously, “Ahem! Yes! Of course.” “I will meet you there,” said Marcus simply, “But first, would you mind if I talked briefly with my client?” “Whatever,” said Henderson. “Make it quick!” “Thank you,” said the vampire, thinking of the old Aesop’s Fable about the sun, the wind, and the traveler. Another uniformed cop opened the rear door of the patrol car and Marcus stuck his head inside, looking upon his old friend, beaten and red faced. The effects of the pepper spray prevented the old man from getting a good look at Marcus, however the blurry visage before him was enough to bring rushing to his mind the memory of his child-hood friend. Marcus took the old man’s leathery hand firmly and said, “It is alright, Jimmy. I am here. Everything will be fine.” Bechard felt a warm wave flow over him, the feeling of a rush that he was well acquainted with from working out at the gym for fifty years, a feeling that he commonly referred to as ‘the endorphin rush.’ Bechard stammered. “What?! Who?” “Mark Lance, Mister Bechard,” said Marcus. “Your attorney.” And he removed himself from the car leaving the old man speechless with confusion, and a mild euphoric disorientation. The vampire turned back to Henderson and said ‘Thank you’ once again, then stepped past the grumbling detective quickly and strode off into the direction of his Cadillac SUV. Henderson was chiding himself intensely for allowing the young man to talk to the prisoner. It had obviously been for the purpose of corroboration. Stupid! Oh well, the damage was done….. The uniformed police officer mumbled, “We are gonna catch hell for this.” “No we’re not!” said Henderson. “We’ve got the governor-elect on our side.”

“Most of the initial tallies are in, and so far it’s Noonan by a landslide!” announced a zealously patriotic young volunteer over a PA system at Noonan’s campaign headquarters. “Von Raines has just conceded the race!” Members of the press began crowding the area, trying to get closer to the big man. Travis Noonan gushed and smiled hugely, waving as the large hall erupted into cheers and applause. Almost as an afterthought, he put an arm around his wife, who was looking about as pleased and beautiful as she ever had in all her forty years of life. Patricia Noonan had the look of a woman who had resigned herself to getting old, and so looked quite a bit older than she was. She was of the firm opinion that no woman over forty should try to wear long hair, an idea that she had heard her own grandmother profess, so hers was styled much like a matronly grandmother’s might be, even though she was still a couple years away from being a grandmother herself. Any strong opinions that Patricia had were generally concerning the trivial; she was glad to ride on the ‘intellectual’ coattails of her husband. Patricia was proud of her outspoken husband and was as supportive of his politics as any wife. Her dull, brown eyes were those of a barnyard animal. “Speech!! Speech!!” The faithful crowd would hear from their newly elected state leader. Noonan stood not elevated, but framed from behind by a large ‘Travis Noonan for Governor’ billboard on the wall at the head of the great hall that served as his campaign headquarters. He was not quick to quiet the maelstrom coming from the exuberant crowd. Noonan held the microphone to the PA system, and in front of him were a dozen more mics held by aggressive news officials waiting to capture his victory speech. Camera flashes flickered incessantly like light catching the facets of a white gem, and the more unobtrusive videos cameras silently captured the entire scene for later re-viewing. At length, Noonan mustered some emotion and spoke. “I just want to say ‘thank you’ to all of the great people that ran my campaign. Thanks to my beautiful wife Patricia for her love and support. And thanks to the people of this great state for choosing me to take up the reins in the capitol.” This last line he had used on purpose as a subtle snub to his opponent; it had been part of the losing man’s campaign slogan. “I want to take a second and acknowledge my opponent, Von Raines. He is a great man, he was a worthy candidate, and he would have been a fine governor. I wish him the best.” “Too bad he didn’t stand a chance,” thought Noonan with a silent laugh, and his mind turned momentarily to Bechard who surely had somehow fixed the race in Noonan’s favor. Henderson would be busting Bechard right about now. Noonan focused back on his speaking. “As your governor I will have the security and prosperity of every Oregonian as my number one priority. I have worked hard in the past to fight the increasing crime rate. Now, as your governor, I will lead the forces of good against the minions of evil, and of course, you know I’m talking about criminal element; everything from the two- bit drug dealers to sex offenders, and the Psicko Killer, who I am proud to announce was taken into custody just this morning!” Applause erupted like an explosion, and before it had even begun to taper off Noonan yelled triumphantly over the mic, distortion lining his voice as it issued from the PA speakers, “Together, we will fight the good fight!!” The scene deteriorated into a pandemonium of shouting and cheering, handshakes, hugs, backslapping, and even dancing as music was piped over the PA system. After only a few minutes Noonan was trying to think of an excuse to leave Minutes later, amidst all the hand shaking and congratulations and toasting, Noonan felt his cell-phone vibrate. Checking the caller ID display, he saw that the call was from Detective Henderson and he decided to take the call. “Give me the good news,” said Noonan cheerfully as he answered. “I picked up Bechard,” said Henderson. “But there is a wrinkle. He’s got another lawyer, some guy named Mark Lance, and I’m worried that this guy will be just as bad as Lambert. I don’t want to get sued.” “Mark Lance, eh? Name doesn’t ring a bell,” said Noonan. “Actually, Darrel, I’m very glad you called. I wouldn’t want to miss Bechard’s booking for anything else in the world – not even my own victory party! I’ll come right down to the station and keep this Lance fella under control.” “Thanks, Judge. Or I guess I should be calling you Governor!” said Henderson in tone that was at once relieved and congratulatory. “You can just call me Travis.” The big man had changed his mind about Henderson completely. Now that his lead ‘button- man’ was dead, Noonan had his eye on Henderson for the job. The detective had proved his ability and his loyalty. A ‘business’ relationship with the police detective would be ideal for the politician’s new job! “Say, Darrel,” said Noonan. He had thought of something else. “Try to keep both of them out of the way until I get there. Put them in a room without video surveillance. I want you to handle all of the processing, and do it discretely, you got that?” “Yessir.” “We don’t want the media and we don’t want a lot of witnesses.” Noonan could hardly contain his excitement as he quietly left the party without explanation. “Business,” was all he said to his wife and campaign manager when they pressed him for the reason. “Cover for me.” Finally, after all this time, Jimmy Bechard would be getting his due. This would be a perfect ending to an excellent day!

CHAPTER XX

The small interrogation room would normally have been cool, but it was feeling fairly warm and moist from the five bodies seated in it. They were an odd collection of men, acquainted with each other, yes, but with such differing lives, differing opinions, differing values, and differing agendas. Where was the common ground? Bechard sat one end of the rectangular stainless steel table. He was still reeling from all of the night’s strangities, still feeling the burn in his eyes and face from the pepper spray, and his head felt heavy from the blows it had received. Blessedly, the throbbing had subsided at some point. The bust for him had come out of the clear blue, and he kicked himself for not seeing it coming. He should have known something was up when Philip Lambert got his suspension from the state bar. The old man was feeling rather shanghaied, and he hated that! He was used to having a lot more control over his own situation. Jimmy wondered at what point he should just go off and physically resist. It was not a rational notion considering that such a fight would be against overwhelming odds. He remembered reading a recent news headline about some kid that had killed two cops right before being gunned down, and the thought of those two dead cops now warmed his heart. Being held in captivity made the old man’s blood boil like nothing else! But seeing this young man that was such a striking resemblance to his old friend Marcus was enough to take Jimmy Bechard far into the surreal. Old memories, mostly good, had flooded the theatre of his mind all during the ride to the police station in the back of the patrol car. His custodians had expected him to raise a ruckus all the way to the station and they snidely made remarks to that effect as they arrived. One of them had said, “I guess we knocked the fire outa the old dude.” So who was this Mark Lance? Maybe, thought Bechard, he was distant kin to his long lost friend. What an amazing coincidence that he should come walking up just when Bechard was needing a sharp lawyer so badly! Bechard was also extremely curious as to why Travis Noonan sat across from him. What in the world was he doing here? The politician filled his stainless steel chair, leaning back in it as if he had just finished a satisfying meal. Never before had he felt so in control of a situation. He thought of his victory party and smiled again. Henderson’s timing for the arrest had been perfect! Sitting on one side of the table, between the politician and the business man, was Detective Henderson, with a few bits of paperwork, Bechard’s processing, before him. Henderson had followed Noonan’s instructions to the letter, and virtually no one else in the building knew of their presence. It helped that it was ‘after hours.’ Shackled to a chair that was bolted to the floor in the corner of the room was poor Dan Jensen, freshly retrieved from the lock-up according to Noonan’s discreet instruction. He looked down, refusing to make eye contact with anyone and remained silent. It was easy for the others to forget about his presence in the small room. And finally, Marcus the Vampire, though the other men knew him for the moment only as Mark Lance, Attorney at Law, sat seemingly disinterested across the narrow span of the table from the detective. He was, in contrast to his appearance, extremely alert. It had been a long time since the vampire had exposed himself to such risk, but after all that had happened earlier in the evening, he felt that this situation would be of little consequence as far his secret was concerned. Before he could release a strong hormone mixture he needed to try to ascertain the various moods of the other men. It was easier to detect each man’s respective scent thereby discerning his disposition while the air was still clear of his own more potent secretion. Bechard was mostly angry, with strong doses of upset and scared mixed in. He was also obviously a bit confused and frustrated as well. Every now and then he would go through a spell of nostalgia. Henderson was more nervous than he allowed to show, and Noonan’s outward show of confidence was betrayed only by a subtle body odor that suggested his grasp of control was tightly held because he was seriously afraid of losing it! The vampire did not need heightened senses to see that Jensen was depressed, dejected, and without hope. “I want to be examined by a forensic medical examiner,” said Bechard. “I am an FME,” said Henderson without looking up. “You’re fine.” It was an egregious denial of rights, and Henderson fully expected to hear a strong protest from the lawyer, but to his surprise and relief none came. Still, the detective could not relax his tight grip on the pen that he held between white knuckles. Bechard worked consciously to try to calm himself, then said strongly, “What the hell am I doing here?” The question had been directed more at Noonan, but Henderson intercepted it casually, still not diverting his attention from the paperwork. “You’re under arrest for murder, Mr. Bechard. Right, Jensen?” Dan Jensen missed his cue from the detective. “No,” said Bechard. “I mean, what am I doing here, in this room?” Henderson lifted his head finally and tried to appear indignant. “I thought you’d be a little more appreciative of the privacy and discretion that I am graciously affording you.” “You never graciously afforded me squat!” “Fine!” spat Henderson. “If you’d rather we can just go out and I’ll run you through the drill like every other –” Noonan cut in, “Whoa! Whoa! Calm down here, men. Let’s remain civil.” Bechard did calm down, but his words kept a very sharp edge. “And what the hell are you doin’ here, Travis?” Noonan tried so very hard not to sound like he was gloating, but it was difficult to disguise. “I am here at the request of Detective Henderson. Quite frankly, Jimmy, you and your lawyer are notoriously hard to handle. It’s no secret that many officers of the law are afraid to carry out their duty in regards to you because of your strong influence with the powers that be. Now, you’ve been in some scrapes before, Jimmy, and I’ve been very quick to get behind you. But let’s face it – this time you’ve gone too far. I can’t let you get away with murder.” Bechard bit back rage. “Why you little –” He managed to stop himself from saying something really bad, then continued. “After all I’ve done! I can’t believe this!” Turning to the detective he continued his controlled burn. “These trumped up charges are absurd! I don’t see where –” “It’s actually quite simple, Mr. Bechard,” Henderson interrupted. “I suspected you from the beginning because it was clear that your dealings with Peterson were not above-board and you wouldn’t cooperate with me in my investigation. I knew the job was a hit – a pro with some serious issues. I figure that Peterson was probably fixin’ to expose you for some sleazy proposition you had presented to him. When the IRS agent was found I learned that she was hot on your tail for tax evasion, and the pieces started coming together. But the clincher was when we picked up Dan Jensen for murdering Manuel Stanley and Jamie Thompson. Jensen is a clever man, great at playing the idiot. I have to admit he was the perfect man for your scheme, but he was careless about cleaning up his loose ends. He sang on you, Bechard; told us everything.” “You think I hired Dan Jensen to murder Greg Peterson?!” Bechard exclaimed with sincere incredulity. In the corner Dan sat with his balding head bowed, his chin touching his chest. Bechard ranted on, “That’s an insult to my intelligence! I’ve never had the desire to kill anyone! There would be no profit in such an action.” Noonan turned to the young man Mark Lance and said, “You may want to advise your client at this point. He is not under obligation to incriminate himself.” “You are not truly concerned with my client,” Marcus said simply. These were the first words that he had uttered and they had a chilling effect on the room. Noonan found that he had no reply, and Henderson stopped his writing. He couldn’t think of the next thing….. Bechard was the first to break the short silence. “Look. Henderson. Maybe you and I got off on the wrong foot, so let me tell you how it is. You’ve got to understand that I did not pay Jensen to kill anyone! I hired him as a security guard! That’s it! Now, I’m sure that there are a few things you’ve been wanting to buy for yourself and your family. I can arrange a gift for you. How about 150,000 dollars?” Henderson’s eyes went wide and crimson crept up the back of his neck and around to his face! That sum was nearly three times his annual salary. He’d been offered bribes before, even took a few when it looked safe, but this was far beyond any of that small time crap. He looked over at Noonan with an expression on his face that the politician was unable to read, and the big politician spoke quickly. “Bechard! You’re going to try to bribe an officer of the law right in front of the governor?!” “Oh, give me a break!” exclaimed Bechard. He was bound by his word to never speak of his previous graft deals with Noonan, so it was the most that he could say. However, the bond of that promise was definitely under some strain at the moment. Noonan was sure that at some point Bechard would start talking fast about all of their ‘business’ deals; which was one of the primary reasons that he was very glad to be here. Not only could he sit and watch while Bechard took his big fall, Noonan could also act as a sort of buffer for Henderson. The detective was fixing to hear some pretty amazing and incriminating stuff and Noonan needed for Henderson to keep the big picture in sight. Turning once again to the lawyer he said, “I really think you should say something to your client before he gets himself into trouble.” Marcus was cool. “Your concern for what my client says reveals your true desires – to have him not incriminate you with his words.” Again the chill. Henderson could not focus his mind. He was boggled by the thought of what he might do with 150 G’s, truly tempted by the offer. But it didn’t seem real to him – impossible! The paperwork before him seemed written in another language. And just what exactly was this lawyer talking about? Bechard was also finding it difficult to articulate his thoughts into words, but it seemed plain to him that the cop was entertaining the idea of his offer, so he did the only thing that came to his mind to help push Henderson over the edge. “250,000!” Noonan finally gathered his words again and spoke, rather stammered, in the direction of Bechard and Henderson. “Anyway, it’s too late for that. Detective Henderson does not have the power to stop this process. You’re going to stand before the grand jury my friend and –” “That is not true,” said Marcus, interrupting the powerful politician. He reached across the table and casually snatched up one of the pieces of paperwork that Henderson was feverishly trying to fill out. It was a docket request form. “Nothing happens until this document finds its way to the court administrator.” “Hey! Give that back!” Henderson said, sounding a little more like a whiner than he wanted to. “Remarkable, is it not?” Marcus continued. “One little piece of paper that can set in motion tremendously damaging and costly effects for one particular individual and the rest of society. In essence, you, Detective, hold the fate of this man Bechard in your hands, at least as far as the next few months and perhaps years go. Whether he is truly guilty or indeed innocent, you decide if he is to undergo tremendous expense, damage, and loss. Do you understand how it is that you have such power?” Henderson found himself actually able to think at last. This lawyer had engaged him with a question. Mark Lance had yet failed to show him anything that even suggested that he was really a lawyer, but the thought of that fact was now sitting idly towards the back of Henderson’s mind and did not nag at him. The guy had to be a lawyer; he talked kind of like a lawyer. But Henderson decided that he liked the guy. He didn’t seem to be pulling any punches. He wasn’t threatening to sue somebody with every other breath. Before Henderson could fully organize his thoughts into an answer however, Noonan fired off a quick, easy response. “He gets his power from the public trust.” “I was not talking to you,” said the lawyer in a bone chilling tone. Then he smiled amiably back at the detective. “I – I do my job for the good of the public,” said Henderson. “If I have power in my job then I suppose it would come from the public.” Marcus nodded his thoughtful nod. Bechard was very familiar with that gesture as the other men in the room soon would be. “Perhaps,” said Marcus. “But, who physically stands behind you and the decisions you make in the capacity of your job as a law enforcement officer?” Henderson had to think about that one for a minute. It wasn’t the public per say; the civilians were the ones that he was commissioned to protect. The public stood behind him only with their collective support. His power, his muscle, came from the system itself. It came from the organization that was the police force. It came from his fellow officers, his colleagues, his brothers in arms. For the moment it was an issue to be avoided! Henderson tried to dodge the question. “Look, I just do my job. I investigate the crimes, make the arrests, do the paperwork; from there its outa my hands.” The lawyer’s tone remained even. “What you do in the course of doing your job is also a cause set in motion. The results may or may not be a benefit to society. The results to you personally are more likely to be negative rather than positive, believe me. Would you try to deny responsibility for your own actions?” “Hey! When did this become about me and my job? Bechard is the bad guy here. Now gimme back that damn form!” “Henderson,” Noonan said, “Don’t listen to him. He’s just trying to mess with your mind. He’s trying to set us against each other! Don’t fall for it. You protect the city! The streets would go completely to hell without brave police officers like you.” Meanwhile, Bechard had been staring in disbelief at the young Mark Lance since he had started talking. Not only was this kid a dead-ringer for Marcus, his childhood friend and mentor, but he sounded like him as well. How could that be? He said almost in a mumble, “God! You remind me so much of someone I knew a long time ago.” “For the moment we must remain focused on the present,” Marcus said quietly, and Bechard knew that that was exactly what his old friend Marcus would have said. Then, with a mischievous grin, the lawyer slid the paper across the table, back to Henderson. “So what about Bechard’s generous offer? Enticing, is it not?” Henderson paused only for a nano-second before he blurted, “I do not accept bribes. I’m an honest cop.” He said it quickly knowing that if he stopped to think about it any more, he’d go the other way on the decision. Noonan glowed with gratification, and relief. But it was to be short-lived. “YOU STUPID, SILLY NOTHING!” Bechard yelled. “Honest cop, HA! There is no such thing! Everyone has their price! Half a million!” But Marcus was clapping. “Bravo! There is hope for you yet, detective. Clearly you have some moral conscience about where your gold comes from. So now we get down to it – where do your wages come from?” “Could we please stay focused on the issue at hand!” Noonan almost bellowed. “We are not here to discuss Detective Henderson’s finances! We’re here to get the wheels of justice moving.” The lawyer stood up quickly. “We shall get to justice soon enough!” he said sternly, and the statement had that chilling effect on the room. “But first, Detective, please tell me from where your payment originates.” “I – I don’t feel inclined to discuss it,” said Henderson. “It’s late, and I would rather finish this up and get home to my family. I don’t want this to take all night.” Marcus turned his back to the table, stood with his hands held behind his back, and gazed into the dark mirror that served as the one-way window from the adjacent observation room. A strange thought struck him and he mused to himself, “It’s a good thing that that one bit of folklore about vampires not casting reflections in mirrors is false.” Then he focused his gaze on the reflection of Henderson in the mirror, still seated at the other side of the table. “Come now, Detective. Work with me. You are obviously in good with Mr. Noonan; and his objective here tonight, clearly, is to make certain that Mr. Bechard is booked. He is committed to making sure that it is done before he leaves, and he most certainly expects the same commitment from you.” “Now wait just a minute!” Noonan was rising to his feet as well, but Marcus cut him off. “Please, be silent!” said the lawyer. “Your words do nothing but convince me that there is no hope in trying to educate you.” Noonan’s jaw dropped, and he huffed and stammered. “Huh! Fuh! Uh! You – you can’t speak to me like that! I’m the governor-elect! You can’t just tell me to –” “Shut up!” Marcus interrupted. “I pity you. In additional to your warped values it is plain that you cannot recall the last time that you talked to anyone who was not trying to get something from you. I do not seek favor from you, Mr. Noonan. You have no power over me.” It took a second for Noonan to realize what the lawyer had just said, and when he did finally get it he had to admit that the young kid was right! Everyone that ever came into the politician’s orbit had an agenda. Everyone was hoping for some form of advancement through an association with the powerful politician. All of the people that helped with the campaign; they all wanted something from him. Many of them were undoubtedly political gunslingers waiting for their own rise to power. Even his plain-jane wife sucked him dry somehow. Did anybody really care to know who Travis Noonan was as a person? Did Travis Noonan? Bechard had nearly the same situation. Most of the people that ever had the extreme good fortune to interact with him had hidden agendas. But like a good Mafia Don, Bechard listened to the hopes and desires of the people that came to him. Some of those people he helped; money, influence, connections. Then they were beholden to him, and Bechard would store their debt away, deeply out of sight, until he needed a favor. The old man had learned long ago that even the smallest, most lowly of men, could, in the right circumstances, provide a valuable service to him. Bechard did not care that few people knew who he was as a person. He kept the most important people in his life close to him, and everyone else were like birds that fed from his hand; only the most bold stepped forward to eat richly. Henderson could only imagine such a status for himself. And right at this moment he was also sitting stunned that someone, even a hot-shot lawyer, would talk to someone like the Judge – oops! The Governor in that way! “Now, Mr. Henderson,” Marcus continued. “It’s a simple question – from where does your income originate?” Henderson decided to comply with an answer. “Well, I guess basically it comes from the city budget.” Marcus seemed only slightly frustrated. “For the ease of explanation, shall we stipulate that you are paid essentially by the taxpayers?” “Sure, if it’ll make you happy.” The reflection of Marcus in the mirror frowned at the detective, and the detective got the distinct impression that now was not the time to be flippant. “Yes, I am paid by the taxpayers.” “The taxpayers!” Marcus echoed. “That includes everyone that lives or does business within the jurisdiction of the local government, right? They each pay, giving the government the necessary funds to continue its operation. In return, the government provides services such as police protection, emergency services, public education, certain utilities, roads, and even recreation. Do any of these people have the choice to not pay?” “Why would they want to do that?” asked Henderson. Marcus smiled a thin closed-mouth smile. “Suppose that a certain individual that was considered part of the public body did not desire or need a particular service being offered by the government. Should that individual still be compelled to pay for the unwanted service?” “Hey, I don’t make the rules. That’s just the way the system works, you take the good with the bad.” “Of course, you do,” said the lawyer. “But does that mean that you should be compelled to pay taxes by force and the threat of loss of private property and freedom?” “It’s not that bad, really!” said Henderson. “So you don’t believe that you should have the right to private property?” “What the hell has this got to do with Bechard murdering Peterson and Goulier?” asked the detective. “I don’t know how you’ve done it but you’ve gotten us way off the track here!” “It is really quite simple, my dear Detective. You refused Mr. Bechard’s extraordinarily generous offer of cash to use your position as officer of the law to allow him to carry on with his life and business unfettered by these murder suspicions, yet you gratefully receive a trifling sum from the local governmental body; funds that were raised essentially at gunpoint.” “Well, the government doesn’t commit murder!” exclaimed Henderson, quite frustrated. He wished that he could have accepted the half a million clams. But there was no way he could take that kind of money with the Judge watching. It seemed now that calling the Judge had been a regrettable mistake. Marcus laughed as if he had just heard an uproariously funny joke. He laughed almost too long; the sound of it turned sinister. “First, my dear detective, do not think of the government as some splendid, perfect, all-powerful organization that operates solely for the good of the public. The government on every level is nothing more than groups of individuals like you, most of them not even as conscientious as you are, and highly fallible!” As he spoke he rounded the table and approached Henderson until he was nearly in the detective’s face. “And yes,” he continued. “They do occasionally commit murder, my friend – often.” He continued his laughing. Smack! came the flat of Noonan’s hand down on the top of the table. “This has gone on long enough!” he yelled. “I have had it! Henderson, finish the paperwork on Bechard and let’s get this over with!” Marcus straightened and turned, heading casually back around table as he spoke. “Is it not curious, detective, how motivated Mr. Noonan is to see this booking business through? What do you suppose his motivation is, I wonder?” “I’m just here to see justice served,” said Noonan. “I am committed to the people to do all that I can to make the city –” “Zip it!” said Marcus with a rather flamboyant dismissive hand gesture. “Uh!” Noonan stammered, jaw open, stunned that he had once again been interrupted by this pissant lawyer. Tomorrow, the politician was going to fix things to make sure that this lawyer never practiced law again! Noonan recovered, “I will NOT zip it! I will not sit still for this! We are going to get back –” “Shht!” Marcus hissed loudly. “Mr. Noonan, you forget; of the five men in this room you are the one that least belongs. As the prisoner, Mr. Bechard has some rights; that explains my presence. As an officer of the law Mr. Henderson has some liberties; that might explain the presence of Mr. Jensen, but it does not adequately explain what you are doing here. Don’t!” he held up his hand as Noonan tried to speak again. “We already heard your explanation and we see through it like glass. But I would not dream of imposing upon you to leave. Indeed, I want you to take part in this discussion, but only as a listener. Please, do me the courtesy of raising your hand if you wish to speak.” Noonan was up in arms! He wanted to walk out just to show the little bastard up, but he needed to make sure that Henderson wasn’t prevented from completing the paperwork on Bechard. Damn this lawyer was slick in an entirely different way! Noonan had to reestablish control. He said in a huff, “Why, I never! Where do –” “Please!” Marcus cut him off again! “Your protests are wasting valuable time. Now, Detective, what do you think are Mr. Noonan’s true motives here tonight?” “I think he wants to see justice served.” “Be more specific.” “He wants Bechard booked for murder.” “Yes! Why?” “Because Bechard is guilty as hell.” “How does he know that?” asked Marcus. That stopped Henderson. He had been so caught up in his own suspicions of Bechard that he had not given a lot of consideration to that question before now. In the back of his mind he had always assumed that Noonan knew something, some secret that he had been privy to by virtue of his position. “Look! I’ve got a signed confession from Jensen that he was hired by Bechard to carry out the murders.” “OK,” said Marcus. “Let us discuss Mr. Jensen for just a moment. Now, I understand that you have some very compelling evidence suggesting that he physically carried out the murders, and you even have the statement of a particular eyewitness that has since been murdered himself. Which murder was it that finally put you definitively on Jensen’s tail?” “It was the murder of Jamie Thompson, no question,” answered Henderson. “That was the job where my eyewitness stepped forward.” “What was the motive?” “I’ve got the statement of an eyewitness. The prosecutor wouldn’t need to establish motive to get a jury to convict.” “That might be true, if your eyewitness was credible. But your eyewitness was, in fact, a two-bit drug dealer. His statement before a jury would carry some weight, but it would not carry the conviction by itself. To guarantee a conviction, the prosecutor would need more from you, do you not agree?” Henderson knew this was true. “So?” “So what was Jensen’s motive?” “Maybe he was acting on his own on the Jamie Thompson job. Maybe Jensen was so turned on by chopping up his victims for Bechard that he had to go out and engage in some extracurricular dicing. We found evidence to suggest that Thompson had been planting AIDS infected needles around town. Maybe Jensen was playing vigilante.” “Ah yes, the dreaded AIDS needle scare. It would seem that all of the pieces of the puzzle fit together quite nicely. So what about the police officer killing from a couple of weeks ago, what was his name?” “Bruce Nader,” answered Henderson. “And you can tie Bechard to that one as well?” “Bechard hates cops; it’s a well-known fact! Do the math! Look, if you know something why not just spill it? Why are you leading me like this?” “What I know I cannot simply tell you; you would find it too incredible. No, my dear Detective, this is a conundrum the answer to which you must arrive at on your own. It brings to my mind that age old riddle; I am sure that you have heard it. It is the brainteaser where you are faced before two identical doors – one which leads to freedom and the other leading to instant death, final; and you do not know which one is which. Standing before each of the doors is a sentry – one of them speaks nothing but the truth, and the other speaks nothing but lies, and again you do not know which one is which. You are permitted one ‘yes- or-no’ question to either one of the sentries, and then you must choose a door and pass through it, to whatever awaits. Have you heard this one?” “What the hell has this to do with anything?!” Noonan bellowed. But Marcus simply held up his hand and leveled a glaring eye at the politician. “It is not your turn to speak!” he said through clenched teeth. “Raise your hand and wait for me to acknowledge you.” Henderson could not believe the trouncing that Noonan was taking from this young lawyer. He was grateful that he was not the target of Mark Lance’s cutting mockery. The detective decided that he would continue to try to maintain good rapport with the unusual attorney. And besides, “I do remember that one from when I was a kid,” he said. “The answer is you ask one of the guards something like, uh, ‘if I was to ask the other guard if this was the right door would he say ‘yes’?’” “That is pretty much correct,” said Marcus. “But do you know why asking such a question works?” “I never really thought about it,” admitted the detective. “It works because it is a ‘yes-or-no’ question that will elicit the same response concerning the particular door in question regardless of which sentry you ask,” said the lawyer. “This is significant because you are now faced with collecting facts from two men. You will try to get the truth out of both of them, but you have no good reason to believe anything that either one of them has to say. The obstinate Jimmy Bechard will more than likely continue to be unwilling to cooperate with you as an ‘authority figure,’ not even to save himself from the gallows, and the motivated Travis Noonan walked in here this night with a distinct purpose. You do not have to determine who is lying and who might be telling the truth, but you do have to uncover the truth about what happened. That is, as you say, your job. Or would you prefer, perhaps, to simply quit right now? Take the money that Mr. Bechard offered you and do something productive with it?” Henderson let out a long breath. The bribe money again! Jesus!! He stole a quick glance at Noonan who seemed itching to say something steadfast and self-righteous but not willing at the moment to take another of the young lawyer’s rebukes. “Look!” said the detective. “There’s no way I’m gonna take money –” “Not even a million?!” Bechard interrupted. What was he if not persistent? “Not even a billion, if you had that much,” Henderson affirmed, and Noonan relaxed perceptibly. “That’s fine,” said Marcus. “Just fine. I have high hopes for you, Darrel.” And everyone there sensed the significance of Marcus addressing the detective by his first name. “We have a lot of ground to cover and not a lot of night. Are you ready?” “Ready for what?” asked Henderson, and noticed that his mind was clearing for the first time since they had arrived. He suddenly felt very mentally alert. “Good,” said Marcus. “Why don’t we start with the two kinds of people in the world – Bechard?” The old man smiled broadly, not missing his cue. “There are two kinds of people in the world – those that take care of business by producing more than they consume, and those that don’t take of business by consuming more that they produce.” Noonan’s eyes went wide. “What the hell is going on here?!” But Marcus cut him off with a severe gesture. Henderson was also a bit confused as to what exactly was happening even though he felt better. “What are you doing?” he asked of Bechard. Marcus grinned slyly and answered, “He is officially issuing his statement. Please continue Mr. Bechard.” “Right!” said the old man. It was just like old times! “Producing more than one consumes is a relatively easy endeavor. One must simply devise some kind of product or service, and then market that product or service competitively. By doing this the person improves the quality of life for himself and everyone else in society. The person of course must be committed to never causing a damage to anyone or anything. He must deal honestly at all times, remembering the laws of cause and effect.” Noonan rolled his eyes. If he had a dollar for every time he had heard Bechard rant and rave about capitalism he’d be a billionaire. Henderson took advantage of the pause. He was still only half listening. “Is that all?” he asked. “Not even close,” said Bechard. “Then there are those lazy and dishonest individuals who consume more than they produce. They expect the rest of society to take up their slack. The world truly is this simple – black and white! You are either taking care of business or you’re not. So detective, which is it?” “Whoa, whoa! You’re not sucking me into this,” said Henderson. Marcus spoke gently, “Darrel, if you really care where your gold comes from you’ll answer the question. Either that, or you should just accept the bribe. If it is that you are hesitant to take a bribe in front of Mr. Noonan, please allow me to assuage your fears. He will say nothing. He is bound by the same promise of silence that you would be after accepting such monies.” “Goddammitt!” said Henderson, the voice permeated with frustration. “I’m trying really hard to do the right thing here!” “Then answer the question,” said Marcus. “OK, fine. What’s the question again?” “Are you taking care of business or not?” asked Bechard. “Do you produce more than you consume?” Henderson pondered for a minute. He had always felt like a hardworking productive American, but something about the way they had worded it made him think that this was a trick question. Why did it feel like he was on trial here in this little interrogation room? What was keeping him from finishing the processing paperwork? At last Henderson said, “Of course I do. I work damn hard for the public. I have money in the bank and money tied up in investments. In my own small way, I’m moving America forward!” And Noonan stood up and clapped! Marcus waved a dismissive hand at the politician and said, “So, you provide a valuable service; that is true. But there is one problem – you do not market your service competitively. Instead, your services are foisted upon the public literally by force, whether they desire them or not, and they are forced to pay for them along with government services, whether they use the services or not.” Henderson’s face screwed up into a contortion that reflected his confusion and inner-conflict. “I can not begin to comprehend all of the implications of what you are saying to me!” “I know you mean well, Darrel,” said Bechard. “All you ever wanted to do was make an honest living and provide for your family. But you have to ask the question ‘does my employer honestly market valuable goods or services’ and in the case of the government the answer is ‘no’.” “Darrel, don’t fall for this hogwash!” exclaimed Noonan. “They’re just trying to confuse the issue!” Marcus said, “And remember that the organization that you call the government is simply a group of individuals. They are not superior to you. The governmental body gets sustained life by duping more and more mis-educated recruits and adding them to the bureaucracy.” Noonan was sounding a little frantic. “Darrel, don’t listen to them. Sure, there are some problems in government right now, but we can fix them. I am very committed to my good, honest policemen! And the city needs you!” “It sure sounds good, doesn’t it Henderson?” said Bechard. “Everything that Noonan says. The amazing thing is that we all know its malarkey. We joke about how politicians lie and cheat, do whatever it takes to get into office and then never do anything that the public wants, but come Election Day, we’re still down at the hall, puttin’ in our useless vote.” “How do you take care of business, Mr. Bechard?” asked Henderson. “That’s a fair question,” said the old man. “Basically, I improve real estate, increasing its value and functionality. To make that happen I put my own capital at risk, and I employ my knowledge and skills to solve problems and bring certain parties together. It’s true that sometimes I manipulate the governmental system as a means to meet my objectives, but it’s always for the purpose of increasing the real value of property.” Henderson noticed that Noonan had become oddly quiet for the moment. He had a hunch that Bechard and Noonan had been in a lot of deals that involved that exchange of money for political favors, and the thought of that along with everything that had just been told to him began to overwhelm him. His brain was trying hard to process all of the insights that had just been put before him. He said, “Is this your way of beatin’ the rap? You come in here and lay all of this deep philosophical shit on me?” Bechard said, “Well, Darrel, I’d be lying if I said that wasn’t part of my desired objective. But the big reason we are telling you all of this is a little thing I like to call ‘drop-in-the-bucket economics,’ which basically says that all of the little things eventually add up. In talking about the progress of mankind we, that is all of us in society, either add our drop to the bucket or take a drop from the bucket. What would you want to be known for? As for my endeavors to educate, well, that’s just ‘drop-in- the-bucket economics’ again. Every little bit helps! Every person that becomes more productive from my encouragement is just one more drop in the bucket for the progress of mankind.” Henderson smiled, for the first that night – for the first time since…. “It’s like the Jimmy Bechard School of Anarchy.” He was genuinely amused at the idea. “More of a church,” said Bechard. “I like to call it Jimmy Bechard’s Hip and Jive Church of What’s Happening Now. But don’t confuse a free market capitalist society with anarchy. If the world was full of individuals that all took care of business, there would be no chaos, no crime, no war, no poverty! Those maladies are always caused by someone or some group trying to get somethin’ for nothin’, or trying to steal or destroy.” Noonan finally cut in with mild sarcasm. “I’ll bet you didn’t know that Bechard was such an idealist.” Marcus let the interjection slide. “If I’m an idealist it’s only because I’ve seen the profound effects that just one individual can have on everyone’s quality of life. And I’ve also seen the amazing effects that capitalism can have on quality of life. Everything so fine about your quality of life, from your house in the suburbs to the fruit you ate at breakfast this morning is the result of capitalism. But I have an example that I like even better than that! Darrel, Travis, both of you are old enough to remember when we didn’t have computers and the internet. I remember the first computers! They were amazing machines, big! Noisy! Expensive!! But they were marvelous. Over the decades they got smaller and smaller, until finally, they were small enough to fit on a desktop. I’m sure that you can remember some of those earlier computers. By today’s standards they were slow as molasses, and for most people prohibitively expensive. But here’s the strange thing – the development of computer technology was not regulated by the government! Government regulation is the polar opposite of a free-market economy, and by some strange quirk of fate, computer technology was allowed to develop unfettered by government regulation. And we all know what happened. The rate of technological progress in the computer industry took off like a rocket. The price of computers dropped while their speed and performance increased off the charts. Today, even low-income households can afford a computer and have the benefit of the internet in their homes. For less than a thousand bucks you can buy what I couldn’t buy for a million dollars twenty-five years ago. That’s a dramatic increase in quality of life my friends, and we all watched it happen within our lifetimes. That is what gives me hope that someday, everyone in the world will commit to taking care of business!” “That’s a beautiful story, but it doesn’t matter,” said Noonan. “The people will always need government. They will always need to follow leaders!” He was finally going to have it out with Jimmy Bechard. The politician had listened to too many of Bechard’s ranting anti-government sermons. He had dreamt of the day when he could sit Bechard down in a room and tell him that his ideas were stupid, destructive, and nothing more than a rationalization for all of his sleazy, underhanded deals. Noonan continued, “Capitalism doesn’t work because the companies that supposedly provide the public with all these fabulous products tend to get out of control. They will do anything, pollute anything, advertise anything, and forget about quality control just to get more profits. Without government regulation we’d end up with monopolies, and they don’t do anything to increase the quality of life. There is too much corruption in big business.” “Travis, you make it sound as though businesses out there are just lookin’ for any way to screw their customers to make a fast buck. It’s simply not true.” “Oh but it is!” said Noonan. “Do you think the big oil companies give a damn about the environment that they leave for their customers? Then there’s the pharmaceutical companies pedaling band-aids for broken bones. Masking the symptoms is much more profitable that marketing the cure! The agricultural industry using hormones and irradiation to make their food products grow faster and larger, and last longer, but who knows what all of that is doing to our health! And don’t forget your precious Bill Gates! He may have brought us Windows, but how many programmers did he steal ideas from to deliver that bug-filled behemoth of an operating system?! Only government can keep the big business in line. “There’s also the issue of petty crimes! It’s sad but true, poverty and other conditions drive certain people to commit burglary, rape, even murder. The government with its fine police force is the only thing standing between order and chaos!” Bechard said, “There would be only favorable conditions and no poverty to speak of if everyone just took care of business, produced more than they consume! And that goes for every government employee.” “Wait a minute!” Henderson’s head was starting to spin with all of the contrasting opinions. How had they gotten to this point on a simple book processing? “This is too much for me to take.” Noonan was quick to come to his aid. “You don’t have to sit there and listen to this murderer and his crooked lawyer try to tell you that you are not a productive member of society. They’re the non-productive ones. They’re the ones causing all the destruction. I know you wanna do the right thing, Darrel, so book him! Get it done, so we can go home. And I’ll take care of the lawyer first thing in the morning.” “No, Judge,” said Henderson resolutely. “I don’t believe you. I think you’ve been passing only half-truths to me this entire time, to say nothing of the general public. It seems that you try to keep my attention from the real point by raising issues that don’t really matter. Clearly, you’ve been playing me since our first interview, feeding my ego, steering me in the direction that served your purpose. I knew you were doing it but I ignored it because I wanted to believe that you were doing the right thing. I can see now that you were just using this serial killer crisis to get votes; nothing like a good crisis to get people to follow the leader! And you were using me. I don’t know what the truth is, but I believe Bechard speaks it better than you do.” From the corner of the room came the weak sound of Dan Jensen clearing a large amount of phlegm from his throat. “I – I would like to change my statement.” Travis Noonan stood up. “OK! I can see I’m going to have to take control of this situation. Henderson, I’m calling in the booking sergeant.” The big man stepped over to a phone hanging on the wall near the door, but before he could lift the receiver Marcus was there firmly preventing him. Noonan protested, “What are you doing?!” “You will not call,” said the vampire. Noonan made a swift move for the door but Marcus’s smooth hand reached out, covering the big man’s hand on the doorknob. Try as he might Noonan could not turn the knob against the strength of Marcus’s hand. “You let me out of here!” cried Noonan, and pounded the door with his free hand. But it was to no avail. If there was anyone within earshot outside the room, they would have been quite accustomed to the sound of pounding from the inside of this room. Noonan got a hold of himself very quickly. A cool head would be needed to salvage things here. He said, “You are holding me prisoner?!” He wanted to hear a statement of admission, but none was forthcoming. “Help me, Darrel! Get this punk off me!” The detective rose a little slowly, confused. He wasn’t sure what was happening. His only reassurance was his sidearm held safely in his shoulder holster. The thought of pulling it out made him queasy, however. He rarely ever put himself into a situation where use of deadly force was necessary. Noonan was bellowing loudly. “Call for help, Darrel! They’re gonna kill us!” The big man was wrestling against the young looking man, but he was unable to free himself from Marcus’s firm grasp. Obediently, Henderson reached for his cell phone. It would be safer, for the moment, than trying to physically confront the young lawyer. Even though the young man was not physically intimidating, there was something in the way that he moved that was indeed very intimidating. Best to keep him occupied with preventing Noonan from leaving or using the phone. Henderson hoped that the scene would not escalate any further. Shaking he tried to dial the number to the desk. Why had he never taken the time to program in the damn speed-dial numbers?! Marcus finally got a hand over the fat man’s big mouth. “Relax, Darrel. I am not going to kill anyone… yet. I simply did not wish to have Mr. Noonan involving anyone else in on our little discussion. I think you can see the wisdom of that. Somebody started out with the desire to keep this private; it was either you or Mr. Noonan here, and I am putting my wager on Mr. Noonan. Be all that as it may, I think you will agree that we should continue our exclusivity.” Henderson let out a breath of relief. Damn, but this lawyer was smooth! “I agree,” he said. He replaced his phone, and pulled out instead a key ring. He spoke as he stepped over to the corner where Dan Jensen sat shackled to his chair. “I am sorry about this, Dan. I hope that I can do something to fix the damage I’ve caused you. You are free to go, but you will still have an arraignment date. The court will issue a bench warrant if you don’t show, but I’m pretty sure that I can fix things so the prosecutor won’t have a case. If you plead ‘not guilty’ they may just drop the charges. Maybe Mr. Lance will represent you and take care of it. Either way you shouldn’t have to go through a trial.” He continued as he unlocked the handcuffs binding Bechard’s wrists. “Mr. Bechard, I don’t know what to say. I thought you were the biggest ass on the planet, but I can see now that you are without a doubt a remarkable man. I am truly sorry, and I sense that you do not hold a grudge against me, which I truly appreciate. But now I don’t know what to do!” “You mean with your career, your life?” asked Bechard. “Yeah. I mean, how can I go on being a cop after all of this?” “This sure has changed the way I look at things,” Dan Jensen inserted. “Do you enjoy detective work?” asked Bechard. “Yeah, I do. A lot. It’s challenging.” “Detective work can be a valuable service. All you have to do is market your service competitively. I have a feeling that you’ll be more successful at it than most.” “You make it sound it so easy,” Henderson said. “But I have a wife and kids to think about.” “It is easy,” said the old man with a wink toward Marcus. “But I got my start with a good bit of help, and I’m willing to pass the favor on to you.” Henderson also looked at Marcus who still stood holding Noonan immobile and silenced. “What am I going to do about him?” he asked gesturing toward the politician. “He’s governor now and after this he’s probably going to squash my nuts into oblivion.” Noonan glowered at the ‘former’ police detective. Damn right he was gonna squash his nuts! Noonan felt confident that with only a modest amount of damage control he could salvage the situation. Maybe Bechard wasn’t going to get sent up the river just yet, but Noonan was too powerful now for Bechard to simply roll over out of spite. Besides, he thought, Bechard had too much invested in Noonan to remove him from his position. All he would have to do is demonstrate his renewed willingness to play ball and he’d be right back on Bechard’s A-list, or at least his B-list. “You don’t need to worry about Noonan,” said Bechard. “I hate to admit this but he’s my creation. I own him. Hell, I’ve been throwing money at Noonan for years! I’ve been putting him into powerful positions in exchange for political favors. That’s why he was so gung-ho to see me sent to the gallows. He must be thinking that if he can get rid of me then he won’t have to make good on his part of the deal. Now that I’ve made him governor, he’s become a little too big for his britches.” Henderson narrowed his eyes and asked, “How did you ‘make’ him governor?” “Remember how you said ‘that’s the way the system works?’ Well, I didn’t make the rules either, I’m just doing the best I can to be productive with the system giving to me.” Marcus finally spoke again, “Perhaps Mr. Noonan should be made to pay for his crimes.” And Marcus could feel the big man go rigid with fear. “What crimes?” asked Henderson. “He might be a liar and a politician but that’s not all that bad.” “He was fixin’ to ruin the lives of two innocent men,” said Bechard pointedly. “He is much worse than even all of that, my friends,” said Marcus. “He is responsible for many deaths and many ruined lives.” Marcus walked the big man back over to his chair and firmly set him down in it. “Have a seat, my corpulent friend. Please, try to refrain from any more outbursts.” The politician remained quiet, planning, as if trying to decide the best possible moment to bolt for the door. Henderson was inquisitive. “What exactly is he guilty of? Why didn’t you say something earlier?” Marcus knew that if he came right out with what he knew about Noonan, the big man would become even more desperate than he already was. He might remain somewhat subdued however, if he didn’t know just how truly busted he was, so Marcus concluded that he would have to skirt a few of the facts before dropping the bomb. With both of his hands finally freed-up once again he began, “Last week a police officer and his family were killed in their home. Does anyone know who killed them?” Henderson had no idea, even after having investigated the crime scene himself. Without the erroneous Bechard and Jensen conspiracy he was back at square one, not that he had ever truly been off of square one at any time throughout this ordeal. Marcus continued, “The other night a young man named Chad Reeves killed two police officers at Pioneer Square right before being gunned down by the police. Does anyone know where he got the gun that he had lashed to his hand?” Noonan relaxed somewhat. Obviously this young lawyer knew nothing. He was grasping for answers to obscure questions. How could he know anyway? The only way he could know was if he had talked to Manuel Stanley. The name Chad Reeves rang in the back of Noonan’s brain however. It seemed he had heard the name before, but it could just as easily have been his imagination. For now, he just needed to stay focused on damage control. Henderson remembered that he had not found Bruce Nader’s firearm at the scene of his murder. He asked, “Are you telling me that this Chad Reeves kid had Bruce Nader’s gun?” “Chad Reeves had sort of vendetta against Officer Nader,” said Marcus. “There was also a judge and his family found dead in their home at around the same time, was there not?” “Yeah!” exclaimed Henderson. “They were done by Reeves, as well?” “Yes,” said Marcus. “The judge was part of Chad’s vendetta.” “How? Why?” Suddenly Noonan remembered where he had the name of Chad Reeves. The kid had been in the papers about a year and a half ago – the first of several people that had contracted AIDS from infected needles that had been planted around town in places where someone might accidentally get pricked. The politician broke into a cold sweat. Surely this pissant lawyer hadn’t made the connection back to him. There would be no damage control able to help the situation if Lance had! It was impossible; he had been way too careful. And Stan the Man was dead! There was no way Lance could have found out. It was inconceivable! Marcus continued, “Chad Reeves, if you will recall, was in the news before. Some time ago when he was diagnosed with AIDS. Do you remember the story?” “Oh yes!” exclaimed Henderson. “Chad Reeves, the poor kid that got stuck by the heroin needle that someone had taped under a stair rail at the court house.” And suddenly the vendetta made some kind of twisted sense to the Detective. The blood drained from his face at the realization. Noonan eyed the door, then eyed the slight bulge under Henderson’s jacket. If this got any worse he would have to go for the detective’s gun. It would not be difficult. With the gun he would be able to regain control of the situation. The body count might have to increase for the sake of damage control, but Noonan knew that he could still work it out. “Yes,” said Marcus. “Whether they truly shared in the blame or not did not affect the outcome – the police officer and the judge, and their families died horribly by Chad’s hand. He made good his revenge on them. But that is only part of the story.” With a sudden movement that seemed in contrast to his size, Noonan heaved forward, grabbing Henderson’s wrist, holding his arm and reaching for the Slim Nine before Henderson could even comprehend what he was doing. Once Noonan had his fat hand around the grip of the gun, he gave Henderson a hard shove with his other hand and the detective fell from his chair, minus his sidearm. Noonan was quickly on his feet and moving around the table, flicking the gun in every direction to show the other four men how close to death they might be if they made that one false move. Finally, once in the far corner, putting as much distance as possible between every other man in the small room, Noonan exclaimed, “Now you’re the one who’s gonna shut up, Lance! Not another word!!” His fat thumb disengaged the safety on the firearm. It was now all set to kill! Marcus looked calmly at Henderson as the man slowly climbed back into his seat. “And now you see how it is, Detective. If you think about it, the puzzle pieces that make up the true picture should be falling into place.” “I said not another word!” cried Noonan. “Hands up!” Everyone complied, except Marcus, who continued talking. “Jamie Thompson was the man who physically planted each of the needles; that much is correct. Stan the Man kept him supplied, and called the police anonymously every time there was another needle planted so that hopefully the needle could be located before anyone accidentally got stuck. The scheme was designed only to insight a panic in the public, and additionally to subtly turn public opinion against AIDS victims and drugs.” “Shut up!!” “The whole thing came to a head when Jamie Thompson did not die quietly of ‘natural causes.’ At that point Stan the Man killed Jamie Thompson and skillfully framed Dan Jensen for the murder. Shortly after, Chad Reeves learned of the entire scheme and killed Stan the Man.” “SHUT UP!!” “And the man that benefited the most from the crisis was the mastermind behind the whole thing!” Marcus continued. “It was not even really all that clever; I have seen much more devious schemes in my time. Chad was probably on his way to kill you when he got himself into trouble and –” BLAMM!! The gun sounded, then all sound was momentarily gone from the small room. Marcus dropped, a tiny hole directly in the middle of the throat issuing crimson. On the wall directly behind where he had been standing was a red Rorschach shaped blotch. He lay motionless on the floor. Noonan had been aiming for his head. The politician quickly trained the gun back in the direction of Bechard and Henderson. “I’m sorry detective, but you’re gonna have to take one for the team. How could you lose your temper and shoot Jimmy Bechard and his lawyer?” And with that Noonan aimed the gun at Bechard’s broad chest and fired again. The old man fell from his chair to the floor, groaning all the way. Noonan then trained the gun on Dan Jensen. “I would prefer to not have to explain three deaths here tonight. So you will live only if I have your word to tell this story how it happened – Detective Henderson went ballistic and killed Jimmy Bechard and his lawyer!” Jensen saw the detective turn toward him with a look that reflected only horror, but Noonan was pointing a gun him! Jensen nodded at the politician, almost enthusiastically. He would like to have asked if this still meant that he was off the hook for the other murders, but with Noonan pointing a gun at him he felt that it might be a bad time. Jensen made a mental note to ask about that later. “And now, Detective,” said Noonan lowering the gun. The big man paused to wipe the gun down with handy handkerchief from his suit pocket. “You’re going to put your fingerprints on this gun. Then we’re all going to go face the music!” He placed the gun on the table in front of the detective. Henderson quickly snatched the gun, engaged the safety, and stowed it back in its holster. Now that the present danger had passed, the detective got down where Jimmy Bechard lay gasping and groaning. The old man was going to die! “Judge,” said Henderson, as he applied direct pressure to the wound. “You’re outa your goddam mind if you think I’m gonna go along with this.” Then he barked an order to Jensen. “Check on Lance!” Jensen hesitated only for a second with a glance at Noonan, then he moved across the room to the fallen lawyer. Noonan just looked on with apathy. “Give it up, Henderson. You have to do this my way now!” Dan Jensen looked down at the lifeless form of the young man. There wasn’t a lot of blood, but there wasn’t much left of his throat either. He was clearly deceased! Jensen was sad for the death, mostly because now the poor, life-buffeted security guard was back in hot water. At least now he knew who had shattered his already pathetic life. Now he knew that it hadn’t been fate conspiring against him at all; it had been a man that he hardly knew, using him like a lab rat to achieve his political objectives. Suddenly, Marcus heaved and coughed a wretched sound through destroyed vocal cords. Jensen shrieked and nearly jumped up on the table in shock and fright. Marcus knew that his spinal cord had been severely damaged, but somehow he was still able to move; a bit slower, yes, but it would be fast enough. He sat up stiffly, then rose to his feet unsteadily. Jensen and Noonan stared, stunned, as Marcus lurched around the table. “Oh shit!” Noonan was finally able to say through his shock. He wasn’t sure how in the hell anyone could live through such an injury, but he could see by the dead look in the young man’s eyes that he was going to need Henderson’s gun again. He cried, “Henderson!!” The detective had been rather intent on the injured Bechard; now he looked up, his jaw dropping slack in spite of himself. Even Bechard quieted his groaning. All eyes were on Marcus as he staggered toward Noonan, arms reaching out, eyes murderous. Marcus’s breath rasped through a shattered voice box, his words came out in a hoarse, guttural whisper, “You have shown to us what you really are! Now I shall show you what I am!” And all of the men watched the fangs extend. Noonan raised his arms in a feeble attempt to defend against the vampire, but he found that his strength had abandoned him. As weak as Marcus was from having been shot, he still had the power necessary to subdue his victim and feed. As the fangs pierced the sweaty skin of Noonan’s neck and entered his carotid artery this big man froze even more rigid than he had been, his eyes wide. The severe, concentrated pain was like nothing he had ever experienced. Travis Noonan had had the good fortune of a life with very little pain; his tolerance was low. A low, abbreviated, guttural scream that sounded more like a gargle used the last of the air in his lungs. Through the unfathomable pain, it seemed to Noonan that he had no power, even to draw in another breath. He wanted so badly to scream his pain, but without air in the lungs the scream only sounded in his head. The source of the scream was his mind, or perhaps his soul, and it filled his head until the only things real to Noonan was the pain of the bite, that now permeated his body, and the scream that resounded through his core, joining the pain like raging mountain runoff into a pulsing river. His life was meaningless now it seemed. It flowed out of him, and he had neither the power nor the inclination to stop it. It wasn’t his life anymore; it belonged to this creature that was in the process of sucking it out! All of the power and riches that the politician had accumulated in his very short life – none of it mattered anymore. It surely did nothing for him now! Perhaps it would benefit his wife and children – his children! He truly had loved them, what would become of them in his absence? They would be devastated. Noonan had left many families devastated by his actions. The politician had left a lot of damage in his wake. Oh, the things he had done in his efforts to acquire power – the sacrifices! His family paid a part of that price. The realization of his destructive life came to him only in the form of intense grief; regret that his life had never been his own. The pain was ungodly, the noise in his head stripping him of his last remnants of sanity. And even through all this madness, he stayed strangely lucid, as if this creature that continued to drain his life away wanted him to get a good look at the end right before it came! It seemed that the sucking force on his neck was the only thing holding his eyeballs in their sockets. And the life kept flowing from him… flowing… flowing….. Marcus the Vampire sucked until there was nothing coming from Noonan’s obese body. Only then did he stop the flow of adrenaline that had kept the politician’s brain somewhat functioning even after it had become severely oxygen starved. The heart had stopped shortly after Marcus had bitten the fat man’s neck, but Marcus was not about to let the politician off so easy! And, besides, he would need every drop of that greasy tasting blood. The vampire turned stiffly; Henderson and Jensen might have been the mannequins at a Halloween specialty shop. Marcus looked down at Bechard, then bent and inspected the lifeless man. The pulse was faint; a lot of blood had leaked from the wound onto the floor. It would be sad for the world to lose the hardworking businessman. The vampire made a snap decision. “Jimmy!!” yelled Marcus, as loud as he could, though is sounded like a terrible whisper. “Jimmy!!” He touched the old man’s face and let loose a potent cocktail of adrenaline and other stimulants, then smacked it. The old man finally groaned. The vampire bit severely into his own wrist, then held it bleeding tightly to Bechard’s mouth. “Drink!” he commanded in a hoarse, windy growl. “Quickly!!” It was not delicious to the old man, but the blood seemed to contain life! He could feel energy seeping back into his body; the pain subsided, faded! No, it was not delicious, but his body seemed to like it, crave it, like drinking nasty powdered protein mix after an extremely heavy workout; it doesn’t taste good at all, but it sure goes down smooth! Henderson and Jensen were utterly fixated by the grotesque activities. It was the stuff of Hollywood movies! Here, however, it seemed like a dream. More like a nightmare. Had the men just spent an evening with a real vampire? Henderson was more curious while Jensen seemed more apt to run for his life. The only thing that stopped him from such a panic was Henderson’s relatively calm, controlled demeanor. Suddenly Marcus wrenched his wounded wrist away from Jimmy Bechard mouth. The movement had been totally involuntary, but Jimmy had had enough, Marcus decided. Jimmy would live, would survive the fatal bullet wound, would survive old age! Marcus bowed his head. He had just willfully created his first vampire. The old man’s head fell back. He had energy, life, yes, but now he suddenly felt overwhelmingly drowsy. He mumbled something completely unintelligible as he drifted into unconsciousness. Darrel decided that he had no reason to fear for his life. He remembered the lawyer’s words, the vampire’s words, ‘there is hope for you yet, Detective,’ and concluded that the nightmarish creature probably did not want to kill him. Darrel looked at the fatal wound in the young looking man’s throat. The bullet had obviously not been stopped even after impacting the spinal column. Darrel could see where the tiny projectile had blown away a chunk from the back of Marcus’s neck. “Oh my God!” he whispered, in an attitude of reverence. He had never been a very religious man, but it suddenly seemed appropriate to acknowledge the Almighty. At the other end of the room Dan Jensen started to shake, and emit a disturbed moan. He was at the end of his control and terror was beginning to take over. He moved drunkenly toward the door. In a raspy voice Marcus said imploringly to Darrel, “Please, stop him, and calm him down. Neither of you is in any danger. But he needs to be calm before he exits this room.” Darrel was already rising to his feet before Marcus finished. He hurried over and put a firm hand on Dan Jensen’s shoulder. “Dan!” he said. “Dan, it’s alright! We are safe. He’s doesn’t want to hurt us.” It took a full minute of coaxing before Dan Jensen finally calmed down and took a seat at the table. “What are you going to do to us?” asked Dan, still just on the edge of hysteria. “It is not my intention to hold either of you any longer,” croaked Marcus. “However, I would appreciate just one last word with both of you before you go.” Both men nodded slowly, and Darrel could not keep himself from asking, “Is this white magic or… the other kind?” “Neither,” Marcus rasped through a smile. “It is science – a marvelous and terrible science; one that hopefully will soon be made without flaw to be a benefit to mankind. Until then, it would be advantageous if you both could protect this secret. I promise that only pathetic individuals blinded by mysticism would ever believe such a story. I urge you both to leave here tonight, and take power in your lives. Follow no one; you both have sufficient intellect inside yourselves to be your own authority. Commit yourselves to being honest producers, and you will both lead full and rich lives.” “Is that it?” asked Dan. He was still shaking with anxiety and apprehension. “Would you like more?” responded Marcus quietly. “I would,” said Darrel matter-of-factly. He was adapting to the idea that vampires were real. “What’s gonna happen to Bechard?” Marcus nodded. “He will be fine.” “Will he be a vampire?” “Yes,” said Marcus. “What about Noonan?” asked Darrel. “Noonan is dead,” said Marcus. “And it is good. He and others like him that endeavor to get their livelihoods by an unproductive means are the real vampires of society. As individuals they may not live forever, but they suck the life out of society.” Dan Jensen overcame some of his fear. “Do you live forever?” he asked. “I do not know,” said Marcus. “But I would recommend it.” It was decided that they should leave. Dan was set free, even though Darrel couldn’t be certain that he wouldn’t be picked up again and tossed back into lock-up until his arraignment. Marcus carried Jimmy Bechard out of the building as inconspicuously as possible and drove to the safety of his house in the west hills. The vampire had done nothing to disguise what had actually happened to the politician. Let the ‘authorities’ draw their own conclusions. And on his way out of the police station, Ex-Police Detective Darrel Henderson stopped at a small room that housed the building’s video surveillance control equipment. The equipment was not monitored by a person, just taped on eight different video tapes in case it was necessary to review them later. For those eight tapes, there would not be a ‘later.’ Then Ex-Police Detective Darrel Henderson exited the police station for the last time. He did not tell anyone of his resignation. He didn’t even leave a note! Darrel did send a short e-mail to Lori Conner at the county prosecutor’s office. It told her that evidence had been found destroying the case against Dan Jensen and that he had been released from lock-up. “There is no case,” the note read. “The charges are false and should be dropped.” Many hours later Police found the exsanguinated body of Governor-Elect Travis Noonan. Concerning the details surrounding his death they were baffled and horrified. Could it be possible that an honest-to-god vampire had done it?

CHAPTER XXI

The strange, white-haired man, the wizard, the Slayer, had for a time, stopped walking. There was nothing for him to do but to fabricate once again the tools that he used for his mission, the tools that he had once again lost to another vampire. It had only happened one time before, and that had been quite accidental. What is life but a series of mistakes and learning experiences? But this last time had been no accident, and even more of a learning experience. The vampire had anticipated his coming, had prepared a clever trap! The vampire now had the means, if he so chose, to destroy the strange, beautiful man. For the first time ever he feared for his life. And there was nothing to do but to continue trying to carry out his mission. The strange man was seated on the ground amongst the thick foliage in the forest not far from Crown Pointe. He no longer had the appearance of Giovanni, John, John Locke, John the Revelator! With his beautiful serene face and shock of gravity- defying brilliant hair, he looked as if he belonged there in the dark among the ferns and nettles, the moss covered trees, the night- birds, the possums and slugs. He did not stand out, and he left no visible impact. In his hands he held a small branch from an alder tree. Bit by painstaking bit, with immeasurable slowness, from the branch he grew a crystal. It would not take too long to grow the necessary crystal for the tool he needed – only about 75 cycles of the seasons. The second tool would take only a little longer to make. The crickets had ended their communications, the moon was setting. It was the darkest part of this cool night. Nocturnal animals followed their instinctual wanderings heedless of the man that sat on the forest floor. The tranquility of the scene was invaded by the growing sound of footfalls crashing through the forest. The sounds grew louder; someone was approaching, but the stranger stayed intent upon his task. Presently, the sound stopped as the approaching person at last entered the proximity of the white-haired man, but he still did not look up from his alder branch. He already knew without looking that the intruder was the young peerless man that had followed him for the last little while. “Hey,” said Tim. “Marcus will see you now.” The strange, white-haired man did look up then. He could see that the visitor was wearing his trademark low-light vision- enhancement apparatus and was carrying one of the tracking devices. Gracefully, without a word, the beautiful being stood and walked toward Tim. Tim was only a little nervous. “C’mon,” he said. “This way.” The pair walked back through the dark forest, the strange, white-haired man moving without difficulty through the unlit undergrowth, and Tim faring with considerable less ease. Tim had to stay attentive on making his way, so he was unable to try to engage the wizard in conversation. He knew better anyway. At length they emerged from the thick forest on a rutted secondary road. After some distance on the road, they finally came to the place where Tim’s van sat parked. In the dark it appeared only as a terrible black shadowy shape next to the edge of a foreboding wood, unless you happened to be wearing infrared night-vision goggles, or unless your vision happened to abnormally acute and able to be tuned to be more sensitive at low light levels. “Get in,” Tim instructed, though he didn’t need to. “And don’t try anything funny!” he added in warning, though he really didn’t need to do that either. Tim maneuvered the van down the secondary road for a short distance before it let out into the curving mountainous highway. Within minutes, they were approaching Crown Pointe, overlooking the dark gulf of the Columbia River gorge. In the absence of light it appeared only as an abyss, a dark void powerful enough to suck in all light, even the glare from the metro thirty miles away. As Tim parked the van, the vehicle headlights passed over a group of people standing at the stone rail, looking out at the dark chasm as if there was something there to see. All but one, that is, looked out from the rail. Marcus the Vampire was fixed on something else – the small blue orb. He had been monitoring the approach of the Slayer. Marcus was focused on the center of the orb, just as John had instructed him that night nearly two hundred years ago on the outskirts of New Orleans. The first time he had looked inside that orb there had been many, many red dots representing vampires. Now he was contemplative and maybe even a little reassured to see that there were only three! One for the Slayer, one for Jimmy, and one for him. He had been the last vampire in the world! That thought filled him with a profound loneliness, even though he hated vampires and had been instrumental in their extinction. He knew it wasn’t rational or logical, but he was not about to route the emotion. Was this truly the order of the universe? Were vampires truly the evil anomaly as he had always thought? Would their extinction bring about balance in the universe? How? For this momentous occasion, Marcus had invited a few special friends. Janet and Miriam stood ready to witness whatever was about to occur. Standing next to Marcus was Sarah. Tim exited his van and stood a little way off to the side. And Jimmy Bechard, now dramatically transformed, stood waiting to take part in the proceedings. It had been three days since he had been shot, and Jimmy Bechard was now fully restored, not just from his mortal wound, but also from old age as well. He now had the face and body of when he was twenty years old. Only his hair had yet to regain its youthful appearance, but Marcus had said that it would. Being a vampire does not speed up the growth rate of one’s hair, and thank god for it! Jimmy’s hair would grow in thick and blonde, just as it had when he was twenty. The old man could get used to this; he had more strength than ever, and he felt invincible! But alas! Apparently he and Marcus were here tonight to ‘get cured.’ Marcus had told him of the terrible complications of vampirism, and Jimmy had to agree that getting cured was the rational course of action. Being a vampire even for this short period had been the greatest adventure of Jimmy Bechard’s life. Janet radiated with an inner beauty that seemed to light up the night. She had lost weight, and was now very much in touch with her feelings. If it should be that she should ever suffer from depression again, she would know it, and take conscious steps to get better. She now had plenty of self-interest, and she paid particular attention to her choices and actions, and was careful to identify her motivations. Miriam had all of the energy and joy of someone that was finally free of a heavy burden. She knew that life would have for her many more trials and hardships, but she was ready for the growth. She felt as though there was nothing that she couldn’t accomplish. Sarah moved with the confidence and grace of a woman no longer struggling with internal conflict. She was standing a little taller these days. She had quit smoking, lost all of the excess weight, and was in the process of learning about what was necessary to lead a healthy lifestyle. She was committed to living in a way that promoted longevity. And she was dedicated to improving her mind, and becoming an individual that produces a real value. Tim wasn’t sure what he was going to do with himself now that it seemed that his vampire slaying quest was over. Now that Tim was in no more danger Desperado was going to leave and go back down to Columbia or someplace and fight against slave- labor. Tim supposed that he could go back to being an accountant, but before he could do that, he would have some mourning to do – real mourning, the right way. The strange and beautiful man alighted from the van and approached the closely spaced group. He stopped his slow advance when Marcus raised his hand. The cold stars made just enough light for Marcus to see that the face of the Slayer was utterly unreadable. Marcus spoke slowly, “At last the evil of five centuries is to end. I have chosen the time and place where I shall cease to exist as a vampire.” Marcus held up the dish-shaped crystal device, but did not hold it out to the stranger. The old vampire continued, speaking slowly enough and pausing between phrases to allow the beautiful stranger every opportunity to speak, but the white-haired man remained silent. “Would that I could have figured out how to work this device,” Marcus said. “I am pretty sure that this is the one you use to do it – to ‘cure’ vampires. I have studied my vampirism long, and now, at long last, only at the end do I feel that I am beginning to understand how it works. And if I had been able to learn the secret of this device, I would never have sought you out. I would have used what I know of vampirism and this device to bring to society a way to live virtually forever!” Marcus paused, trying to read the strange man’s reaction to his words, but saw none. “Imagine it!” said Marcus. “An enterprise where the sick and the dying could be turned into vampires and cured of their ills. Healthy donors could supply the blood necessary for the vampires to regenerate. Once the person was fully regenerated we could use this device to cure them of their vampirism, once again free to live a full life. No one ever need die; not from aging, sickness, or at the hand of a vampire!” Again Marcus paused, and again no reaction from the Slayer. “Speak up,” said Marcus. “Tell me why I should not continue to try to discover the secret of this device and do as I have just outlined.” If the stranger felt any distress over Marcus’s veiled threat he did not show it. He remained solidly impassive. But Marcus was not finished. “You will speak, sir! I will not relinquish this device to you until I am satisfied! Natural order be damned!” The silence following the demand was palpable. Even the sound of the unseen river from the gorge below seemed suspended, waiting for the strange white-haired man to end his long silence. In the dim starlight Sarah and the other three mortals could just see the faint smile cross the stranger’s lips. It was an ancient smile, wise, objective, amused, but with notable sorrow and regret. The beautiful being spoke. “The one called John told me that you would be my most difficult charge.” Every question that Marcus had for the strange man was temporarily forgotten with the mention of John. Before he could collect his thoughts the man continued. “I speak only that I might more quickly end my mission to restore this body of people back to an uninfected state, and return to my own place. The responsibility for the infected condition of this world rests solely upon me and is the result of actions that I did take seven thousand, four hundred and seventy-two cycles of the season prior to the current cycle. I unleashed into this world the contaminant that resulted in nothing less than the retardation of and the deviation from the normal evolutionary course of this society.” Jimmy spoke up, “Whoa, now! That’s being a little hard on yourself, doncha think?” But the beautiful stranger shook his head solemnly. “I tell you this not for your sympathy, but only so that you might understand my motivations. To help you to understand I shall begin at the beginning. “I came to this world with three others of my kind, my teachers, seven thousand, six hundred and twelve seasonal cycles prior to the current cycle. Our purpose was only to examine perhaps a little too closely the current evolutionary status of your species, and for me to see some of the universe. My teachers had visited this beautiful world many times before.” “You’re from another planet?!” The question came from Janet even though Sarah had been just about to ask the same thing. Mimi had been stunned into silence. “Yes, my friend. At the time, the people of your species were just awaking to individual consciousness. Not all of them did. But I happened upon one that had not only awoken to her self-awareness, but she was also beautiful and strong. She, along with those other members of her settlement had acquired some agricultural skills. I first saw her in a large beautiful garden. She was exquisite, and I was instantly entranced. “Although my teachers said that it could have catastrophic results, I engaged her in communication and I found her passing very fair. She had a far quicker mind than most others of her species, and she was very strong physically and personally. But what held me most fascinated was her passion! She was full of love and beauty! By virtue of our genetic makeup, passion is a quality that beings of my species do not inherently have or even understand. To learn more about it I stayed with my new love, while my teachers proceeded on without me. “Her name was Lillith, and for one hundred and forty cycles of the season we lived together, and with the others of her family and settlement. Knowing that the budding society would have to discover new technology for itself in order for growth and progress to occur in the correct measure, I kept my knowledge of certain technologies to myself. “But as my beloved Lillith began to grow old, it became clear to me that she would die before certain life-preserving technology was developed. From my education, I had some idea of how long it takes for an emerging civilization to progress to the point where certain technologies are developed, and my Lillith would not live long enough to benefit. “I could not stand the thought of my beloved dying, her passion, her love, her consciousness forever snuffed out, leaving only the beautiful memory of her in my heart. So I made the fateful decision to give to her the life-preserving technology that worked so well in my own body. I had no reason to think that it would not work the same for her. “But, it did not. The technology did not work in her body as I had desired, and her mind could not make the adjustment. Since then I have discovered the reason for the error. I now know that genetic differences allow the technology to work perfectly in my body while functioning with error in your bodies. The technology runs on a fuel which my body produces in abundance, while your bodies do not produce the fuel in sufficient quantity. Further, the technology should convert light energy to other sources of energy for its life-preserving purposes, but due to your genetics, the technology in your body becomes prohibitively light sensitive. And that was how my beloved Lillith died. After a feverish night of madness in which she inadvertently passed the technology onto a few others of her kind, she walked out into the morning sun and was forever lost to me. If I had the ability to better feel and express my passion, you might begin to understand the depths of my wretchedness and regret. “Her death was inevitable. I could not change that with the technology. But I knew that it was my responsibility to remove the technology from those with whom Lillith had unintentionally shared it. I spent the next one hundred and fifty seasonal cycles fabricating the tools I would need to un-infect those with the technology. It took a little longer than I had –” “A little longer!” Jimmy interrupted. “Seven thousand years!” Marcus explained, “Time is relative to the individual. I am sure that for you, the years seem to fly by. For me, the decades fly by. Perhaps the Slayer is at such a tremendous age that the centuries fly by.” The strange white-haired man continued. “I worked as quickly as I could, and I almost had the task completed after only two thousand, nine hundred and fifty cycles of the season, when a rather clever charge managed to appropriate one of my tools. It was not until only six cycles of the season prior to the current cycle that I was, with the aid of this man and his transport,” the Slayer gestured to Tim, “finally able to catch him and take my tool back.” “That was John!” whispered Marcus in excitement and awe. “Yes, that was the one called John, though he had many other names as well. And after I had cured him I had to convince him to not seek you out, as I know he would have done, in order to re-infect, as he had done so many times before.” Marcus was stunned as he calculated John’s age. His old friend had been immensely old; over five thousand years! And this strange man before him, this apparent interstellar traveler, was even older. How old must his teachers have been? And yet, Marcus surmised, not even that much older, in the vast relativity of space and time. Marcus thought of his old friend and his last words to him, “We must live!” and Marcus knew that John must be somewhere right now, working feverishly on the question of immortality. “How did you convince him to not seek me out?” asked Marcus, masking guilt. “It was quite an undertaking, I must confess. He was very motivated to stay alive; but such motivation is necessary for the development of life-preserving technology. However, like a young bird must peck its own way out its egg and learn to fly on its own, a civilization must develop such technology for itself – a lesson that I have finally learned at immeasurable cost to your world. “Mastery over natural aging and death is the chief accomplishment of an emerging civilization, not the development of nuclear technology, high-speed interstellar travel, cold fusion, or even worldwide peace. Once a form of life-preserving technology is developed to insure that not one conscious individual ever need be lost to death, the civilization has the rest of time to solve those other problems, and it surely does not take forever to work out any of those aforementioned trivialities. “But herein lays the great damage of my terrible mistake. The contaminating influence of our life-preserving technology in your species complicated the normal progress of your society. It introduced a concept that budding societies usually eliminate early in their development – deceit! Because of the nature of a vampire’s existence, my woefully infected charges found it convenient to exercise dominion over the rest of society. They found that it was all too easy to establish authority, a concept quite foreign to me, and surreptitious organizations that allowed them to live in secrecy, while enjoying the benefits of the resources of others. Now, even with nearly all of the vampires gone, the hulking husks of those detrimental organizations remain, operated by the conceptual descendents of the original deceivers; blind, indolent, dishonest.” “What are we to do about that?” asked Sarah. “As I said before, develop first life-preserving technology; then you will have forever to solve the infinite mysteries of the universe. I think that with some form of biological immortality achieved and available to every member of society you will find that dishonest organizations like governments and religions will simply dissolve.” To everyone in the group except Marcus, that undertaking seemed daunting. “Can you tell me anything of the technology? Anything at all?” The beautiful man smiled. “What I know of the technology, which is not any great amount, I must not tell. You will discover it for yourself soon enough.” The sky to the east was beginning to lighten. The shape of the gorge was forming beyond the edge of Crown Pointe. Soon, with the increasing light, it would slowly bloom with color. Marcus stepped forward and extended the three crystal devices that he was carrying. He signaled for Tim to do the same. The old vampire let out a long breath. “I do not know your name.” “I am Sonsenoi,” answered the beautiful, white-haired man. “Is it going to hurt, Sonsenoi?” Marcus asked. “You should feel nothing if you are without injury. You will sense the absence of the technology,” said Sonsenoi. “Let’s do it then,” said Marcus, the devices changed hands. Marcus and Jimmy stood next to each other at the edge overlooking the great gorge. Jimmy said, “Thanks for savin’ my life.” “You deserved it, my friend.” “Are we gonna be able to figure out this ‘technology’ thing before we grow old and die?” Marcus tried to hide his sly smile. “I do not know. All we can do is give it our best shot.” “Well,” said Jimmy, returning Marcus’s smile with a nod. “We have about 80 years to figure it out. What’s the first thing you’re gonna do as a mortal?” Marcus sighed with a slight quaver to his breath. “Watch a sunrise with my dearest loved-ones.” Jimmy noted the rim of wet lining Marcus’s hazel eyes, and nodded again. There was much, much more that he was going to learn from his old mentor. He said, “That does sound very nice. It’s been years since I took the time to watch a sunrise.” There was a pause, then he added, “But after that I’ve got to go in for a little procedure. I could never get used to having this damn foreskin!” “Never?” said Marcus, grinning. He turned serious. “Are you ready?” “No.” Jimmy smiled nervously. The others looked on from the side, equally anxious or more so. “Good.” Marcus turned to Sonsenoi. “Hit it!” The high pitched tone began its glissandoing rise into the ultrasonic followed by the barely perceptible flash. Marcus felt a mild disorientation that might have almost felt like the blow from a sudden gust of wind. Then, the invincibility was gone. The hunger was gone, and he felt for an instant as if he were dying. For Jimmy, being such a young vampire and therefore not so thoroughly acclimated to the feelings accompanying vampirism, the sensation of being cured was a lot less profound. Presently, both of them had recovered their bearings and smiled at the others who were waiting anxiously, expectantly for the two of them to say that they were alright. As the sky lightened there was tearful rejoicing among the small group. Hugs and kisses were exchanged all around, and even Little Timmy felt like a part of this family. At some point during the jubilation, the strange and beautiful white-haired man, Sonsenoi, quietly receded into the forest. Only Tim noticed him leave. Marcus knew as the blue spread across the sky to the west that he would not have to be concerned with the possibility of dropping into spasms, tearing violently to find protection from the sun. And he knew that he had nothing to fear from the sun itself. He was truly cured; only it was strange getting used to the idea. It wasn’t quite real to him yet. He still had his fangs after all, and he wondered if they would ever go away. Perhaps he could have them pulled…. Sarah joined Marcus at his side. His arm fell about her waist as they looked to the east. She said, “It’s so beautiful; I wish I could stare at it.” “Stare,” said Marcus, “at life.” The sun dawned bright and beautiful, seeming to rise directly from the head of the Columbia River gorge itself. Its rays caught Marcus for the first time in over five hundred years, and he knew that it was going to be a great day!