Casting the First Stone Section 3 of 4 Copyright 1998 W. R. DeAngelo Rights to post granted to FTP site and FK fanfic site only. Names of persons associated with Fk fandon purposely used with their permission and are meant in fun / tribute. Everyone else, it's just a coincidence, folks. This story is based on characters and situations created by James Parriott and Barney Cohen and owned by Sony/TriStar. No infringement is intended. 14. Chapter The old radio on his classic '62 blue Series 62 Cadillac crackled slightly as Nick turned the dial to sharpen the reception. A moment later, he could clearly hear every word of the Night Crawler's silky monologue. "Dear listeners, night is the balm that soothes your troubled soul. In shadow, every troublesome blemish is hidden. Tell me, why do you hide in the darkness? What frightens you when the light is on? Does your own image disturb you, or is it something from within that only you can see that distorts the picture in the mirror? Be true to yourself, and the truth shall set you free. But it is the truth that you are afraid of, is it not? It imprisons you in your dark corner, hiding from what you truly are. "How can you live if you cannot be yourself? Who is it you would rather be and how do you expect to achieve this transformation into someone else? Surely, it is a branch that will never bear fruit. It is not possible to change into another person. You are who you are and what you are and you can never, ever convert. "I say, celebrate your true self, warts notwithstanding. Look deep within, and if it is a twisted, forbidding monster you find there, so be it. Nobility cannot be achieved by living a lie. Have the courage, the integrity, to be what you are and you will find release. "Call me now. Tell me that you have decided to abandon your counterfeit life and reveal your splendor. I know your desire. I know your potential. I know your heart. I am, your friend, your champion, the Night Crawler, and I am waiting for you." Nick switched off the radio as impulsively as he had turned it on. He did not know why he continued to listen to The Night Crawler, unless it was simply to hear a familiar voice. There was no voice as familiar to him as LaCroix's. Janette had not been as constant a companion. He pulled the Caddy over to the curb, twisted the key in the ignition and shut off the engine. Tracy was at the precinct canvassing the place with flyers and trying to find a lead through Fraud. They hoped that someone would recognize the party in the photo and give them an address. Nick, with the help of another officer, had randomly called names from the twenty-page long computer list before it was too late in the evening, hoping to get lucky. Of sixty calls, twelve had thought they had been contacted, but, by fax or in person, none had been able to make an ID. He had also made a run over to the two pizza delivery outfits in their address books and left copies of the photos. No one had a phone number. If he had realized his last three stops would be a wash, he would not have bothered to take the car. Nick opened his door and stood up to stretch for a moment. He would miss flying if he ever became mortal again. Correction, when he became mortal again. He looked up, squinting slightly at the fuzzy bright city lights, and stepped into the air. Natalie was not busy, for a change. Nick found her in her office, her fingers tapping rapidly at her keyboard. She did not stir when he came in. He could be so quiet. He often dreaded what he might do if he relaxed his vigilance. So when he came alone, he approached her as if he were entering a church, so quietly that he invariably frightened the expletives from her when he said, "Hello, Nat." This time she only gasped. "You have to stop doing that." "Sorry. I'll try to make more noise next time." "Where is Tracy?" "She's back at the precinct. She doesn't know I'm here but," Nick added remembering his last disappearance from work, "she does know that I am out. Working. I was working." "Mighty considerate of you." Nat's chair skidded back on the linoleum with a nerve-shredding screech as she stood. She carried a stack of folders to an institutional gray filing cabinet. As she sorted the files back into the drawers, Nick stood behind and raised his hand to her back, letting it hover slightly above her hair where it hung down between her shoulder blades. "Nat," he began. He quickly withdrew his hand as she turned on him. "I don't want to hear your excuses." Natalie shut the drawer. "I know you didn't wait, and you didn't try my new formula yet." "It's in my trunk." "Uh huh, like you and everything else. Don't leave it there all night. It won't take the heat. I think you'll like this batch." "You taste tested it, did you?" "Don't be facetious. I included some magic flavor enhancers. I'm doing what I can to make it palatable for you. I can't imagine what it tastes like to you anymore than I can tell if Sydney will like a new cat food before he tries it." "Cats like tuna fish. A lot." Nat made a face as if the less she thought about it the less likely she would lose her own appetite. "I made some concessions in this formula and you'd better appreciate them." Nick ran a finger along her desk, trying to look casual. "Thanks. I do appreciate it. I will when I try it, I'm sure." He tried not to sound pitiful. Or duplicitous. "Do you think I can change?" "Of course, Nick. Yours is a physical condition with measurable physical indices. There is an answer and we will find it. Partner," she pointed her finger at him for emphasis, "the Runes say so." "I've been a vampire a long time." "Are you saying you don't want to be mortal anymore?" "I'm saying there may not be enough left of my mortality to recover. Will I know what to do with it once I have it?" There was so much Nat did not know. There was so much he had not told her. He preferred her to remain blissfully ignorant the way parents want to keep their children ignorant of the world, as if that will protect them from harm. She really had no idea of what he was capable, and as long as he kept the whole truth from her, he would be spared her judgement and rejection. When he was with her, he edited what he said, boulderized his past, and nearly believed it himself. "I've always imagined that, once I became mortal, my entire history would be erased, as if I had been insane. Once cured, I could be excused as though I were ill." "I suppose," said Nat, her words hesitant, "the killer instinct is part of the vampire. After the cure, you would be different." "Maybe not. I think it is called conditioning." "You have a valid concern, but I haven't observed that to be a problem for you." Nick walked away from her last statement. There was a great deal that Nat had not observed, and he avoided her gaze as she continued. "I'm not sure you could be excused from your life up until now. Then again, I suppose there is no point in putting someone in prison for a crime they are no longer capable of committing." "It's done all the time. There is no statute of limitation on murder." "I don't know, Nick. I don't know what you have done with your life all these years. You don't tell me anything. I do know that the person I see in front of me is decent and considerate and caring. I believe there is a lot of good in you. I like to think," she smiled encouragement, "you're salvageable." "I'm not so sure." As he sometimes did when he was with her, he found himself dropping the pretense of mortality. His cool breaths, his stillness, his fluid unnatural movements, were obvious. In a disturbing way, he was so much more like the bodies on slabs in her cooler. At such moments, she usually chastised him for unnerving her. He could feel her heart flutter now. She held up her hand to touch him, the way one is compelled to check a mannequin for signs of life. She seemed to awaken from her reverie and pulled her hand away. "Like the rest of us, you'll have to work a bit at being human. Humane. Practice makes perfect, but nobody is. You're not so bad. We can dress you up and show you to company. You aren't some out-of-control beast." Nick smiled self-consciously. He touched her beneath her chin, lifting her face slightly. His eyes strayed to her neck. "Ah, but I have often not been fit company. I have been to innumerable soirees from which I was the only one to leave alive." Natalie shuddered, as if shaking off cold. "I'm sure that whatever your sordid past, you are different now. That counts for something. I'm sure you exaggerate your so-called depravities. You are not like LaCroix." Nicholas paused before admitting it to himself. "What if I am?" "No," said Nat firmly. "Not even close," and she turned her back to him so he could not contradict her. Nick slipped one arm around her shoulders and the other around her waist. He hugged her and kissed the back of her hair. She leaned back into his chest and he heard her stifle a sigh. This is what she wanted and what he wanted, but it was not safe for them to be alone. Neither of them could be trusted. He was not yet a man, just the illusion of a man. She did not know how tenuously he maintained the illusion either. "No, Natalie, very close," he whispered in her ear, feeling the change coming over him, the fangs parting open his lips. What did he really want from her? He was contemptible. Why couldn't she accept that? She broke away from him and he let her go. An angry flush rose in her cheeks as she glared at him, but her lower lip trembled slightly. He could taste her fear and fought the sadistic impulses welling up within him in response. He wanted to frighten her, scratch her cheek and kiss away the blood. He should let the animal out of its cage in order to remind her. He felt his feet shift, animal paws pacing the floor, ready to circle its prey. The warmth of her body lingered thickly on his hands. But her voice, a cold blast, stopped him. "What is it you want me to say to you?" Nick recoiled. The animal slipped away, back into the night, and closed its glowing eyes. "That you understand everything and that it doesn't matter. There is still hope for me, isn't there?" "Understand what?" "You're not listening." "You're not saying anything," "I have killed people," he whispered hoarsely, thinking someone might hear them. "I know that." "Do you? Do you really?" "If I don't, whose fault is that? I saw what happened to Richard when you brought him across and how it changed him. I saw you at that club drunk. I've seen you kill. I've seen, I've seen that brute that tried to kill me. I've seen it." She set her jaw. Her eyes glistened. Nick laughed, the fey laughter of the condemned. "You've seen nothing." "Really? What's the worst thing you've ever done, Nick?" Nat posed with her hands on her hips and stared him down. She was pushing hard, trying to break him, but he felt broken already. He reached for her. She backed away. "You've seen me when I've succeeded. You've never seen me when I have failed." "LaCroix, isn't it? You still listen to him. He is always telling you how hopeless it is for us to search for a cure. He is part of your problem. He is a bad influence." Nick leaned against her desk and laughed, finding this observation an obscenely accurate, and inaccurate, understatement. It was equally his epithet. "Yes, he is undoubtedly that, a bad influence." Nat's eyes widened. "You like being a vampire." "What?" "You like it. That's what upsets you. If you had been miserable all these years, all the time hating it, you wouldn't feel so badly about it now. But that wasn't it at all. You've had a choice all along. Even now, you haven't made up your mind to give it up. You enjoy it. You'd miss it." "No, you're wrong, Nat. There is nothing I want more." "You're looking for an excuse to fail." "No." "I'm right. This isn't regret; it's nostalgia. You loved it. It's just the body count that is getting to you. I don't want to hear it. Make a decision. Do you want to eat dinner with the common folk or do you prefer to sulk in the rafters of your loft and moon after what you don't have? Get back to me when you're ready to make a commitment." "You're wrong," Nick said. He felt cornered. "All right, yes, I admit it, but I've enjoyed it for the same reasons you enjoy everything mortals can do that I can't. I haven't found a way to escape that which by design I do and want. My only chance is to be cured." "So it is hard for you to give up," said Nat, "but you don't give me a chance. I give you instructions and you bail time and again." "You are asking a tiger to live on grass." "Tough. Grass it is, and you can live on it. You don't want it enough." "But I do." He struggled for the words. "I just want you to understand that, this is not just an inconvenience for me. It is more than missing the sunrise. I'm missing my soul. I don't want to be the object of people's nightmares and Nat, you must understand this," he took her shoulders in his hands as if clutching a lifeline, "I have been the nightmare and worse. I resist you because," Nick paused at the border of his simple epiphany, "after all I've done, I don't think I deserve to have my soul back." Nick took Nat's hands in his and searched her eyes for signs she understood. "I've given up everything. I reject what I am so I don't have the Community. I can't socialize with mortals except on the fringes. I could be a friend to Schanke at work, but not too close off-duty. Now he's dead and I don't really know if I am alive or dead. "I'll always be circumspect with Trace. She knows too much. Janette was all I cared about at first and for hundreds of years after and she left me because I wouldn't give up. LaCroix has been my oldest friend, but I've had to run from him and his torturous disappointment for hundreds of years." Natalie winced when he mentioned of Janette. Nick felt her discomfort. As a vampire, Janette had filled a role in his life that Nat could not. If after thirty or more years he and Natalie failed, she believed, and rightly so, that he would probably search Janette out again. Nick reached and took Nat's face firmly in his hand and made her look at him. She needed to really see him as he was, and at the same time, he was afraid to tell her everything. "I don't have you either. You, more than anyone else, are in danger from me right now." He let her go. Nat looked at her hands. Nick felt for her. She must be unspeakably lonely, too. Her job and her relationship with him had cost her many of the usual social contacts. She said, "I didn't know you before you were brought across so I don't know if you are better or worse because of it." Nat took his elbows and looked up into his eyes, her own wet and blinking. "You're important to me now, Nick, regardless of what you've done in the past. I didn't know that person who was a vampire and I don't want to know him. For me, he doesn't exist. I can only forgive you for what you are now. That has to be enough." Nick nodded. "I suppose so." She didn't want to know and he didn't blame her. She needed to believe as she did, but she did not understand him. She thought it was a choice, a state of mind, even as she peered through her microscope at the contagion in his blood looking for a cure. Otherwise, she would have to admit to herself the truth: he was like the others. He loved her. He wanted her. He wanted her to die in his arms. He kissed her quickly, innocuously, on the forehead. He needed her. He could not afford to think too much about what their relationship was costing her. < --------- 15. Chapter Saffron Waldon, August 1572 It was over an hour by before Jenny opened the kitchen door and stepped out back. She looked for him, assuming he was nearby, but could not see him in the darkness. She picked up her buckets, looked out over the lawn toward the new barn where John had left a light burning for her. She was strong and covered the distance to the slop quickly. This had been her routine since she was a child. John always kept his promise to leave her a light for her path each night. It helped Jenny find her way downhill when her hands were full. Usually she returned to the house with it, and John picked it up in the morning. Tonight she deposited the contents of the buckets into the troughs. She took the lamp from the post, lifted it up, and held it up to shine the light in three directions. He was nowhere in sight. Disappointed, she proceeded back up the slope. He might be in the old hay barn near the house. The lamp in one hand, her skirts held up with the other, she went around to the old barn. Years ago it had been a stable for horses, but old age and draftiness had made it inappropriate for the valuable animals. It was now reserved for hay storage and sorting saffron blossoms and roots during their proper season. When she reached the large doors, she noticed the gentleman, not fifty yards from her, approaching her from the near edge of the woods. She signaled him with the lamp. Hoisting the wooden crossbar, and opening the old barn door, she slipped inside. Her hand trembled slightly as she placed the lamp in its nest. It was a warm summer night and she could hear the crickets within and without the barn. The air smelled ripe of hay and seed. Jenny sneezed softly as the chaff stirred up with her footsteps. Skipwith was not as conscientious about wetting down this old storage barn as he was the stable. Was the gentleman going to follow her in or not? Jenny rubbed her shoulders though she was not actually chilled. The air inside was warm with mouldering hay. The familiar barn seemed eerie, and the lamplight threw flickering ghosts against the splintered walls. The wood smelled comforting, but the ceiling seemed far away. Jenny felt small in comparison to the large vacant space. Where was he? Did he think she fled to the barn for safety? Jenny circled the floor, wrought, then retreated quickly to the back wall when she heard his hand on the bar, as if she had something to fear. He entered then shut the fresh night air out behind him. In the yellow glow of the lamp, he seemed taller; his eyes reflected light like a cat's. The Monsieur did not approach her immediately. Instead, he leaned against one of the aisle supports and commenced to study her. She grew angry. It was maddening and insulting. He just smiled at her and watched, his legs crossed at his ankles as though he was biding his time until someone else arrived. Could it be that the gentleman was even less certain of his office than the sad Skipwith? Jenny analyzed his features. He was a foreigner. Perhaps customs governing the ravishing of house servants were different in France. What was he waiting for? Should she be first to indicate her approbation? Do gentleman wait for permission in his country? She looked down at her hands, rubbing the right thumb deeply into her left palm. Then, determined, she used them to unlace her corset, causing the wide dress to fall down below her shoulders. He remained where he was, unnaturally still, casually reclined against the post. She could not look at him. Tears started in her eyes, but she had too much pride to let them fall. Vexed beyond her endurance, she moved to bend and retrieve her discarded corset. "No." He spoke softly. Her heart was like to melt so great was her relief. "No, I am well pleased. Too well," he said. He moved closer and reached forward, lifting her face by the chin so Jenny was compelled to look into his face. Aw, God, he was beautiful. His hands were soft, the fingers long and fluid like those of a magician she had seen at the fair, and now moved, after such delay, without hesitation down her neck and shoulders. The Monsieur picked up her right hand and kissed it, giving her a strange and entirely unexpected gesture of respect. He placed his cool hand over her heart, across the middle of her breast and closed his eyes, tilting his head slightly as if listening. "Mademoiselle," he whispered to her. She did not know what he said and she did not care, though he promised her love or hate, for it sounded so seductive. As he kissed her, she felt herself unfolding from within, opening like a satin box. Her hands twitched unconsciously at the fabric of her skirts, and she felt the soft texture of his velvet doublet against her bare skin. As he pressed into her, she was dimly aware of a distant rumbling, as if a violent storm was waiting on the horizon. She gasped, wanting to hold him longer, to feel his lips over her mouth and his cool hands on her skin. Pulling her from the wall, he gripped her waist tightly and grasped her behind the neck his thumb nudging up her chin. "We are not finished yet," he told her, his voice sounding hoarse in her ear. "You are mine, do you know that?" Jenny felt dizzy, dazed, as if she were there and far away at once, enthralled yet distracted. His voice insinuated itself into her mind, her own heartbeat pounding in her head. Or was it his? Something was wrong. Her heartbeat. His heartbeat. Where was his heart? The unbidden knowledge crept over her body like the frosty hands of a winter night. She shivered and her hands stretched and cramped. She was desperate to run, but could not move. "Warm," he whispered to her, "so very warm." Hoping she might make her escape yet, regretting with her soul the folly of her choice, she pleaded to everyone, gods and demons, to be delivered from his grasp. Her fear and her struggles seemed to attract him, as a cat is excited by the exertions of a mouse beneath its paw. He held her tighter. Pricking. Pricking. She felt a pricking sensation along her shoulders and was sickened with apprehension. In fluid confusion, she reached up, and following the wake of his kisses, touched her aching throat. She looked at her hand. Bright red pearls of blood fell from her fingertips. The storm in her ears grew louder, or was it the throttle of a monstrous cat? She tried to focus. She blinked away tears until she could see his face. Not his face. Where was he? It was not him. It was him. It was a cursed thing sent to kill her for her stupidity. She tossed her head trying not to look, hoping some trick of imagination would be her salvation. She was dreaming! This nightmare would be gone by morning. She laughed. She cried. She begged. His eyes glowed gold as lamplight, and his fangs found their target in the soft space of her neck. **************** "Jenny, Jenny?" Jenny felt her Mistress Agnes gently rub her head. She had been asleep after all. It had all been a nightmare or some sort of evil enchantment. "My Little Wren, dear, wake up. You have been asleep all day. Are you certain you are not ill, little one?" Jenny lifted her heavy head and studied her Mistress from beneath heavy eyelids. "No, Mistress, I am just sleepy. Bad dreams vexed me last night." "Let us pray it is only that, Little Wren. A good night and you will be much improved, I warrant." Jenny sat listlessly. She fought back her desire to weep. Mistress was always so good to her. She had buried all but one of her children and treated Jenny, in many ways, like a daughter. Jenny had come sixteen years ago, when she was only three or four years old. Orphaned, the town had made a small effort to place her in service, though she was still a few years too young to earn her own bread. Touched by her excellent manners and tender age, Mister and Mistress had volunteered to take her in to teach her to become their housemaid. Jenny was grateful every day. The Mistress shook her head and went to the hearth. She drew a cup of hot water from the pot she had set to boil and poured it into a cup over a small pile of amber herb. "Here, little Wren. I have boiled you a physick of saffron for your head." Jenny looked at the cup and took a sip, nodding. Over the years, Jenny had grown up, owning the affection if not the privileges, of a daughter. She was well aware of her place, yet years of working in close company with her Mistress, attending alongside her to the demands of the kitchen and household, made her the Mistress' confident and sister. The Mistress often expressed her desire that Jenny would marry and live on the property as caretakers for her and her husband. They were getting old and she did not want Jenny packed off to starve or suffer abuse abroad. Mister Jeffrey would take care of her Little Wren, she said. It had been the Mistress' idea to hire the now tardy Skipwith. He was the youngest to apply for the position and her Mistress had thought he might make a good match for Jenny. He turned out to be good with horses, but knew nothing of women. Mistress clucked her tongue and said, it is a great pity that your boy died, Little Wren. "Jenny?" Mistress prodded, for Jenny's head was resting back on the tabletop. "Jenny, dear, let us leave off some of this for today. We will eat cold meat tonight. If the men complain, they can come and poke the fire themselves. Come here, girl, I have a surprise for you. Bring your tea." Jenny struggled from her chair. She wanted to sleep. She believed she could sleep forever now that the bad dreams were gone. She followed the Mistress to her chamber. Jenny stood in the middle of the room as Mistress brought out a bundle, tied with string, from her coffer. She held it out for Jenny who looked at it with vague, weary curiosity. Clucking at the girl with mock irritation, Mistress guided her over to the bed where she placed the bundle and undid the strings. With a great flourish, she pulled out a long garment, and displayed it before the girl. "It is a new frock made for you, Little Wren!" Mistress clucked and fluttered like a mother hen. She held the dress up to Jenny's neck to preview the effect. "Shall you not look smart when you pour out tonight at dinner." She shook the shoulders so the skirts swayed. Jenny slowly brought her hand up to caress the fine cloth. It was not a servant's costume, nor was it a dress for working in the scullery or dressing meat. Beneath was a green kirtle and this was covered by a lightweight, brown wool dress. The sleeves were of doubled material with simple puffs. At the throat, its partlet had a modest small ruffle dyed yellow orange by the expensive saffron. It was a fine garment, appropriate for a plain wife of small property. Her Master and Mistress must have set aside part of the precious harvest for the dye of this gift. "I have been waiting to give this to you and I could not wait more," said her Mistress Agnes. "Someday soon, you will wear this when you marry. If you do not marry, then you must have one fine dress while you live with us." Jenny took the dress from her beloved Mistress' hands and hugged it to her chest as if it were made of the most precious silk, instead of plain wool and linen. "Oh, tears! you shall not cry about this. It is just a dress, Little Wren," soothed her Mistress, but tears welled in her eyes, too. Jenny swayed unsteadily where she stood. She was exhausted and overwhelmed, her mind was swimming in confusion of obsessive, conflicting emotions. There was something fantastic she must tell her Mistress. She must speak, but she could not bring the words to her lips. She was frightened for her Mistress, and John, and Skipwith, Mister Jeffrey and Mister Edmund. She knew what it was, but each time she parted her lips, the nature of the crisis flew from her mind like a bird, and she was left only with the certainty that something monstrous and yet unnamed had frightened it away. Jenny cried, heartbroken, as if she had just closed a coffin lid over their faces. Her mistress sent her to bed, where Jenny had cried herself to sleep while her Mistress sang her a lullaby but the horror remained. At twilight, her eyes flew open and she buttoned herself up and went to serve the evening meal. She was not as sleepy, but the shadows in the Hall spread before her as impassable oceans, too deep and frightening to cross. Each step she took drained her. "How much longer, Father, before the settlement is reached. I cannot believe the solicitors are being so damnably obstinate." "Do not blaspheme. Oaths are the refuge of those without the wit to speak with substance or intelligence." "Oaths are also for those at the limit of their patience, and I am beyond mine." "There is nothing I can do to force a conclusion," said his father. "You should have loved a girl with less property and fewer siblings," said the French gentleman. As Jeffrey argued the injustice of paying court for a woman he loved and a dowry he did not need, Jenny sat by the kitchen door holding her pitcher and smoothing the wrinkles of her new frock. Mistress had insisted if she would not retire, she would sit. It had been a blessing to rest the pitcher in her lap. She lost interest in primping her dress. She should not have left her bed. Her mind spun, as did the room at times, and it occurred to her that she was done in. Resting her head to the wall, she waited, resigned. The atmosphere grew more oppressive, even as the cooler air blew into the Hall along with the starlight. Jenny noticed the cups were low and stood, even though the Mistress motioned for her to take her leisure. It was only her second opportunity that evening to parade her new gown, and she would not be denied her pleasure and pride. "It is a fine home, indeed, where the servants are costumed better than the mistress," said Jeffrey. Jenny smiled, buoyed by the jesting. "Certain, Sir, when your lady comes to stay, she will be far more lovely than I or my Mistress." "Marry!" laughed her Mistress Agnes. "If you flatter her so when she arrives, I will lose you as her private maidservant." "Margery is fair. I yield to prevalent opinion, but you do grace our house, Jenny." Jenny poured out for Mister Edmund. He smiled and leaned forward to his wife, "What miracles some thread and fresh cloth do. Shall we order a new garment for you, wife?" While Mistress Agnes pretended to be insulted, Jenny circled around to the Monsieur. He pushed back his chair, arresting her with his attention. Looking at him now, a black memory flew into her head. She could not look away. The pitcher landed on the table with a thud, and she gripped the table and groped for her sanity. She must run, she must run; they must all run. "Girl, you are not well." It was not a question. He commanded her. Yes, she was not well, he insisted again, his voice low. Her mind was shot through with stars and ink. She must tell them. Perspiration formed above her lip. She wiped it away with a trembling hand. She must run her mind screamed. He was a monster, a demon. He would kill them all. His presence was as a malignancy, spreading slowly from member to member. Did he know what he was doing and what he had done to her? Did he understand? She looked into his eyes, and seeing there both murder and sympathy, was horrified to find that he did. He stood and took her by her elbows. Her knees collapsed beneath her. Her heart beat harder and harder. He held her up easily and said again, "Girl, I say you are not well." His voice bound her, surrounded her and she listened body and soul, her heart slamming in her breast so rapidly that her body shook. The remains of her life sped away from her, and she tried in vain to catch hold of it before it was gone. Impending death abruptly freed her from his sorcery. She tried to speak, to warn them. Alerted to her distress, her Mistress went to fetch cool water. Mister Edmund and Jeffrey's excited voices directed and questioned the Frenchman and Jenny. She heard them as though they were birds splashing helplessly in a remote forest pool. The French gentleman brought her to the floor. She looked past his shoulders to her Misters, imploring them with her eyes to come close. "Listen," she whispered. Nicholas covered her mouth with his hand. "Do not try to speak. Rest." After a moment, he lay her gently on the floor, moving his hand over her eyes and forehead, then smoothing back her hair. Agnes reentered the room, and cried out, dropping her water jar to the floor with a crash. "What ails her? Help her!" Jeffrey restrained his mother, holding her as she sobbed into his chest. "She has fainted!" said Jeffrey. "No," said Nicholas, "she is dead." Edmund knelt down as Nicholas walked away. He gestured helplessly over the young woman's body. "You are mistaken, Sir. She was but a little tired this morning." "Faith," said Nicholas, "people often are of a mind to die suddenly, you well know it." Edmund pressed the tears from his eyes. "Could I have but spared her a few years of my own. She was such a merry girl." --- > 16. Chapter Vachon heard Screed enter the church through the bell tower. Vachon had been satisfied contemplating the cobwebs and winced as Screed swooped in and perched himself on the exposed crossbeam next to him. "Oi matey. Wot you doin' lolly and gaggin' up 'ere? Are we a bits on the owts with the girlie? Not tew worry, matey. They is lined up down the block on the lookie look for just a spy ov you from wot Oi seen." Screed kicked and dangled his feet. "Something I can do for you?" Vachon regretted his tepid response the minute the words left his mouth. Vampires who preyed on big game, specifically humans, held carouches like Screed, who preferred more tractable prey such as cows or rats, in contempt. Vachon preferred to side with the underdog, even those who fed on dogs. He had initially befriended Screed as he was ejected from a club entertaining a predominantly undead clientele. In his own way, Vachon tried to compensate for other vampire's callous treatment of his friend. Even the egalitarian Nick had treated Screed peremptorily, so rudely he hurt the carouche's feelings "a bit he did if Oi were the kind a droog that keered for the likes a 'im." The detective was a snob, an Old World cow blood-drinking snob. To his credit, Knight had warmed up to Screed after he had helped save Toronto. His old friend had helped recover some of the 30 plus bombs planted below the city and it only cost Knight a mere $100 per. Vachon suspected that Screed's sense of style and comportment had been compromised by his choice of prey, but he was not the sort to enforce his opinion on others. Live and let live was his attitude. This philosophy was the basis of the their long friendship. "Oi spotted yer dinner guests. Oi come tew check it owt." "Yes, Tracy was here again." Screed bobbed his hairless head and grinned with all his teeth at Vachon. "Ow, not 'er. Oi saw some loverly legs come in tew tickle yer fancy, but Oi haven't seen a ratsie hair of an in-vi-ta-tion from you. You aren't holdin' out on yer ol' crew? They deliver right tew yer door all so-ci-a-ble. Very smart for you, Oi'd say." "What are you talking about?" "The pretty swell little comfits wot been regular as trouble tew your door, matey." "Swell comfits?" "Sweeties, wenches, I see comin' owt yer door." "Out my door?" Vachon paid attention. "They've been inside?" "Gents not too snappy and two lov-er-lies. Oi thot you might be having a bit ov fun." "I'm not having fun," insisted Vachon. "Right," Screed said, tilting his head and winking conspiratorially. "no need tew e-lu-cee-date, matey. Mumsy hush from me, that's all Oi say." "Listen," said Vachon. "Oi come by tew see if you would spare an ol' friend some bounty. You wouldn't begrudge yer ol' pal a little novelty from the ol' bubble n' squeak." "I didn't invite them," said Vachon. "You can send the Enforcers tew tear owt me heart," declaimed Screed with a theatrical flourish of his rag clad arm. "Mumsy hush!" Vachon launched himself to the floor of the church in disgust. He languished between the pews with his head hanging forward and stared at the ground, hands on his hips. "Now I have to do something." Screed kicked his feet in the air up and clapped his hands together. "Wot are you going tew do? Am Oi going tew do it, too?" "Those lovely comfits you saw have been hanging around for weeks. When did you see them, tonight? Last night? Tell me." Screed floated down from the rafters and landed directly in front of Vachon. He sniffed and said, "All wot you had tew do was ask. No need tew get high and mighty." Vachon's regretted his tone of voice, but he had to know. Trespassing vampires were inconvenient, but usually not a threat. Trespassing mortals were another thing entirely. "Sorry. When was the last time you saw them in the church?" "You should keep yer peeps wide open when yer getting shut eye, like Oi do," advised Screed. "Just tell me what you saw." Screed shook his head, frowning with such disappointment that Vachon wondered how he would make it up to him. "Days, matey, it was two days. Oi thot they was our dinner guests." 17. Chapter Nick looked up from his desktop as soon as he felt the vampire's presence. A few moments later, a disheveled, long-haired, leather clad character appeared behind his partner and said shortly, "I've got to have those plates." Tracy slapped down her pen. "How dare you show up here making demands. I'm on duty." She threw several anxious glances toward Nick. Nick was amused, watching her try and keep her secret from him when, in fact, he knew more about Vachon than she did. Vachon ignored her furtive head gestures. "I need them." "Trace, if this guy is a problem, I'd be glad to escort him outside," said Nick. He assessed Vachon's clothing and determined to throw him out as roughly as possible on the presumption that everyone would think him a violent antisocial biker. Plus, Nick was having a bad night. Vachon would understand. It wouldn't kill him. "No, no, not a problem, just a problem, you know?" Tracy waved Nick off. "He's just a snitch." "I've got intruders, Trace. I need those plates." Vachon looked at Nick as he said this. Nick purposely raised one eyebrow in acknowledgement. "I said, no," said Tracy. "I meant 'no' when I said it the first time. No, no, no, nada, nada, nada." She glared. Nick respected his partner's verve. It takes a lot of either gall or foolhardiness to read the riot act to a vampire. Tracy's phone rang. She grabbed it and said a harsh, "Vetter. What?" to the caller. "Right, right, I'll be right down." She hung up. "I have to go. You, go away. Nick I'll be right back. Harry lost his copies already." A pile of photocopies lay on top of the open photo album on her desk. She picked up a few from the top and hiked off. The photo album remained open on her desk where she'd left it after making a collage of the pertinent photos. Vachon sat heavily in her vacated chair and stared at Nick as Tracy left the room, licks of flames rising from the floor with her each departing footstep. "Nada, nada, nada?" said Nick. "What is that supposed to mean?" Vachon slumped deeper in her chair. Nick said, "You have an intruder problem?" "I need license plates run." "Intruders can be handled through ordinary channels." Vachon shifted and blinked. "I don't own the building." "You don't own the building?" Nick was incredulous. "Why not? You're squatting?" "I don't own property." "What are you, a rebel without a property clause? Just move and put some locks on your doors." Vachon's mouth twisted. "I don't wanna." "Then you're on your own." "It wouldn't break you to help me. It is not as if I asked to rent the spare room in your precious trunk." "I thought you liked my car." "Let me borrow your gun and we'll step outside." said Vachon. "I can't help you. You don't own the property, so we can't arrest anyone for trespassing except you. For all we know, those are the legitimate owners and they are thinking of selling the place out from under your unnatural feet." "If you give me their names, then I could find out, couldn't I?" "Then you'll buy the building?" Nick had trouble saying church. "I don't intend to lock myself in anywhere and have to take three weeks to dismantle my residence." "Planning on relocating sometime soon?" inquired Nick obliquely. Vachon leaned forward over Tracy's desk and said, "Are you going to help me or not?" "I offered the former and you accepted the latter." "Get off that stuff!" cried Tracy, surprising Nick. She had caught Vachon lounging on the album getting chummy with her partner. "That's evidence. Weren't you paying attention?" Nick's sensitive ears heard her whisper under her breath and he wondered if it was a Freudian slip. "Vampires, you can't live with 'em, you can't kill 'em." Vachon lifted his arms as if he just realized he had stuck them in a plate of spaghetti, and saw the album underneath. Then he looked at the photos. Then he pointed, holding his arms up as if he didn't want to get sauce on anything and said, "That's them!" "That's who?" said Tracy. "That's them. Those are the people I was trying to track down." Tracy's voice pulsated with excitement, "What? You mean it? We've been looking all over for them." "That's three of them anyway: the Anjelica Huston, the Jayne Mansfield, and the mustache that looks like Kiefer Sutherland." "Fantastic! Give us the plate numbers and we'll be able to find them right away." Tracy half-hugged Vachon, then converted to giving him a hearty half- hearted thump on his shoulder. "I gave them to you over the phone yesterday." "Oh. Right. Do you mind? Could you tell me again?" She held out a pen and notepad to him. Vachon rolled his chair back and stared at her. Silently he took the pad, scribbled quickly and handed it back to her. Nick began the business of checking his pockets, wallet and watch. "This is a big break for us. Someone has been trying to kill the people in those photos, and succeeded twice already, if that's any consolation." Nick gave his partner a kitschy thumbs up and scooped up his keys. "This is one first class snitch you've got here, Trace." "I can't wait," she said. "I'm going to run down and have Steph run the plates pronto. Hang on and I'll be back in a minute with the address." Vachon's eyes followed her exit as he unseated himself. He walked around to Nick, leaned over and whispered very quietly into his ear. "Women. You can't live with them, you can't drink their blood." Nick checked his service arm and said, "Not funny." 18. Chapter Nick left the top down as he and Tracy drove across Queen's Quay along the waterfront. The night was clear, the moon was full and the trunk was empty. This case wasn't solved yet, but there would not be any more murders. All the potential victims were informed, and it appeared that the murderer was not a threat to the general public. Best of all, he wouldn't have to call the other 440 names from the database list. Once they debriefed these people, they could get down to the drudgery of finding the killer. It was just a matter of time because it had to be someone on the short list of people this crowd had scammed. What started as an exotic and potentially horrific case was, by sheer luck, wrapping up very neatly. There had been two murders, but compared to the six or seven expected, it was cause for celebration. Tracy leaned back into the upholstery and expressed a new appreciation for his enormous, indecisively blue-green '62 Caddy with the gas guzzling V8 engine that he insisted upon driving. "This is a great car," she said. "I know where you can get a good deal on snow tires." "Don't need them," said Nick. "Would you get the heater fixed before it gets cold again?" "Remind me later." Nick was enjoying himself, too. This is why he had a ragtop, so he could cruise under the stars in style, although he cruised exclusively at night. Now that she had adjusted to nightshift, he could see that Tracy was beginning to love life sans squad car, with her top down, tooling about in plain clothes. "You know the one about the escargot?" she said. "Yes. Yes, I do." The plates belonged to a silver BMW registered to Don Westlake. Fortunately he was home, and he promised to call the other regulars of their dinner and a show club to tell them to sit tight until the detectives arrived. And yes, they were aware that Two Bears and Embrey had died, and yes, they were quite concerned. Nick was unable to obtain any more information over the phone. Nick felt déjà vu entering the extremely modern and yes, as a matter of fact, we did use a decorator, lakefront condo at Harbourfront. Someone had furnished the place in a flamboyant open pocketbook motif. It vied loudly with the Embrey residence for the city's Bad Taste in Decorating award. The view of Lake Superior through the large picture window was spectacular, even though the condo was located on the lowest floor immediately above the merchant level. Frightening in its inept execution, a life-sized plaster female nude stood provocatively near the window, beckoning passing mariners to their doom. It looked less like Venus de Milo and more like the headline act from a low rent strip club. Nick was certain passing boats must have complained of an exhibitionist. "Gorgeous place, isn't it?" whispered Tracy as they came in. "It could use a bit more pink." Nick made no comment. The obsequious Westlake, who looked very much indeed like Kiefer Sutherland, escorted them into the living room to meet the Anjelica Houston clone. She introduced herself as Pauly James. Nick tagged her as The Lady with the Cigarette Holder. The Woman in the Pink Lipstick was absent, but Don said proudly that she had been the model for the dreadful statue. "Do you know who killed our friends? We've been so upset." Pauly, in voluminous blue puffy sleeves, blew smoke coquettishly and singsonged, "We didn't know where we would go or what we would do." Tracy frowned. "Scarlett O'Hara?" Pauly's eyes glowed brighter than klieg lights. "Yes!" "Now is not the time," said Don. "You recognize me, of course," said Pauly. "No, she doesn't," said Don. "I was the lead in the short-run 1988 production of the extremely avant Taping Down the Toilet Seat," said Pauly, "for two entire performances." Tracy smiled weakly. "Sorry. Didn't catch it." "Hardly anyone did," said Don. "Only because I was fired," said Pauly. "Anyone can miss a cue." "You were backstage smoking." Pauly glared at Don. Don glared back. Nick and Tracy each took a deep breath. Nick said, "We were hoping you might know who murdered your friends." "Certainly, officers," said Don, smearing his face with a complaisant smile. "We will do anything we can to help you." "We appreciate your cooperation." Nick did not feel sincerely appreciative. "We need to track down everyone at risk. I know you called your friend Ms. Limon, but we would like to alert everyone in the photos in person." "Photos?" said Don. Tracy handed Don a folder of photocopies from the album. "We found the album at Embrey's home. We would like as many names, addresses and phone numbers as you can provide." Don accepted the folder. Nick noticed that the generous broom style moustache drooped substantially as he leafed through the photocopies. He handed the pictures to Pauly. Pauly was more clearly distressed and soon closed the folder. She twisted another cigarette into her holder and lit it. "Here's the pitch," Don said, his voice no longer friendly, "there are, were, five of us. The rest of these people are just people. They aren't involved. We already spoke to Sarah, and she is being careful. That's all." He clappeded and spread his hands, clearing himself like a blackjack dealer switching shifts. "Could we have her name and address?" Nick said. "Ms. James, do you live here with Mr. Westlake? If not, we would like your address, too. I'm willing to concede that you know who is and who isn't at risk, for now." Don stiffly wrote the addresses on a piece of paper and handed it to Tracy. "Sarah doesn't know anything more than Pauly and I do." "Yes," pressed Nick, "but you three know more than we do. Tell us who is trying to kill you. We need names and numbers, a shorter list than the 500 names we have now." Pauly was shaking her foot up and down and up and down. "I don't think so," she said. "As much as we hate starring in our own private production of Ten Little Indians, I think we would rather pull up our tent posts and circle our wagons." Nick and Tracy watched as the series of expressions crawled like a wagon train across Pauly's face. She said, "Indians, Doris Day, Calamity Jane, or was it Annie Get Your Gun? Mary Martin? Jamie Lee Curtis on video." Pauly's forehead wrinkled behind a fog of smoke as she searched for an appropriate persona. Nick addressed Don to end the awkward intermission. Pauly seemed busy placing a call to central casting. "Isn't there anything you want to tell us?" "That's it," Don said a little too brightly. "But may I know how Ima and Two Bears died so we can protect ourselves?" Tracy said, "We don't have the post mortem back on Mr. Two Bears, but Ms. Embrey was definitely poisoned," she said. "Do you know anyone who uses Runes?" "What?" Don looked to his right, then his left, as if searching for a prompter, before repeating, "What?" "Runes are little stones with markings on them that look like a weird alphabet. They're used for casting fortunes. Did one of your clients have an interest in magic, fortune telling or anything like that?" Don said, "Is that everything you know?" "That's about it but we have questions." "Thanks, eh?" said Don as he hopped past the sofa to take Tracy by the elbow. Pauly rose into her cloud of smoke. "You've been a big help. We'll call if we think of anything. Really, we have no idea who is doing this. We gave you everything we could." "You have ideas, you've got names," said Nick. "Someone is hunting you down. We know you're operating an illegal real estate scam and we know the murderer is one of your victims looking for revenge." Nick felt no sympathy for these two. They had so much to hide they could not bring themselves to save their own necks. "We will work through the entire list with or without your help." Don oozed charm like pudding through a tight fist. He shook their hands and steered them toward the door. "I wish there was something more I could do." "There is," insisted Nick. "Let us agree to disagree, shall we?" "We'll be back," Nick predicted sourly. "We'll be back," Pauly intoned in a deep voice. "I see you've settled on Swartzenegger," said Don. "Yes," she said throatily, "but what a terrible stage name. No one can spell it and no one can pronounce it." Tracy abandoned Nick at their threshold and was already halfway down the hallway. Nick fumed, "Neither of you is taking the threat seriously." "I think it has charm, a complete disregard for popular wisdom," said Don, ignoring Nick. Nick turned on his heels and followed Tracy down the hallway. He could see her ahead, already punching the elevator buttons with staccato impatience. He left his vampiric senses tuned to Don and Pauly's conversation in the slim hope that something helpful might pass their lips. Pauly said throatily, "You didn't get hold of Sarah did you." "No." "She is supposed to be home." "I know." At this, Nick paused mid-step and glanced back over his shoulder. He saw Don scuff the carpeting with his shoe. "The detectives will be there soon." He put a protective arm around Pauly's waist as he closed the door. Nick caught up with Tracy. "Where is the elevator already?" Tracy pushed the button again. "It's just one lousy floor." Nick said, "We'd better get to our next stop." 19. Chapter The large cargo van, with its distinctive camouflage markings of mottled greens and browns, was pulled over to the curb on Roxborough Drive and settled into a shuddering idle. Inside the cab, Leo Brulé fidgeted with the contents of his General Supplies Service Kit. It was a complete, portable, pest-punishing portmanteau according to Libby. The GSS contained the prerequisite contracts, brochures, business cards and estimate forms for General Pest. Gloves, flashlight, small collapsible traps, and roach motels also occupied the bag so that he could wave them around with authority before impressionable prospects. Not part of the GSS, were one very small bottle of clear lethal liquid and one large bottle of amber lethal liquid. Leo extracted the large bottle and opened the cap. He took a copious swig. It was illegal to have an open container of alcohol in a moving vehicle. If he was caught swigging Wild Turkey in the company van, he could lose the van. He was concerned about the van. It belonged to his business, but it could not be helped. He needed an official company car tonight. He was not concerned about his license. He didn't have one. He lost it after the accident. Conviction on two counts of involuntary manslaughter will do that in Canada, if not in the States. More Wild Turkey trotted down his throat. Damn them. He looked viciously at his target, the house two doors away. At least he had lost weight in jail, nearly 100 pounds. He was still losing weight. Alcohol and disulfram didn't mix, but they weren't supposed to. The disulfram made him violently ill when he drank so he didn't take it unless it was time to see his probation officer. He could see her front porch light was on. Good. She was expecting him. She had called him for an appointment, as he knew she would. Leo had left a flyer on her doorstep and a live rat in her bedroom. A pizza guy had just delivered pizza to her house. He would wait until the pizza guy was well away. No, he couldn't wait. He banged his forearms on the steering wheel until he felt calmed down. His mind wandered as it often did lately. It had been an accident. Leo had not had that much to drink, although he had been drinking more than usual that night. The blood alcohol test at the hospital was obviously inaccurate. It was not his fault. He could not bear to live if it was his fault. It was the stress, of course. That is why he had been drinking. It was their fault, the murderous bastards. He had lost so much money. Leo could not find the words to tell Belinda about it; never had the chance. After the accident, she had been so quiet and limp, like a rag doll. In the back seat, Amanda's head flopped unnaturally to the left. There had been a tearing noise, a bone jarring crack and then silence. It was an awful, interminable silence that screamed louder than the siren of his own shrieking. Screaming and screaming and he could not stand the noise. He yelled and cried and no one would answer him. No one would talk to him. No one was left at all. Leo felt his chest heave and his innards fibrillate. He choked on his saliva. He couldn't breathe. His lips connected with the open mouth of the bottle. He washed the memories down, pushed them down, beat them down with the Wild Turkey until he was numb and cushioned in an amber haze. He knew exactly how this had happened. Those scum had killed his wife and daughter. It was their fault. He would not be in this mess if it weren't for them. He should kill them for what they had done. He was killing them. They knew what they were doing to him. That was it. They knew and he hadn't understood what their offer was going to cost him. He knew now. He knew everything he needed to know. He knew whom to blame. A thousand stupid turkeys stampeded in his head. They were too stupid to get out of the rain. Out of his brain. Leo could not think clearly. He had to sober up and get this done. Had to quit drinking now. Had to think. No, had to stop thinking. Too much thinking altogether. He fished around in the GSS. Papers drifted to the floor of the van. His arm was an awkward, heavy log in the bag. He found his stash of peppermint lozenges and cardamom seeds. He threw a handful of each into his mouth and crunched noisily, the cardamom sticking like small splinters into his gums. Using a small wet napkin, Leo cleaned his hands. He exhaled and inhaled deeply several times, drawing the vapors into his lungs to replace the scent of alcohol. He choked slightly on the seeds and coughed. Leo smiled to himself. He was an experienced inebriate. Time to get to work. Time to service the customer. Customer is king. Look good. Look confident. Smile and mean it. Customer is in a bad mood because they have an infestation. Be sympathetic. Make the customer happy. Do the job. Be the hero. Make the sale. Knock on the door. "U--uuuh, Universal Pest, ma'am. You got 'em, we kill 'em." She was all curves and curls and draped fabric and high hemline and toothpick thin heels. She looked at him and laughed. He stepped in, pushing his thick frame through the narrow entryway, and stumbled. His pullover combat fatigues were too tight and riding up his crotch. It was the first time he'd ever been able to wear the standard issue XXXL jumpsuit, and he was more than a little proud. He noticed as Sarah Limon made a face. She wrinkled her eyes tight and put her hand under her nose. "Were you the best they could do?" she said. "Sorry, ma'am." "You're drunk." "No, ma'am."' "That's all right, honey. As long as you do it tonight." "Thank you ma'am." "Follow me into the kitchen, sweetie. I've got an emergency." A series of fragmented images sloshed through Leo's brain as he walked, his movements as thick as a milkshake, into Sarah Limon's white walled kitchen. It sparkled with unused appliances. Copper pots and pans hung for display purposes only off a rack over the middle of the butcher-block island cum table. He could see the price sticker still on the large fryer. On the table sat a large pepperoni and pineapple pizza in its box and an open can of cherry cola. Leo set his GSS Kit bag on the chair and opened it, pulling out some papers. He splayed them like a fan. He dropped a few. "I'm L-Lloyd from U-uh, uh Universal Pest." Leo knew better than to use the company name. "I am sorry about your infestation problem, but I'm here to eliminate any and all vermin. From your property. We guarantee our services." Leo lingered over each sibilant longer than was decent in sober company. Infestassshion. Sserviccessss. "I don't care what you do, honey. I have a large rat creature in my bedroom and I don't want it in my bedroom or anyplace else in my house. I want it and all its relatives out tonight. Can you do that, hon?" "Awright, ma'am." Leo lost his thread of thought a moment. He studied the outside of the GSS as if crib notes would appear on the side bindings at any moment. He spoke slowly, his eyes wandering over the white ceiling and appliances. "We can give you a contract. Good contract. Good contract," he emphasized, winking. He had always been good with the customers. Leo thought back to his glory days when he first developed General Pest's sales pitch. He was having trouble remembering the whole spiel tonight. "No more bugs," he improvised. "You can sign on for monthly service." Ssssign for ssserviccce. Sarah frowned. "Salespeople." She spit the word. "Hon, just get the big ugly rat out of my house. Find it and kill it." "Awright ma'am. That'll be $80 for the service call." Leo's head felt as heavy as a bowling ball and it was near rolling down his chest to the table. He expected to hear it fall thud to the floor any minute. He stuffed the papers back into his GSS. "If I find it, I'll do it now. There may be more, you understand. I should set traps." "Whatever." "Where's the rat? Are you sure it was a rat?" "Yes, yes, yes, yes, it was a big fat rat and I saw it on the floor of my bedroom, straight upstairs. Go kill it now." Sarah pointed stiffly toward the stairway. "Awright, ma'am. Do you have a shovel I can borrow?" "A shovel? What do you need a shovel for?" "I need a shovel because I don't have one with me." Sssssshovel. "For pity's sake. Yes, I have a shovel." Sarah, muttering as she did, trudged over to the door which led to her garage. She shuddered. "The thought of that rat lounging in my bedroom doing rat thingeys all over my carpet gives me severe creeps." "Awright, ma'am." "What kind of a professional doesn't bring his own shovel?" She pushed her way into the garage and pawed through what sounded like layers of clattering garden equipment, banging and yanking. Leo giggled. Ten minutes later she emerged from the garage carrying a shiny silver shovel. "If you make a big mess, I'm taking it out of your fee." She shoved the handle into Leo's thick fingers. "Awright, ma'am." Leo giggled again. "That's peachy keen, sugar," said Sarah as she put her hands in the sink and rinsed off garage dirt and cobwebs. Leo waddled off with his bag and Sarah settled down to her dinner. As he mounted the first step, he could see her in the kitchen taking a large swallow from her cherry cola. Then she took another. She wrinkled her nose. She sniffed it and took another drink. Leo headed up the stairs. The carpeting was a sticky sweet shade of cotton candy pink. Leo found it difficult to breathe with the exertion of climbing. He used the shovel for support. If he wasn't careful, he was going to pass out and fall down the stairs. He pushed the shovel ahead to the landing and went the rest of the way on all fours. The bedroom carpeting was the same cotton candy pink, like a little girl's room. He expected to see one of those ballerina music boxes on the dresser like the one his daughter had, but there was only a photo of the homeowner with her friends. Leo snorted. He picked up the frame and dropped the picture into a precious scallop-edged pink wastebasket next to the bureau. He collapsed in slow motion to a reclining position against the bedstead, his heels skidding along the carpet as his butt searched for the floor. Leo was miserably uncomfortable. He adjusted the garotting crotch of his jumpsuit. That was better. He relaxed. He could hear it starting already. Thrashing and knocking sounds rose in a dull, syncopated percussion from the kitchen. He heard the cardboard pizza box slide to the floor. The pizza itself made a slimy splat as it bounced off a pickled oak cabinet. The cherry cola made a distinctive aluminum clack and fizz as it hit and spilled it contents onto the pricey ceramic tiles. The bar chair in which she'd been sitting, spun out and rang its legs on the butcher block island. He could hear her head bang against the floor as her body spasmed. Half an hour later, it was over. Leo called softly, "Baby, baby, baby." A brown furry shape skittered out of the closet and crawled into his lap. Leo leaned over his stiff belly and kissed the head of the large, docile rat in his hands. The terrible woman must have frightened his poor baby. Leo was obliged to comfort it by holding it close to his chest and stroking its furry head. "Awright, awright, Willard. You know I wouldn't do this to you unless it was absolutely necessary." Leo let his pet rat crawl up and snuggle on his shoulder. It anchored itself with sharp nails, putting large claw holes in his uniform. "They told me at AA that I should make amends. I just couldn't get the hang of it." Jussssst couldn't. 20. Chapter "This is it, Nick," Tracy confirmed, rechecking the Roxborough address on the front door. No one was answering. Nick looked up at the glowing front porch light. Through the sidelights, he could see that the interior lobby light was on too, as if the owner expected visitors. So why wasn't she answering the door? Nick didn't like it. The house was a particularly expensive example of Rosedale. It was similar in many ways to the Victorian homes in The Annex where her late friend Embrey had lived, but Limon's midtown home was grander by far. Nick assumed it was the influence of the pricier shopping tags at the confluence of Bloor and Yonge nearby. As Tracy fumbled with the tattered paper on which Don wrote the address, Nick cast a quick eye over the façade. Too many walkway lights. What had possessed the woman to detail the porch in flamingo pink? A pretentious wreath of artificial flowers dyed colors not found in nature dominated the entry door. Money can't buy everything, especially good taste. He feared that the interior of the ornamental brick and gabled house would equal the travesty of Westlake and Embrey's. Tracy pressed the doorbell a fourth time. From within, the bells tinkled the refrain, Let Me Entertain You, driving home Nick's worst fears. No answer. Tracy knocked with her fist a few times. She rang again. "Maybe she isn't home?" Nick closed his eyes and tasted the air. "Something's wrong," he said urgently. "We have to get in." Nick placed his shoulder against the door and used one hand to cover the doorknob. He threw two ineffectual lunges against it for the benefit his partner, then twisted the metal knob in his hand, snapping the lock. He broke through the deadlock on his third push. "Wow, Nick, I'm impressed." Tracy stepped past him into the foyer. Nick followed her. Tentatively, they walked through the overproduced apartment. They found the body in the kitchen. Tracey looked away. Nick made the call. He turned away from the body too, and in doing so was shocked to see Don and Pauly coming in the front door. He threw his arm up to stop halt their progress before they came further into the kitchen. "Trace!" he said. Tracy turned and immediately pulled them back into the living room. "You don't want to see that." Don said, "She wasn't answering the phone!" They both began babbling. Ohmigawd.. The phone. Where is she? Stop. Don't. Nick helped Tracy secure them on the sofa. The EMT unit arrived followed closely by the Crime Unit and Natalie. Two uniforms stood watch over Don and Pauly. Soon Nat pulled Nick and Tracy aside. "You guessed it. More of the same. Looks like strychnine again." With her head, Nat indicated the sobbing woman chain smoking on the sofa and the man comforting her. "Are those the last two? I thought you warned everyone already." "We did. We did and they knew before we called them," said Tracy. "They said they were being careful long before we contacted them." Nat said, "Who let them in here?" "They were unable to get Limon on the phone. They walked in the house a few minutes after we did." Tracy threw up her hand in dismay. "I don't know what Limon was thinking. Who did she let in the house? You think it might be one of them?" Nick studied Pauly and Don. Pauly had abandoned the cigarette holder and chain-smoked with hands so shaky that Don had to help her bring the stub to her mouth. He was so white with fear, that he looked like the aboriginal pasty white European. "I don't think they are that accomplished of performers. That is my expert opinion." Nick had enjoyed several stints as an actor during his peripatetic life. He recognized an actor when he saw one and Pauly and Don weren't it. Nick walked over to the couple and stood before them, sympathetic, but knowing that they had brought this problem upon themselves. Nat moved in close enough to listen while Tracy stationed herself behind him, tapping her open casebook with her pen. "Are you ready to talk yet?" he said. "Where did you find the ashtray? You can't smoke at a crime scene." Pauly looked up, bleary eyed, and studied the three people in front of her through the haze of smoke. She spoke to Natalie. "You look like Shirley Temple." "Try to focus," said Nick. "We want names. Who is trying to kill you?" Pauly elbowed Don. "Give him the list." "No." "Give it to him." "Don't be ridiculous. She ordered pizza. She invited someone into the house. We won't make that mistake." "You'll make a different one. You always do. You have it on you. Give him the list." "Yes," said Nick carefully, his voice intimate and persuasive. Sometimes the extrasensory abilities exacerbated and augmented by the vampire contagion, were too convenient for him to resist. Hypnotic coercion was not yet an interrogation technique endorsed by any official Toronto police manual, policy, or procedure. Nick tended to use it anyway, when no one was looking because he could, and why not? According to Nat, his vampire corroded moral compass pointed due south. "Give me the list. It is in your best interest to give...." This time someone was looking. Nat pinched him between his shoulder blades. Hard. "No," said Don firmly, "we'll be fine without your help. The detective said for you to stop smoking in here. Let's go outside. Are we done? Can we go?" Nick said, "Do you want to help us contact her family?" "Do we have to?" "You don't have to do anything, unfortunately," Nick said, the pieces of his patience shredded. "We'll send you home with some uniforms for security. Forrester?" Nick called over to officer helping secure the scene. "Round up a security detail." Don scrambled up off the sofa. "We couldn't possibly impose." "Not a problem." "Then we couldn't possibly. Period." Pauly glared at Don and sucked for one solid minute on her fag. Ash fell from her smoldering stub. "That's it," Nick ordered as flakes of ash fluttered to the floor. "Take it outside, now." Nick and Forrester tailed Pauly and Don out the door. "We can't force you to accept security, but I strongly, and I do mean strongly recommend it." "Sorry, but we'll see ourselves home," said Don. Nick said, "Can you manage to stay alive without our help?" "Pauly and I can look out for ourselves." "Sarah Limon couldn't." Don stalled. Pauly pulled him toward her Viper. "Let's go, I need another cigarette." Nick returned to the house to deliver his professional opinion, based on several years of police experience to his partner. "Not a brain cell between them." "The Captain is not going to like this." "Are you ready?" asked Nat. "Can I move the body?" "If the Crime Unit gave you the go ahead, we're set. We'll take another look at the kitchen when you're gone." Natalie signaled the EMTs lounging on the front porch and supervised the transport of the body to the ambulance. Nick and Tracy entered the empty kitchen. It was a strange site. The coke can and a generous specimen of its spilled contents had been packaged up for testing. Gone too was the pizza and box, but the bar chair was still overturned as Sarah had left it. A violet place mat stuck to the floor in the drying syrup of the remaining cherry cola. "The sink and stove are immaculate," said Tracy. "Either she had a superior housekeeping service or she never cooked in here." She pressed gloved fingers onto the smooth reflective surface of the invisible door, popping open the refrigerator. Inside were fifteen more cans of cherry cola, six bottles of white wine and a box of red licorice. "Looks like your frige." Nick opened a drawer and found only a phone directory. Several dozen flyers were stuffed between the pages. Nick flipped through them. "Looks as if she saved a ton of advertisements. Pizza, pest control, Chinese, laundry services, bakeries, yard services. She hired everything out. She called out for pizza even though she knew her life was in danger." Tracy closed a drawer. "All empty except one with pink napkins and one with silverware. The plastic is still on the butter knife." "She wouldn't go out, but she wouldn't make her own food either." "Out or take out. Not even a box of macaroni," said Tracy, closing a cabinet. "She didn't have any ketchup in the frige, so I suppose that's excusable." "What?" "Ketchup." "Why?" "For the macaroni," said Tracy. "Don't you know anything?" "I thought you put ketchup on French fries." "No," Tracy said in breathy exasperation, "you put vinegar on French fries." "I don't." "That's what's wrong with you," said Tracy brightly. "You'll have to get your condiments straight if you ever expect to make Captain." Nick resisted the urge to take out his casebook and make the notation. "Forget it. If you're ready, let's look at the rest of the house." "The people from the Crime Unit agreed that the perp probably went upstairs." Tracy led the way to the upper floor. "Did you hear? A house this nice and they found rodent droppings upstairs. Ironic, isn't it?" "Maybe," Nick said, pausing at the railing. "What kind of macaroni? I thought you put tomato sauce on macaroni." 21. Chapter He should have a few drinks to celebrate. Libby had just made him a creative and mutually beneficial offer to buy him out of his business over the next 10 years. She deserved it. She'd run the business solo for six years while he was incarcerated. Leo had gone into extermination because it seemed like a good opportunity. She did it because she was a zealot who terminated vermin with extreme prejudice. When he had hired fifteen years ago, she had gone about her job with the single mindedness of an assassin. For all she had done for him, it wouldn't hurt him to help her fulfill her life's ambition. She pursued pests tirelessly, as if her family had been massacred by a swarm of marauding carpenter ants when she was three, leaving her to raise herself in the backwaters of the Ontario wilderness with nothing but moose and beavers for nursemaids. Before leaving a house, she would pull out her toy Uzi and fire it at the front door proclaiming, "This building is clean!" She never tired of her job. Libby spoke of sitting at the nerve center of a vast pest control empire: snaking armies of trucks and people and nets and poisons through town to ferret out all the horrible little mices and roaches and ratsies and spiders and fleas infesting the city. She was his best employee. Leo promoted her and paid her a lot of money. Libby was clearly out of her mind, but she was one hell of an employee, generating harmless lunacy in everyone with whom she worked. They did more service calls and had more referrals than they could handle. Now she would take over the business and he knew it would thrive in those capable fists hell-bent on pesticide. She was the one to bring his business out of debt. Leo didn't have the ambition to do it anymore. Retirement invited him in with a very large smile on its face. He could hear her now, speaking the words that inspired such customer loyalty and confidence: Pests can't hide from pesticide. Hotels are too good for 'em. The only good rat is the one I just killed. If they know what's good for them, by the time I get there, they'll already be dead. And the words that became the company rallying cry: You got 'em, we'll kill 'em. Remembering all the good times he had had with his staff, he laughed. His body shook and he hooted. His sides and stomach hurt with the strain. Tears came to his eyes. He settled down. He cried. He swore several times. His body shook and put his head on his desk blotter. He sobbed large wet tears into its green paper. "Commander? Leo?" Libby's small pointy chinned face poked around the edge of his door, followed soon after by Libby's quick, small body. She leaned over his desk and patted him on the head as if he were her puppy. "Buck up soldier. Do you need to get off the base for some R&R, sir?" Leo raised his head and collected himself. He felt better and smiled at the young woman with the dark hair and the fake fluorescent yellow machine gun strapped to her hip. All General Pest employees dressed in modified combat fatigues. "At your service." "At yours. You're ready for action, sir?" "I'm not so bad today." He turned and ran his fingers absently over the keyboard of his desktop. "Outstanding, sir." Libby assumed a pert at ease stance. "If I may speak frankly, sir, your month end is done. Why don't you take an hour off-duty? Go slay dragons or scorch some earth with your gnomes." "Hobbits, they're hobbits," Leo brightened slightly. "I'll do that." "I'll return at 1500 hours." Libby slapped her forehead with a sharp salute. "Sir!" Leo tapped his watch. "Mark." He returned her salute, dismissing her. Libby spun a crisp about face and strode to the door. There she stopped to tease him, as she always did when she caught the glint at the end of his shirtsleeves. "You should lose those giant, gold cockroaches. I'm going waste them one of these days." She unholstered her water gun and spun it around her thumb like a propeller. Leo chuckled a bit and twisted his custom made cufflinks affectionately, "Not Bilboa and Frodo, you don't. Get back to work and I'll see you in an hour." When she was gone, Leo considered his next move. Sarah had not proved difficult last night, but surely someone was catching up to him. He should have done them all in one night. He hoped the last two were suffering.