Date:         Mon, 29 Jan 1996 13:15:02 -0500
From: Loose Cannon <LoosCanN@AOL.COM>
Subject:      ADULT:  Child Killer


Some "chapters" of this story have some violence and some
sexual content, though nothing all that graphic (sorry), and it
was recommended that I label it ADULT.  Comments are
naturally very welcome.  Thanks to the folks who gave me
some help with Toronto street names.  If I messed it up, it's
my fault, not theirs.  Standard disclaimers about which
characters belong to whom.

CHILD KILLER   (1/10)   by Leslie GrantSmith

"Hi, Nat."

Natalie jumped, shoving paperwork over the edge of her
desk.  "Sheesh, what is it with you."

"Sorry," said Nick, with a puckish grin on his face, as
he stooped to gather up the spilled papers.

"Yeah, you look it.  What do you want?"  She snatched the
papers out of his hand.

"I was wondering what you could tell me about the
stabbing case on Dupont Street."

"Yeah, Hank Wylie.  I finished him up about an hour ago.
Let's see...,"  Natalie pulled out her clipboard and flipped
through a few pages.  "Here," she said handing him the
clipboard.  As Nick took it, an older man walked in and they
both looked up.

"Hi, John," they said in unison, then grinned.

"Hey, you two.  Listen, Nat, I need whatever new you have
on the Sanders case."

"Ah, yeah, just got the blood analysis back from the lab.
Let me get it."

"Sure."

She got up and walked over to a filing cabinet and began
searching for the file.

"You have the Sanders case, John?"

Nick was referring to the case of Roland Sanders found
dead in his apartment, an apparent suicide.  Also found in
his apartment, spread out on his bed, were the Polaroid
pictures of eight boys, clearly taken after they had been
tortured to death.

"Yeah.  What a puke.  Can't say I'm sorry he's dead."

"Have you made any matches with those photos?"

Nat came back with the lab papers.

"Yeah," she broke in, "I've matched three to unidentified
bodies found over the last year, and two to a couple of
known runaways who turned up in here.  Nothing on the other
three, yet, but chances are they'll turn up here eventually,
too."

"Pervert," spat John.

"Yup," said Natalie.  "Anyway, nothing unusual came back
on the his blood report, no drugs or alcohol or other
toxins.  Looks like a guilt motivated suicide to me."

"Poor kids.  He shoulda done it sooner."

"Yeah.  Hey, Nick, actually your guy does have something
in common with Sanders there."

"Yeah?  Not suicide."

"Nooo, clearly not.  _But_ he did have a record for child
molestation going way back, though apparently nothing
recently, in the last five years."

"These guys don't reform."

"No.  Maybe he was just being a little more careful or
maybe he was paying for it now.  Like Sanders."

"Paying?"

"Yeah.  The two runaways were known to have sold their
bodies to survive.  Chances are the others were too."

"So," said Nick, flipping through the papers on the
clipboard, "is it possible some kid got this guy, uh,
Wylie?"

"Huh, unlikely, Nick.  Whoever got Wylie was at least 6
feet tall and strong, very strong.  His neck wound is
practically a decapitation."

"Sounds messy."

"Very."

"Huh," interjected John.  "Sounds like another thing in
common with Sanders.  He wandered all over his apartment
after he cut his wrists, until he collapsed in the bath tub.
The scene was a _real_ mess.  Huh."  John's eyes glazed a
bit and he scratched above his left ear, clearly trying to
remember something.

"What?" prompted Nick, after a few moments.

"It's real funny,"  said John, still trying to pull
details out of his memory.  "Just when I came onto the
force, about 30 years ago, there was this one summer where
there was this series of real messy suicides.  Turned out
all these 4 or 5 guys were into kids, you know.  Like these
guys."  John's eyes cleared and he grinned ruefully.  " One
reason I remember is I was a rookie cop and one of the first
officers on the scene for one of them.  Almost lost my
lunch.  Very messy.  A lot like Sanders, in fact.  Well,
thanks, Nat.  See ya.  Good luck with your guy, Nick."

"Thanks, John"

"See ya."

As John left, Nick turned to Natalie.

"Huh.  That's a little strange."

"Coincidence" she replied.  "Besides, Wylie was
definitely not a suicide."

"Right.  Still, knowing his ... predilections will give
me something to work with."

"Nick, no kid killed Wylie.  Too small."

"Yeah.  But pimps tend to be bigger."

"His wallet is missing.  Chances are it's simple
robbery."

"Yeah, you're right.  But a pimp probably wouldn't shy
away from a little theft should the opportunity arise."

"Yeah, and practically taking someone's head off in an
alley gives you a pretty good opportunity."

"Yeah.  I'd say so.  See ya, Nat."

"Bye, Nick."

***

"Got Nat's work-up on Wylie, Trace, that guy found on
Dupont,"  said Nick, tossing the papers on the desk.

"Yeah?"  she said, picking them up and glancing through
them.

"Killer was big, strong.  No sign of any struggle.  Wylie
was hit with one quick stroke across the throat that went
almost to the spine.  Probably by surprise.  He didn't even
have a chance to get his hands up to try to defend himself."

"Yow.  Must have been real messy. The person who did it
was probably drenched.  Unless they came from behind?"

"Well, with the angle and all, Nat thinks that's
unlikely, though not impossible.  But ..."  Nick took the
report back and flicked through it again.  "No mention of
any footprints in the rather copious amount of blood in the
area.  Or any trail of it leading from the scene."

"With all that blood, that doesn't seem likely.  Does
it?"

"No, it doesn't.  Let's go down and take a look.  Maybe
somebody missed something."

"It's gonna be dark.  Not the best conditions for
searching a crime scene."

"Bring a flashlight."

"Right."

***

Nick and Tracy prowled around the taped off crime scene
and then up and down the sidewalk the alley led onto.  Nick
even tried finding some traces in the street right in front
of the alley, but if there had been anything the evidence
had been wiped out by a day's worth of traffic.  Frustrated,
they went back to Nick's car and sat in the front seat and
talked.

"Maybe the perp was wearing a raincoat or something and
had a bag, and put all the bloody stuff in it," speculated
Tracy.

"Maybe.  But I'm wondering how he managed to avoid making
footprints.  That alley was a mess."

"Walked through it, came to the edge, carefully took off
his shoes, put them in the bag and walked away barefoot."

"Yyyeah ... but that suggests an amount of planning that
does away with the theory that this was a random robbery."

"Well, yeah, but it could be that the robbery was
planned, but the victim was random.  Or maybe not.  It
doesn't sound like it's impossible Wylie had people around
who didn't like him."

"Huh," Nick grunted in agreement.  "Yeah, I think taking
a look at Wylie's life closely is the best next step we
could take."

"Agreed."

***

They found that Wylie was a loner, with no known family
in town.  His co-workers didn't seem at all surprised or
saddened that he had been found dead in an alley with his
throat cut.  Nor did his landlady, who said she never saw
him have any visitors, but that he did go out almost every
weekend, coming back very late.  Where he went, she had no
idea.


CHILD KILLER   (2/10)   by Leslie GrantSmith

"Hey, Nick."  Natalie pulled a chair up to his desk and
sat down.  "Where's Tracy?"

"Hey, Nat."  He pushed the paperwork he'd been slogging
through away from him.  "She has the night off.  What's up?"

"Well, Nick ... "

"Yeah?"

"Well, Nick, this is pretty off the deep end ... "

"This is new?"

"You ... Look, remember that conversation we had with
John ... "

"Yeah, yeah."

"Well, I was thinking about it, and I had a spare moment,
and I dug up those old cases, and John was wrong about
something."

"Okay."

"Well, John remembered those cases, there were 5 of them,
as suicides, probably because the one he was involved with
was.  But they weren't."

"They weren't?"

"Bear with me now.  No.  Two of them were.  Apparently.
And two were murders, unsolved, by the way, and one was an
accident.  The only thing that ties them together at all, is
that all five of these guys had records as child molesters
_and_ that their deaths were very bloody.  They weren't
actually linked at the time as fitting into any kind of
pattern, except that the guys working on them, like John,
noticed who the victims were."

"Nat, that was thirty years ago.  Is it relevant now?"

"Well, Nick, I don't know.  But I do know, because I went
rooting through my database, that over the past five weeks,
five known child molesters, have died. Four of them very in
very bloody ways, two suicides, an accident with a skinning
knife and your Wylie murder.  And the fifth man..." Nat
leaned forward, taking a quick look around to see who was
close.  Nick leaned forward with his elbows on his desk.
"The fifth man died of a heroin overdose."

Nick flopped back in his chair.  "Well, that messed up
your pattern."

"Yeah, yeah, it did, but Nick, this guy had tracks
running all up and down his arms, and I just got to
thinking, and I checked, and you know Nick, that guy was
short about a quart."

"Short ... a quart."

"Nick, you've gotta work a little harder here holding up
your side of the conversation.  Look, what I'm wondering
here is if the very messiness of these ... incidents isn't
in fact a cover up for the fact that some of the blood is
missing.  It's kinda hard for us to account for it all if
it's spread all over an apartment or an alleyway.  And this
heroin overdose, well, it was pretty clear what he died of
and no one felt a real need to do a check on his blood
volume.  But if you think about it, if you want to sneak a
quart of blood out of someone, a needle user is a perfect
target, because who is really going to pay attention to one
more hole in his arm."

"Nat ... Nat, you're right.  It is kinda weird.  But what
made you think the blood might be missing?  That's quite a
leap of logic."

"Well, maybe it's the kind of people I hang out with."

"You ... you don't think ... "  Now Nick leaned forward,
glancing around the room.  "You don't think it's a vampire,
do you?"

"Well, no, Nick.  It doesn't really fit the classic
pattern, does it?  But it may be possible that these cases
are tied together by more than the victims' sexual problems.
That _something_ out of the ordinary happened 30 years ago
and that something out of the ordinary is happening now."

"That I am looking for the one thing that links all these
guys together and in all likelihood that has something to do
with their sexual habits."

"That's the most obvious one.  Maybe that caused them to
go to the same place and meet the same people.  Maybe they
all knew each other.  I dunno."

"But the blood ... "

"I don't know, Nick.  I don't _know_ that the other guys
actually were missing any blood.  There's just no way we
could account for it all.  But the o.d. victim was, and he
is the only one who doesn't fit the pattern of a messy
death.  If someone is collecting blood from these guys, for
whatever reason, they may have counted on the obviousness of
the cause of death from leading us into checking him out too
carefully."

"Mmmm.  But ... but, Nat, there's no evidence of anyone
else having been around these guys when they died."

"Yeah, that's true.  But it's true even of Wylie, isn't
it?  If it weren't for the fact that it's real tough for
someone to practically cut their own head off and then cause
the weapon to disappear, you don't really have much of a
case for someone being in that alley with Wylie, do you?"

Nick stretched back in his chair, running both hands
through his hair.

"Gotta think about this one.  Thanks, Nat, you put a lot
of time and effort into this."

"Eh," she said, standing up.  "You know me.  Something
starts bugging me and I can't rest, `til I pick it apart."

Grinning, Nick stood up and they began walking together
toward the door.  "Remind me never to bug you."

"Get real.  Where are you going?"

"Down to Vice.  Gotta talk to Rudy."

***

Rudy was a short, dark-haired man, with large, sad brown
eyes, who was now looking harassed as he scrabbled through
the papers on his desk.

"I told him to keep his cotton-pickin' hands out of my
notes, " he was muttering as Nick walked up.

"What's up, Rudy?"

Rudy looked at Nick, blinking, then focused and smiled at
him.

"Oh, hey, Nick, good to see you."

"Need any help?"

"Nah.  My blankety-blank partner rifled through my notes,
and now I can't find everything.."

"I saw some papers under the desk as I came up."

"Yeah?"  Rudy peered under the desk and then disappeared
from Nick's view as he crouched down to pick them up.  A
muffled "That's them!" came from under the desk, and Rudy
popped back up again, beaming.

"Thanks, Nick."  He shuffled the papers together again
and tapping their edges on the desk to straighten them out,
continued, "Okay, now, what can I do for you?  A favor for a
favor."

"Okay, well," said Nick, pulling a chair over from an
empty desk and sitting down, "I'm working on a murder case-"

"Yeah, Hank Wylie's, I heard."

"Know him?"

"By rep, yeah, I think so.  The kids can be pretty close-
mouthed, you know.  They called him the Weasel, and I heard
some pretty nasty things about him, but I didn't have a real
name to put on him, until Wylie turned up dead and one of my
boys couldn't stop giggling about the 'Weasel bein'
whacked'."

"What kind of nasty things?"

"They said he was mean, was really more into the hurting
than the sex."

"Like Sanders."

Rudy's face paled, eyes narrowing, as he said tightly,
"That son of a bitch."  Then he sat there, grinding his
teeth, lost in some ugly thought.

Finally Nick said, "Rudy?"

Rudy turned to look at him, and Nick leaned back a bit,
away from the hatred in his eyes.

"Rudy?"

The man suddenly took a deep breath, like he had just
come up for air and blurted, "Sorry.  Sorry, Nick.  That guy
.... I just ... man!"

"`S all right."

"The Weasel was mean, yeah, but not in Sander's league.
At least the boys that went out with him came back alive."

"So Weasel ... Wylie was interested in boys, not girls?"

"That's the word."

"Rudy, I'd like to talk to some of these kids to see if I
can get any leads on this murder."

"Well, I dunno, they're not too keen on talking to cops.
I feel like I'm just getting my toe in the door with them
and I don't want to mess that up.  They can get into a lot
of trouble talking to cops, you know."

"Fine, I can see that.  I'd go easy."

"Right.  So, forgive me if I don't arrange any
introductions for you, and don't mention my name, but try
checking out Old Weston Road just north of West Queen.  Then
there are a couple arcades, Jerry's and Hot Shot on Dufferin
where they wait for tricks.  Try getting there before 11,
`cause the kids tend to head deeper into the shadows after
that.  Cops start asking them why they aren't at home.  Oh,
and the tag this month is a red ribbon or yarn or something
tied around a wrist."

"Tag?"

"You know, to show they're looking.  Now, not all the
kids who are looking are tagged and not all the kids with a
red string on their wrist are looking, so take it easy."

"I will, Rudy.  Thanks."

"You're welcome.  And Nick ..."

"Yeah?"

"If you find the guy who did Wylie Weasel, let me know,
huh?  I wanna shake his hand."

"You got it, Rudy."

***

Nick didn't know how to include Tracy on this, how much
to say.  The connections were so tenuous, and the blood
thing was making him a little more nervous than he cared to
admit.  Also that they could find no trace of Wylie's killer
in the alley.  He decided to swing by Old Weston Road and
ask a few questions, and see if anything panned out.  If
things seemed to get a little more solid, he'd pull Tracy
into it.  Until then, he'd work on it alone.


CHILD KILLER   (3/10)   by Leslie GrantSmith

Going back to his desk from Rudy's, he found a yellow
sticky adhering to his computer monitor.  On it, in
Natalie's handwriting, were three names with a little
notation beside each one.  Richard Ford - sui., Jacob Witz -
acc. and Steven Marley - o.d..  He chuckled, then called
their files, one by one on the computer, reading each one
slowly and carefully.  He noticed two more traits these men
all had in common.  Most molestation victims are girls, but
with these five men, all of their known victims were boys.
He also noted that all of the deaths occurred late at night,
which really wasn't all that odd for the suicides, the
murder or the over-dose death, but what was Jacob Witz doing
with a skinning knife at 3 in the morning?  Apparently
cutting a large piece of leather into strips, when he
slipped and slashed a razor sharp knife across the major
artery near the groin.  Nick winced.  Well, maybe Witz had
been a night person, but it was really starting to bug him
that their similarities were growing instead of shrinking as
he took a harder look at them.

He managed to get photos of the five men, all of them but
Sanders from mug shots taken from the last time they'd been
arrested for molestation charges.  Sanders had never been
arrested, and Nick thought he was going to have to use a
morgue shot for him, though he really didn't want to go
around showing a picture of a dead man to a bunch of kids.
Then he remembered that there had been a picture of Sanders
in the newspaper.  It had been quite scandalous, the CEO of
an up and coming biotech company found dead by his own hand,
photos of dead boys scattered across his bed.  He managed to
get a copy of the newspaper picture, a publicity shot for
his company, Sanders all spruce and executive in a three
piece suit.  Then he let dispatch know he was going out and
headed over to Old Weston.

It had taken him a while to read the reports and get the
photos together, and it was close to midnight, so he wasn't
sure how active Old Weston was going to be.  But it was
still pretty busy. Rudy was right, however.  While he saw a
lot of adult, or perhaps not so adult, women up and down the
street, any kids he saw, and there were a few, tended to be
pulled back, away from the main hustle and bustle, in
quieter patches of shadow.  He parked the Caddy, and got
out, receiving a number of hopeful invitations from some of
the ladies.  He smiled and waved them off, heading as
casually as he could toward the nearest bunch of kids.  They
were back around the side of the building, far enough up so
that they could keep an eye on the street, but not so far up
that they would be spotted easily.  You'd have to be looking
for them deliberately.  They were drinking sodas and passing
a cigarette around, 2 girls and 3 boys, the oldest of them
looking about 16.  Nick could see that they had given some
trouble to their appearance, but they all looked a little
shabby.  They spotted him coming and the largest boy eased
up to be the one to deal with Nick, while the older of the
two girls stepped in an unconscious gesture of protection in
front of the younger girl.

"Hey, mister, gotta quarter?" asked the boy, with a
jaunty smile.  He shoved both hands down into the front
pockets of his jeans, and Nick noticed the red yarn tied
around his left wrist.

"Have ten dollars if you'll look at some pictures for
me," replied Nick, attempting to smile as non-threateningly
as he could.

"Look at or be in?" asked the boy quickly.  "If it's be
in, it'll be more than 10."

"No, no," said Nick, a bit taken aback.  "Just look at.
Just to tell me if you've seen these guys around."

"He's a cop," said the older girl, disgustedly.

The boy's face fell, and he stepped back into his circle
of friends.

"Shit," he said.

"We don't wanna look at your dirty pictures, mister,"
said the girl, flipping long, dark hair over her shoulder.

"It's an easy 10," protested one of the other boys, a
skinny kid with sandy hair and freckles.  The other boys
nodded in agreement.

"Sure, I'll look," declared the oldest boy, reaching out
to take the photos as Nick pulled them out of his inside
jacket pocket.

The girl gave a disgusted snort as the three boys huddled
around the photos, trying to hold them to catch the light.

"Seen him around," said the skinny kid, pointing to
Marley, the over-dose victim.  "A real junky."

"Yeah, me, too," said the older boy, "plus him."  He
tapped the photo of Richard Ford, the man who committed
suicide over 5 weeks ago.  "Haven't seen him for awhile,
though."

"Ever talk to these guys?"

"Nope," said the three boys in unison, shaking their
heads.

"All right, thanks, guys."  Nick fished some tens out of
his pocket, dealing one out to each boy, then offering one
to the girl.  She turned her back on him, hugging the other
girl and glaring at him over her shoulder.  Nick gave her
half a grin, and shoved two more tens into the oldest boy's
hand.

"Thanks, man," the kid said, the jaunty grin returning to
his face.  "Pleasure doin' business with you."

"Likewise."

As Nick left, he could hear them beginning to make eager
plans for a fast food run.  He made his way slowly up the
street, getting more or less the same reception from the
other kids he talked to.  He got some hostile looks from the
women working the street and one of them even hissed at him
as he walked by to leave the kids alone.  He ignored them,
but he did start to feel a little ... sleazy, knowing what
it was likely they were thinking about him.

At some point each of the five men, except for Sanders,
had been identified as someone that the kids had seen
"around".  None of them admitting talking to any of the men.
Nick wondered if Sanders picked up his boys somewhere else
or if the picture of him in his suit made recognizing him
more difficult, out of context.  He decided to check in at
least one of the arcades that Rudy had mentioned and then
call it a night.  The kids were starting to disappear into
whatever hidyholes they had.

He walked into Jerry's Arcade and was treated to the flat
reptilian gaze of the fat man behind the cash register.
Nick ignored him and walked slowly into the room.  About
half the machines were still busy, bells and buzzers
overlaying the sound of grunts and groans and the Hollywood
version of fists on flesh.  Toward the back he saw a slight
figure, a boy about 13 or 14 with a scrap of red wrapping
ribbon around a wrist.  The youngster was deeply engrossed
in his game, tongue darting back and forth across his teeth
as he skillfully directed his figure, whirling, kicking,
punching through its battle.

Nick walked slowly towards him, coming up beside his
machine, then turning so he could lean casually against it.
The boy's gaze darted up to about as high as Nick's chin and
his hands faltered a bit on the controls.

"Uh, hi," said the boy, venturing a smile.  His eyes
darted back to his game, as he tried to keep up with the
actions of his opponent.  Nick could hear his pulse rate
stutter, then rise.

"I'd just like to ask you a question, is all," he said
gently.

"Yeah?  You a cop?"

"Yep."

"I don't have any answers worth anything to a cop."  He
couldn't get his focus back, and his character was getting
creamed on the screen.

"Just look at these pictures and tell me if you've ever
seen any of these guys before," said Nick, fanning out the
five photographs.

The boy glanced at them, then back at his game, trying to
get it back under control.  He had started to sweat and Nick
could smell his fear.

"Nope."

Nick paused a moment, then said, "They're all dead, these
guys.  They can't hurt you."

The boy's hand's froze and he stared at the pictures,
eyes wide.

"Dead?  All of them."

"Yep.  All five."

"How?"

"Hard to say."

"Not ... not AIDS,"  the boy blurted.

"No, no, not AIDS."

"Well, lemme see them again."  He took the pictures from
Nick and flicked through them.  "Well, I know this guy, the
Weasel, and I seen this guy before.  I don't know any of
these other guys."  Nick glanced at the pictures the boy had
chosen. Hank Wylie's and Roland Sanders' pictures.

"So, the Weasel's dead, huh?"

"Yeah."

The boy flushed red, then paled, then flushed again.

"Good," he spat.

"Good?"

"Yeah, good," he said, looking up and meeting Nick's eyes
for the first time.  "He was meaner than he had to be."

"When did you see him last?"

"Hmmm, it was sometime last week.  Saturday.  Yeah,
Saturday night.  He went out with that blond kid.  I needed
the money but I was glad it wasn't me."

"Blond kid," said Nick, looking around the room.  Wylie
had been murdered last Saturday night.

"Yeah, he was in here tonight, but he went out with a guy
already ... "  He reached for the photos again.  "Hey, can I
look at those again?"  Nick handed him the photos and the
boy flipped through them until he came back to Sanders'.  He
stared at it a moment, sucking on his lower lip.

"I remember this guy, `cuz of the suit, see.  Don't see
too many guys in nice suits in here, you know.  It was a
couple weeks ago.  He went out with the blond kid, too.
Well, not _with_ you know, but you could tell they had set
it up to meet somewhere."  He sighed, looking at the
picture.  "Real nice suit.  I woulda gone with him.  But
that other kid, he's way cute.  `Magine he gets what he
wants."

"I'd like to talk with this kid."

The boy began looking very uncomfortable, "Well, he's
around here sometimes.  Listen, if you find him, don't tell
him I told you."

"Fine.  Look, I'd like to talk to him right away.  Any
idea where I might run across him tonight?"

The boy looked up into his face, squinting as though it
were a bright light that hurt his eyes.

"Look, that guy he went out with ... "

"Yeah?"

"Well, that guy's still alive, you know.  Not like the
Weasel or those other guys."

"Ah."

"Yeah."

The boy turned back to the machine, fumbling in his
pocket for a quarter.

"I'd really like to talk to this kid."  Feeling cheap as
he said it, he pointed out, "Look, folks already know we've
been talking here, you know."

"Yeah, but I'm gonna follow you outta here a few minutes
after you leave, and they're gonna think we were talking
about something else.  Y'know?"

Nick laughed.

"Okay, ...?"  He held out his hand.  The kid took it with
a bemused grin, then peeked down into his palm at the two
tens in his hand.

"James," he said.  "Thanks, mister."

"Thank you, James."

Nick turned to go.

"Uh.  Try down on Dupont. Between Dufferin and Bathurst
on the north side.  Middle apartment building, third floor.
The guy that kid's with now took me there....."

"James, thanks very much."

***

After Nick got in his car, he watched the front of
Jerry's Arcade for a few moment.  Sure enough, James popped
out the door a minute later and set off purposely down the
street.  Nick chuckled.

"My reputation's ruined at Jerry's Arcade," he murmured.


CHILD KILLER   (4/10)   by Leslie GrantSmith

He drove to  Dupont and parked.  He walked quietly along
the north side of the street.  The neighborhood was run down
and tired looking, though it hadn't yet fallen into the
category of "slum".  The buildings were about 40 or 50 years
old, 6 stories high, probably four apartments per floor.
Most of the apartments' lights were off, a few windows
showing up as warm yellow or blue flickering rectangles.  He
wasn't quite sure of his approach.  He supposed snooping
around the outside of the buildings, flying around the third
floor windows would be more subtle than knocking on doors to
see if the boy was there.  If he found him, he could then
wait outside the building, hoping he wasn't going to spend
the whole night.  Or if he found the right apartment, then
he could go knock on the door, though that did put the boy
at greater risk, especially if this guy were another mean
one, as James had hinted.  If the boy wasn't out by an hour
before dawn, he decided he'd have to take the chance.

Silently, senses alert, he walked to the side of the
building, waiting until he was well back in the shadows.  He
started to rise up, when he froze where he was in surprise.
Somewhere in the building was another vampire.  He hovered,
unsure, for a moment, until he heard the soft groan, of a
man he thought, and he aimed himself to where the impression
of another vampire was the strongest.

He rounded to the back of the building, flashing to the
one dimly lit window on the third floor.  The blood smell
rolled out the open window like a wave, and the hunger
surged up in him.  He pushed it down fiercely and looked
into the room.  In the center of the room squatted a large
bed, surrounded by a jumble of trash and clothing.  Sprawled
on the left side of the bed, in a cooling pool of his own
blood, lay a man, who died as Knight watched.  A small, pale
figure crouched at the edge of the bed, shuddering and
snarling softly as it caught blood in a large cup as it
flowed from the long, deep, life ending wound down the man's
forearm.

Nick surged up through the window, and the other, finally
sensing his presence through its blood lust, turned,
dropping the man's arm and clutching the cup with both
hands.  The figure was that of a young boy, perhaps 11 or
12, curling blond hair a wild tangle.  He cringed away from
Nick, eyes glowing and fangs gleaming as he snarled.

It was hard for Nick to raise his hands in placation, in
a room drenched in fresh blood as another vampire growled
his rage at him, but he did it, saying, "Hush now.  I don't
want a fight."

As he stood quietly, the boy slowly straightened from his
crouch, snarl dying.  Then just as slowly, turning a bit so
he could keep one burning eye on Nick, he raised the cup to
his lips and drank.  His eyelid dipped in pleasure and he
made a low humming moan.  The image of heavy, stone cup
flashed through Nick's mind, but was quickly gone.

The boy seemed much calmer as he brought the cup down,
though his eyes still flickered with yellow lights.  His
upper lip was stained with what reminded Nick of a chocolate
milk mustache, until the boy licked it off.  They stared at
one another, both willing to wait for the other to make the
first move.  Nick sensed that the other was younger in years
than he was, though no fledgling. His naked stillness
brought to mind a statuary angel, his only color his rosy
lips, golden curls and glittering eyes.  The boy yielded and
spoke first.

"May I get my clothes?" he asked, pointing to a neatly
folded pile in an arm chair to Nick's left.  His voice was
clear, a boyish  treble, accent pure Toronto.

"Sure," said Nick, glancing at the little heap, the only
tidy thing about the room.

The boy edged cautiously toward the chair, clearly still
unsure of Nick and what he wanted.  Nick took a step back
and to his right to give the boy some room.  The boy
stooped, picking up his clothes, and then in what was a blur
even to Nick's eyes, flung himself past Nick and out the
window. Nick lunged after him, swearing, but the other was
unbelievable fast.  He was already down the alley and around
the corner as Nick came out the window.  Nick went after
him, pushing himself hard as he could, but the boy was
faster, gradually pulling away.  Then he could feel the
other slowing, perhaps tiring, though he had just fed.  Nick
had interrupted, though.  Perhaps he hadn't had enough,
given his clumsy way of feeding.  Then Nick noticed that the
other had slowed to precisely his own speed, maintaining a
constant distance between them.  This continued until they
were out of the city of Toronto and in its immediate
suburbs.  Nick sensed the other slowing again, then coming
to an abrupt halt.

Nick was drawn to a baseball field in the middle of a
large neighborhood park.  Late as it was, a few lights
showed in the surrounding houses.  But even the closest
houses were far enough from the field that it was unlikely
any human could see the small figure in its center, watching
Nick's arrival.

The boy had dressed, either in flight or on landing, in
worn looking blue jeans and  denim jacket, a blue T-shirt
and black sneakers.  The cup was perhaps in the dirty cloth
bag he had slung by a strap over a shoulder.  Nick noted
when he landed about 10 feet away, that the boy's eyes were
a clear blue, his face still and serene as a marble angel.
Again they studied each other and this time Nick spoke
first.

"Why'd you stop?"

"I wanted to find out your intentions, why you're
following me.  I don't think you're one of those enforcer
fellows, or I'd be in little pieces by now."

"No, I'm not an enforcer."

"If I was poaching on your territory, I sincerely
apologize.  I'm planning on leaving Toronto now, anyway.  I
won't intrude again."

"No.  Actually, I'm investigating the murder of a man
named Hank Wylie. I was wondering if you had any information
on his death."

"Investigating ... ?" queried the boy, a baffled look on
his face.

"I'm Nicholas Knight, a homicide detective on the Toronto
police force."

"What ... ?"

Nick flipped out his badge and displayed it.

"How ... unique.  Your department is quite the equal
opportunity employer, isn't it?" he said, with a small smile
of amusement.

"I'm afraid I'm still in the closet in that regard."

The boy laughed, then sobering, asked, "Sooo, are you
intending to arrest me?  Or what?"

"I'd like to know if you killed Hank Wylie."

"The Weasel?  Mmmm ..."

"How about Roland Sanders, Steven Marley, Richard Ford
and Jacob Witz?"

The boy shifted, uneasiness growing.  "I ... I guess I
wasn't as discreet as I thought.  I hope you're the only one
looking for me."

"Probably.  As you say, my position is unique."

"Well, that's a relief.  Look ... , Officer Knight, I
really do intend to leave Toronto.  The vampire population,
with its enforcers, has really blossomed since I was last
here-"

"Thirty years ago?"

The boy stood in silence for a moment, then said slowly,
"I think I'm moving to Vladivostok."

"That's fine.  I have no objections. But first I'd like
to know how and why."

"Why?  I was hungry."

"Why them?"

"They were easy targets for someone like me.  And how?
Well, the Weasel was the only one that I actually killed
with my own hand.  I had the others do it themselves."

"You made them kill themselves?"

"You just have to hold onto them very tight and then push
very hard.  You know," he said tapping his head.  "Marley
was kind of fun, actually.  I had him set the needle with a
tube on it and it was like sucking through a straw.  His
blood wasn't too pure though and I was pretty woozy, `til I
could sleep it off.  But, but, Sanders was the best.  He
just about fell over when he saw me get up, a walking
corpse."  He laughed aloud.

"A corpse?"

"Well, if I hadn't been dead from the beginning, I
certainly would have been by the time he was finished.
Nasty man.  No way I was going to bite him and have the
chance of _him_ coming over.  I didn't even kiss him."

"So ... that's why you use the cup?"

"One of them.  And teeth marks are a little obvious,
aren't they.  I really don't want to draw any attention to
myself.  It's been some time since I've actually had or made
the opportunity to ... "  His eyes began to glitter with
yellow lights

"And you never actually take all that much blood.  What
wonderful self control."

The boy looked at him sharply.  "I grew up hungry," he
snapped.  Then, quickly regaining his equanimity, he went
on, "Besides, us little fellows don't need as much to eat as
you great, grown up boys."

"Mmmm."

"So ... so, is that enough?  May I go?  I need to find
cover before dawn."  The boy fidgeted, glancing toward the
eastern horizon.

"That's it, I guess.  Good luck in Vladivostok.  Oh," he
said, as the boy rose into the air.

"Yes?"

"Why the photos, on Sanders' bed?"

"Well, you guys might not have found them, otherwise.  He
had them pretty well hid," he replied, hovering.

"So, it was important that he be found out."

"To me, it was.  Oh, and something else ... "

"Yes?"

"I usually have a chance to go over my "mise en scene"
carefully before I go.  I didn't get a chance with this
one."

"I'll deal with it."

"Thanks."

"Discretion, et cetera."

"Huh, yeah.  A vampire's lot is not an happy one."

"That's "a constable's lot".

"Well, _you_ would know, eh?"

With that the boy flashed off toward the west.

***

Nick went back and checked the room carefully, though it
was hard for him to think in a room reeking of blood.  The
other had done well covering his tracks.  Nick thought the
newspaper on the bed next to the stiffening corpse was a
clever touch.  Crumbled and bloodstained, it was the week
old edition with Sanders' death and disgrace on the front
page.  The only possible anomaly was a drop of blood on the
window sill, probably from the cup.  Nick carefully wiped it
up with his handkerchief.


CHILD KILLER  (5/10)   by Leslie GrantSmith

Nick went through the motions with the Wylie case for
Tracy for the next week, but finally even she had to admit
that they just weren't getting anywhere.  He did tell
Natalie, though.

***

"It was a vampire?" she said in amazement. "But they
weren't ... drained.  And there were no teeth marks.  At
least not in the throat.  Though, I suppose the larger
wounds could have been made to cover up the smaller ones."

"No, I don't think so.  When I interrupted him with, ah..."

"Dobson.  Albert Dobson."

"Yeah, Dobson.  He was catching the blood in a cup."

"In a cup?  Nick, why?  And how.  I thought that the
blood lust made that much control difficult."

"He seemed very concerned about not being noticed.  And I
don't know how.  Practice, I guess."

"And why did he choose these guys?  Moral compunctions?"

"Uhh, no answer to that one.  Could be simple
opportunity.  He looked to be about eleven.  These guys
would pick him up to have sex with him, and ... "

"Wait.  What do you mean he looked about eleven?"

"Nat, we look the age we are when we were brought over.
You know that."

"Someone brought over an eleven year old kid?"

Nick stirred uneasily.

"Well, it happens sometimes, though not often.  Children
.... they don't tend to survive the experience.  And most of
us are brought over as some kind of ... love interest.
While vampires can't exactly be held up as examples of moral
purity, we don't have any more child molesters in our
population than is in the mortal.  Probably less, actually."
He paused.  "Also, the ... community in general does not
approve of child vampires. They have even less self control
than other fledglings, and their minds ... well, while they
gain in experience as the rest of us do, they still remain
somehow child-like.  Perhaps certain parts of their physical
brain never have a chance to mature."

 "So ... where did this one come from?"

"I don't know.  We didn't exchange life stories.  But he
wasn't a fledgling.  Perhaps a bit younger than me.  But not
by much."

"He's survived a long time.  Not much of a case against
child vampires."

"Well, he was just short of puberty when he was brought
over.  So he'd have a better chance than, say, a six year
old.  But he was scared, running hard.  I don't think he's
had an easy time of it."

"An eternal child. What ... what did he look like, Nick?"

"Like an angel, Nat.  Like one of Bernini's angels."

"Huh.  Maybe he was the model."

After a long pause, Nick said, "Maybe he was."

***

Six months later, on a cold, raining September evening,
Nick was settling in for a solitary, but comfortable,
weekend, when the phone rang.  He considered letting the
machine catch it, but then with a sigh for his most probably
ruined night off, he picked it up himself.

"Yes?" he said, a trifle brusque.

"Nicholas Knight?"  The voice on the other end was light
and clear.  In the background Nick could hear the sound of
many people walking and talking and then the squeal of metal
on metal.  The subway.

"Yes.  Who is this?"

"We met some months ago.  Over the matter of Hank Wylie."

Nick had placed the voice.  The child-like vampire.

"Yes, I remember."

"I'm afraid I'm turning out to be the proverbial bad
penny.  I'd like to come back into Toronto."

"You're asking my permission?"

"Yes, well, I did tell you I was leaving.  I'd hate to
run into you sometime and, as the kids say, piss you off for
being where you don't want me.  May I come in?"

"Why?"

"I-I need to come into Toronto."

"Need?"

There was a long silence.  Nick could still hear the
noises of the subway station, so he knew the other hadn't
hung up.

Finally the boyish voice went on.

"Have you heard of the problem in Montreal?  The missing
children?"

"Yes," replied Nick, feeling a growing chill.  Eight
children had disappeared without a trace there in the last
month.

"Well, that problem has just arrived in Toronto."

"How do you know?"

"I've tracked it here."

"Your intentions?"

"I intend to _try_ to find it and kill it."

".... To _try_?"

There was another pause, filled with screaming brakes.

"It's one of us, Knight."

It was Nick's turn to create a silence on the line.

"You're sure?"

"Positive."

"We need to talk about this further.  Will you meet me?"

"Is that the only way you'll let me in town?  I don't
want to be looking over my shoulder for you."

"You are in no danger from me.  I just don't want some
kind of vampiric running feud breaking out.  And if it is as
you say, ... you may need help."

Again there was a silence, then a short sigh.

"I may.  Where shall we meet?"

"Do you know the Raven?"

"Ah.  Well, it's you that grants the boon.  I shall be
where you want me to be.  But unless you insist, could we
meet elsewhere?  I don't like ... making my presence known
to the community.  Some find my existence ... offensive."

"Oh.  Yes.  Do ... do you have a suggestion?"

"Well, do you know Jerry's Arcade on Dufferin?"

Nick sighed.  "Yes.  I've been there."

"Could it be there?  Tonight?"

"Sure.  About eight?"

"That's fine, Knight.  Thank you."

"Sure."

The line went dead with a loud click.  Nick held the
receiver, staring at it a moment, then gently hung up.

***

Having parked the Caddy a couple blocks away, Nick walked
to the arcade and stepped through the door just at eight.
He spotted the boy vampire almost immediately, working a
machine in the middle of the room.  With the man at the cash
registers gaze prickling on the back of his neck, Nick
walked over to stand next to him.

"Hello, Officer Knight," he murmured.  "Let me finish up
my quarter, here."

Nick glanced around the room.  No one was actually
looking at him, but it felt like he was being stared at.

"What?"  asked the boy, voice still very low.  "Ashamed
to be seen with me?"

"No," replied Nick, moving up to lean against the
machine.

"Good show," said the boy, glancing up at him with an
anything but angelic grin.  "After all, I have to maintain
my reputation here, you know.  Usually one has a little
palaver before going off with some unknown gent."

"What about _my_ reputation?"

"`Fraid it was ruined the minute you started chatting
with _me_.   Okay," he said, as the screen came up telling
him he should put in his initials as the holder of the
highest score.  "That's it.  Go ahead.  I'll follow you in a
moment."

Nick walked out, with the cashier's rasping whisper of
"Have a _fine_ evening, sir" slithering into his ears.  He
turned left and started walking slowly toward the car.
Moments later, he heard light steps coming up quickly behind
him.

"Sorry about that," said the boy, as he caught up.  "I
didn't want my behavior to seem any different than usual.
They know me in there from last spring."

"It's not a problem," said Nick, smiling.  "I do
understand the importance of a good cover."

"I don't doubt," he responded with a sideways grin.  "Do
you have a car?"

"Yeah, around the corner here."

They reached the car, Nick opened the passenger door for
his companion, closed it behind him, then went around and
got in on the driver's side.  Once there, he turned to face
the boy.

"Look, before we go any further, is there a name I could
call you?"

"Oh," exclaimed the boy.  "Sorry.  Call me Michael."

"Michael. Okay.  Well, now what?"

"Well, um, you might want to drive around or you're going
to get hit on."

Nick looked out the window and say a couple guys working
their way towards the car, probably thinking to offer him
some drugs.

"Right."  He started up the car and pulled out into
traffic.

"Okay," he said, when he got them cruising slowly down
Dufferin.  "What's the story?"

"The story," sighed Michael, leaning back in the car, and
rubbing his hand slowly over the cool leather of the seat.
"Well, the story is that I ... didn't quite make it to
Vladivostok."

Nick gave him a look.


CHILD KILLER  (6/10)   by Leslie GrantSmith

"Sorry.  All right, I ended up in Montreal.  I've been
there about three months.  About a month ago, I had to spend
the day in a parking garage, and to get out of the way of
the people moving around, I flew up to this little nook area
above where a metal duct came out of the wall.  I'd been
there a little while, when I realized that I was catching
whiffs of something dead.  Then I saw something in the
little nook at the other end of the duct about 100 feet away
from me.  I flew along the top of the duct and there,
stuffed in the nook was this kid.  She'd been dead a while,
maybe about a month, so she wasn't too nice, `cept for her
long, black hair.  She looked pretty beat up, but I figured
what killed her was that someone had ripped out her throat.
I was fairly sure right away it was probably a vampire.
This nook was about 20 feet off the ground, and a mortal
could have put her up there if he had a long ladder or
something, but I don't know, just where it was and the way
her throat looked just made me think vampire."

He sat quietly a moment, hands folded in his  lap, head
bowed.  "I guess then because I was half way looking for them,
over the next two weeks, I found two more bodies, stuffed away
in places only convenient to one of us.  It made me think of
the way people stick gum under a table or chair, jammed in
these holes any which way.  These two kids, though, I knew
them.  I'd seen them around on the streets.  Both of them
weren't over a week dead when I found them.  It was easier to
tell that the wounds on their throats were bites."

"So," he went on taking a deep breath, "I finally really
woke up and took a look around me.  I had been kind of just
floating along.  I realized that there were a lot fewer kids
on the street than usual.  Some had probably headed south as
it started cooling off and some had probably gotten spooked
and left.  But ... well, kids tell each other stories and
the stories were about kids just up and vanishing in the
night, some right from the middle of a bunch of sleeping
friends.  Maybe 15 kids vanished that way.  And these were
the homeless kids, the ones not being counted by the cops.
When I finally picked up a newspaper, I saw the stories of 8
kids vanishing from their homes.  One of the pictures was of
a little Asian girl with long, black hair."

"I started looking around for vampires, then, trying to
be careful not to let them know I was watching.  There were
a few of them, but not like here, and most of them cruise
the streets at night at one time or another. One guy though,
one guy, I felt him every night and it got so I could pick
him out even if there were a few other vampires around."

"You could recognize him just by feel?"

"After a while, yeah.  Why not?"

"Well, I think in general, while we can tell if there's
another vampire close by, we can't really tell who.  Unless-"
Nick abruptly broke off.

"Unless what?"

"Unless they're "related".  Like parent and child."

The young face stiffened.  "Impossible.  The one who
brought me across is dead."

Nick forbore mentioning the other possibility, that
Michael was the other's parent.  Though conceivable, it was
unlikely that they would be unaware of each other's
existence, given the strong link between vampiric parent and
child.

"Then probably you're just a bit more sensitive than I
am," he said.  "Go on."

"Well, I pretty much had him pin-pointed and was starting
to wonder how I was going to deal with him-"

"Deal with him?"

Michael turned in the seat to face him, staring hard.  "I
told you on the phone I was going to try to kill him."

"Why?"

"Why?  Why?  You're the cop and you're asking _me_ why?"

"Well, I know why _I_ wouldn't want him around," said
Nick.  "I won't assume we share the same motives."

"I just ... I just want him to be dead.  And I'm going to
kill him, Knight, with or without you.  If you won't let me
in the city, fine.  I'll just wait outside and wait until
he's had his fill of Toronto's children and catch up with
him when he leaves.  I've got time."

There was a silence as both of them struggled to get a
grip on their tempers.

Then the boy sighed, and rubbed his face with both hands.

"Sorry.  I'm sorry.  I don't know ... I just have to."

"All right, Michael.  Forget it for now.  Just finish
your story."

"Okay.  All right.  Well, I was wondering what to do,
when he left the city.  The night before last, he didn't
show up where I expected him, so I did a quick fly around
and I just picked up a trace of him to the south-east.  I
went after him, scared that somehow he had noticed me
watching him, though I was sure he hadn't.  He's about a third
my age and I had been thinking that most of the time I knew
he was around, I was still far enough away that he wouldn't
perceive me.  I tracked him to a train heading for Toronto.
He arrived just before dawn and he holed up in the Union
subway station.  I went in after him, but kept as far away
from him as I could.  He slipped a ways down the tunnel,
found some kind of hole and slept for most of the day, then
started getting restless around four in the afternoon and
came back into the station.  I know he saw me then.  I was
pretending to sleep and he started moving over to me and he
was about half way across the station when he stopped, I
guess finally clueing into the fact that I was a vampire,
not dinner.  He stared at me awhile, but I stayed as quiet
as I could.  He backed off, but he didn't seem to feel
nervous.  I don't know what he was thinking. Just before
sundown, he got on the train heading downtown.  I didn't
want him to think I was following him, if he didn't think so
already.  So I waited, trying to keep track of him and got
on the next train.  He got off downtown, and I managed to
follow him.  But then he walked into an area with all these
different vampires and it really got tough keeping track of
him.  Then he walked into a building full of vampires and I
couldn't tell him apart anymore.  Just too many, too close
together."

"He'd gone into the Raven."

"That's right."

***

There was a long pause, both of them thinking their own
thoughts as the car cruised down the rain slick street.
Streaks of light reflected off the glossy black asphalt.
The rain had stopped and Nick rolled down his window to let
in the cool rain-washed air. Michael leaned forward suddenly
to turn up the radio which had been tuned to a classical
station.  _Eine Kleine Nachtmusik_ flowed out of the
speakers and Michael leaned back with a sigh of bliss.  Nick
let the music float over him as well, grateful for the time
to digest what the other had told him. Michael sighed again
as the music ended and turned the volume down to mute a
commercial.

"You like classical music?" said Nick, chuckling.  "It
doesn't really fit the image, you know."

"Yeah, well, I remember when it was a happening stuff,
you know, real cutting edge.  And Mozart, well, Wolfgang
somehow manages to be new every time."

"Did ... did you know him?"

"Yeah, actually, he's the one famous person I ever
actually met.  Outrageous sense of humor."  He giggled at a
memory.  "Anyway, I knew him," his face losing its animation
as he continued with regret, "Would have brought him over,
too.  He would have been fun to have around.  I was a couple
days too late."  Then he shook the melancholy off, saying
with a little smile,  "But he wrote something for me, just
for me.  Wanna hear some original "lost" Mozart?"

"Uh, sure," said Nick.

Michael was still a moment, staring out the windshield,
then took a long gentle breath and began to sing.  The voice
was ethereal, controlled  in the small space of the car, yet
unquestionably powerful enough to fill and be heard in a
large, open space.  Clear and light, like the crystal sound
of a glass armonica, a voice scarcely human, the notes hung
in space like stars being placed in the heavens.  Nick
almost forgot the singer, caught in the beauty of what was
undeniably Mozart, the single voice hinting at a fuller
music.  Then the words in flowing Florentine Italian spilled
into his consciousness.

     Reason is sympathetic when I claim
     To find in love a lasting happiness.
     With strong examples and true words, my shame
     Reminds me of the weakness I possess.

     She says, "The living sun can only give
     Death, not a phoenix, now to one like you."
     He who himself has no desire to live,
     No hands can save, however willing to.

     I understand the truth and know my fate:
     I have another heart which cruelly
     Kills me the more I yield to its demands.

     It is between two deaths that my lord stands.
     One baffles me, the other one I hate.
     In such suspense body and soul will die.

Turning to Nick, who was blinking rapidly to clear his
eyes, he grinned impishly and said, "I asked him to use that
poem.  One of Michelangelo's sonnets.  Uh, your mascara's
running."

Pulling out his handkerchief, Nick wiped the blood tinged
tears from under his eyes.  Taking a deep breath, he said,
"Mozart knew what you were?"

"Well, _I_ never told him," responded Michael.  Then
realizing he was being evasive, went on.  "I don't know if
he knew exactly.  Someone or something different, that was
clear, I guess.  If only because of my singing.  That's how
he ran across me, you know.  I was in a basement in Vienna,
just singing to myself, quietly I thought.  He heard it
though, through some pipe or vent and followed the sound.
Came bursting into the room.  I almost killed him.  Can you
imagine," he asked, wide eyed.  "Gurk, and no more Mozart.
Dead five years too early.  Makes me shudder just to think
of it."

Nick didn't want to think about it.  Pushing the idea
from his mind, he asked, "So, you know what this guy looks
like?"

Undaunted by the sudden change in topic, Michael said,
"Yeah, I got a good look at him in the subway.  Dark hair,
cut real close, light brown eyes, almost yellow.  His face
was bony, the skin stretched looking.  Pale, of course.  Uh,
he was wearing jeans and a leather jacket.  He had a dark
green back pack.  Little shorter than you, maybe.  Skinny.
Big bony hands.  He felt maybe 200 years old.   If you have
some paper, I could sketch him for you."

"I think I've got a good idea of what he looks like."
Nick turned the car right at the next intersection,
beginning the drive back downtown.  "What I'd like to do is
go into the Raven myself and see if I spot him.  Then we'll
try to figure out what we're going to do next."

Michael slouched down in the seat, nibbling on a thumb
nail Nick now noticed he had shaped into a sharp point.

"I'm getting the idea you don't think just finding this
guy and staking him is such a hot plan."

"No.  I've found killing is a rather drastic solution to
most problems."

Michael slid him a sideways look under lowered eyelids.
"Sometimes it's just the right one."

Nick was silent, until he parked the car a couple blocks
away from the Raven.  "Wait here," he said.  "I'll try to be
quick."

"No," said Michael opening the car door and getting out.
"I'll wait outside."  He looked around and up.  Then
pointing to the roof of a nearby apartment, he said, "Up
there.  I can watch for you up there.  And if he comes out,
I'll be able to see him and follow."

Nick stared at the young face, the chin displaying a
rather stubborn set.  "Do not, do _not_ start something in
the street.  It would draw too much attention."

Michael laughed.  "Don't worry.  I wouldn't take this guy
head on anyway.  Really," he insisted at Nick's skeptical
look.  "If I weren't so discreet, my discretion would be
renown."

"All right," replied Nick with a smile.  "See you in a
bit."

He turned and walked toward the Raven, glancing back
once, but Michael was already gone. While he was fairly
certain that Michael was telling the truth, he couldn't be
positive.  He may have been trying to drag Nick into some
complex, layered plot so favored by vampires.  But he'd go
along for a while anyway, if only to find out what was going
on.

(Michelangelo's sonnet trans. by Elizabeth Jennings)


CHILD KILLER   (7/10)   by Leslie GrantSmith

He walked into the bar, glancing around quickly for 
LaCroix, but he didn't see him.  He could tell his old 
master was in the building and didn't doubt LaCroix knew he 
was there.  He hoped that a fast look around would tell him 
what he wanted to know and he could leave quickly.  He began 
scanning the faces around him, but didn't spot him until he 
moved back by the dance floor.  There he saw a man fitting 
the description Michael had given him dancing with a young 
mortal woman.  His expression was mildly bored, and he 
didn't look like a monster.  Though, Nick mused, just being 
a vampire placed him firmly in that category already, even 
if Michael were wrong.  He made his way back outside, taking 
a deep breath as he came out, trying to clear from his 
senses the blood scent that pervaded the Raven like an 
expensive perfume.

***

LaCroix looked up from the stack of CDs he was sorting 
for his evening show.  Nicholas was in the Raven.  He 
wondered what he wanted and considered plucking the 
information from his mind.  But of course Nicholas would 
feel the intrusion and depart in a great huff.  Perhaps it 
was best to let things unfold by themselves this time.  But 
his estranged son only stayed a few minutes.  When he left, 
though, the sense in his mind of having found what he was 
looking for was so strong that LaCroix didn't have to probe 
for it.  Then he was mildly surprised that Nicholas didn't 
leave the area right away.  He was ... up somewhere.  On a 
roof nearby, perhaps.   Was Nicholas (he smiled a bit at the 
term) on a "stake out"?  Curious, LaCroix got up and went 
out the back door of the Raven.  

Carefully, masking himself, he flew up to the top of a 
building on the other side of the Raven from where he sensed 
Nicholas.  Keeping well back in the blocky duct outlets and 
heating machinery on the roof, LaCroix peered across to the 
roof opposite him.

There was Nicholas, talking to ... LaCroix peered more 
closely at his son's companion.

"Mmmm," he murmured.  "Whose little bonbon are you?"

Then he was startled when the little vampire turned and 
stared directly across the intervening space at him.  He had 
himself masked so tightly that he was sure even Nicholas 
wouldn't have sensed him.  But he moved further back behind 
the duct outlets, just as the boy turned to Nicholas and 
then pointed across to where he was standing.  He saw 
Nicholas pause a moment, following the pointing finger, then 
shake his head and shrug.

"Oh, Nicholas," sighed LaCroix.  "Your senses are 
becoming so dull."

***

"Sorry," said Nick.  "I don't see anyone."

"Well, it was only like a hint of something."  Then 
Michael grinned.  "I'm getting paranoid in my old age.  So, 
what do you think is he going to be in there for a while?"

"Hard to say, really.  He seemed fairly occupied at the 
time, and it's not like he has to go out to get his dinner."

"Uh huh ..., look, Officer Knight ..."

"Just Nick."

"Nick.  Look, I haven't fed since the night before last.  
I'd like to go hustle up something to eat."

"I think the word is "rustle"."

"Ahem.  The former is a more accurate description of my 
hunting style."

"My blushes," said Nick.  He was trying not to seem 
judgmental, but perhaps the effort was a bit strained, 
because Michael snickered.

"Don't worry.  You won't come back to any extra work on 
Monday.  At least not any that I create for you."

"Too kind."

"So ... I won't be long.  You'll keep an eye out, right?"

"Go ahead."

Michael opened his mouth, then closed it again, then 
stooped to pick up his cloth bag and flew straight up into 
the night.

Nick sighed.

***

LaCroix followed the boy, keeping well back as the 
youngster seemed remarkably sensitive.  He flew to just a 
few blocks to the so-called "red light district," a familiar 
hunting ground.  He observed with amusement from a roof top 
as the boy rapidly found a willing victim, though that man 
probably thought of himself as a customer.  The two of them 
walked a couple blocks, then ducked into an alley that the 
boy pointed out.  LaCroix descended to street level, then 
walked slowly toward the mouth of the alley.  Though he 
masked himself carefully, he was also counting on the boy's 
senses being blurred as the blood lust took him.  And 
indeed, he was able to stand quietly at the end of the alley 
and observe the peculiar proceedings.

***

"Anything?" asked Michael as he landed on the rooftop 
next to Nick, who tried to ignore the faint odor of sex and 
fresh blood.  Michael peered over the edge of the roof, 
putting the tip of his right thumb in his mouth and sucking 
on the pointed nail.

"No," said Nick, "he hasn't left yet."

"Great.  It's a while `til dawn.  Is there anything you 
need to go ... do?"

"No, I ate before I left."

"Well, anything else then?  You could go visit your 
girlfriend or something.  Or ... that's right, you work!  
Are you missing work?"

"No, it's my weekend," said Nick, smiling.  "And I didn't 
have much planned."

"Oh."

They both fell silent, watching the front door of the 
Raven.  They sat in fairly comfortable silence.  As both 
immortals and hunters, sitting patiently for a length of 
time wasn't difficult.  A half moon rose, sliding in and out 
from behind the wind torn rain clouds.  After watching it a 
while, Michael broke the silence.

"I tried to fly to her once."

"What?  The moon?"

"Yes.  When I was very young."  He laughed.  "I ruptured 
both eardrums and froze my face and hands and feet, before I 
figured out I wasn't going to make it."

Nick chuckled, though he winced inside at the idea of a 
cold deep enough to freeze a vampire.

"But now," said Michael, holding up a finger, "but now, I 
bet I could make it."

"What?"

"Sure.  Just get one of those astronaut suits.  I 
wouldn't need oxygen, but I would need a way to stay 
pressurized and warm, and a way to take along enough blood."

"But the sunlight ... ?"

"Well, even humans will get fried by the sun in outer 
space.  Those suits have got to be able to keep it out, 
right?"

"Right."

"I would be so cool to be able to look down at the Earth 
as she spun around in full daylight.  And then," he went on, 
giggling, "to go hopping around the moon, you know, leaving 
all these little footprints around for some future astronaut 
to discover.  Or how `bout, how `bout writing "Kilroy was 
here" with that goofy little face of some rock somewhere.  
Can you imagine?"  Michael's face was alight with gleeful 
mischief.

"You're a nut," laughed Nick.

"What!?  You only just now figured that out?"  Michael 
laughed even harder and Nick laughed with him, caught up in 
his infectious hilarity.  It brought up dim memories, very 
dim, of his own mortal childhood, planning some foolery with 
his cousins.

Michael's laughing eased, and he sat grinning up at the 
moon.  Nick, still smiling, continued his watch on the 
Raven's door.  Quite some time passed in silence.  
Eventually more patrons were leaving the Raven than going 
in, on their way home before the sun rose.  Both of them saw 
their quarry come out the door at the same time.

"That's him," hissed Michael, leaning forward like a 
goshawk about to fling itself on its prey.  Nick grabbed his 
shoulder and blinked at the quivering, rock hard tension in 
the boy.  Then he stepped back quickly, as the other turned 
on him, eyes burning.

"Michael," he said sharply.  The boy closed his eyes and 
clenched his fists, and Nick could smell the sudden sharp 
pungency of vampiric blood as his nails cut into his palms.  
Then he opened his eyes, and they were again clear blue.  He 
stood silently, calmly looking Nick in the face, 
demonstrating his willingness to follow Nick's lead.

"Let's see where he lives," said Nick quietly.

They carefully followed their quarry as he walked down 
the street, paralleling him on the roof tops.  He eventually 
went to ground in a maintenance tunnel complex abandoned and 
ignored by the city, not infrequently used as a flop house 
by transient vampires.  Neither Nick nor Michael noticed 
that they were paced as they paced their own prey.

***

Nick spent the next day in thought.  He'd offered Michael 
a place to stay the day, but the boy had insisted he had 
safe spots all over the city, and left Nick about a half 
hour before dawn.  They had agreed to meet at nine the next 
night on the roof outside the Raven.  That would give 
Michael time to "take care of business", as he put it before 
they met.  Nick couldn't be positive that when he'd left the 
child vampire hadn't doubled back and gone into the tunnels 
after the vampire he apparently hated with a passion.  He 
thought he wouldn't though, not in a head to head fight, at 
least not when he was thinking clearly.  While Michael was 
very fast and alert, he had a real handicap when it came to 
his size.  He was no doubt stronger than mortals and 
probably very young vampires, but any other vampire would 
probably get the best of him in a hand to hand fight.  Nick 
was struggling with the idea that he may end up having to 
kill this man he'd never met.  But if he were responsible 
for the death of over 20 children in Montreal, and posed a 
similar threat here ... Michael was right.  Sometimes 
killing was the right solution.  It didn't mean he had to 
like it.

CHILD KILLER   (8/10)   by Leslie GrantSmith

LaCroix was watching the door, when the man he was 
looking for walked in, just after opening time. Nicholas's 
interest in this fellow had piqued his curiosity.  Perhaps a 
little conversation might reveal something unique about 
this otherwise common seeming man. His target ordered a 
drink at the bar and LaCroix gave him a chance to gulp it 
down and order a second.  Then he went over and eased 
into the bar stool next him.  The man (a little man, thought 
LaCroix, not physically small, but a little, little man.  He 
couldn't imagine giving such a one immortality) started at 
LaCroix's appearance, and smiled a little queasily when 
LaCroix smiled graciously at him.  The little man tried to 
get a grip on himself, clearly rattled to be the focus of 
attention of a vampire of LaCroix's age.  He decided to take 
the unfortunate route of toadying bonhomie.

"Hey, how's it goin'?"  His grin displayed his 
distressingly ill-kept teeth.

"Very well, thank you," said LaCroix, his own smile 
slipping a bit.  "And yourself?"

"Just peachy.  Just come in from Montreal and trying to 
get my feet under me.  Don't have anything quite like this 
there."  He gulped down half of his drink and wiped his
lips on his jacket sleeve.

"No, the Raven is quite special."

"Yeah.  Come here often?"

"Oh, yes."

The little man twisted in his chair to look at the 
growing clientele.

"I wouldn't mind having a place like this.  Though, I'd 
like..."

"Yes?" prodded LaCroix.

The blood-wine mix seemed to be going to his head, for he 
leaned intimately up to LaCroix, and said in a soft, eager 
voice, "I'd like the mortals a little ... a little younger.  
You know."

Understanding dawned in LaCroix, as the newspaper stories 
of Montreal's missing children shuffled together with this 
newcomer's unsubtly hinted preferences. No doubt Nicholas 
was more concerned for the mortal children of the city, rather 
than for the community's possible exposure by this man's 
hunting habits.  Nothing disturbed mortals more than a threat 
to their children.  Nicholas's motives were irrelevant though, 
so long as the situation was resolved satisfactorily.  Would 
Nicholas actually act, though, or would his "morality" prevent 
an appropriate response?  Perhaps something could be arranged 
to sidestep that issue.  Where the boyish vampire fit in, he 
wasn't exactly sure.  It didn't matter.  He could be used 
regardless.

He smiled warmly at his companion.  "Oh, I know what you 
mean, my friend.  The young ones have such an ... appealing 
quality."

The little man burst into laughter, as though LaCroix had 
made a great joke.

"Appealing," he choked out.  "Yeah, that's not how I'd 
put it, but I know what you mean."

LaCroix suddenly adopted a serious expression, and 
glanced up and down the bar before he went on, in low tones, 
"I don't know if you're aware of this but it seems you're 
being hunted."

"Wha ...?"

"Oh, not by a Hunter.  By one of us.  Perhaps you've seen 
him?  A little fellow, looks perhaps 10 or 12.  Blond curls.  
Quite lovely, really.  Know him?"

The man seemed puzzled for a moment then light dawned in 
his pale brown eyes.  "Oh, yeah.  I seen him once before.  
Yesterday.  In the subway.  Nice little piece."

"Hmmm.  Any reason you can think of why he might be 
following you?"

The little man barked a laugh.  "Maybe he's got the hots 
for me."

"What a delightful idea."

"I'd surely show him a good time.  If he were a mortal."

"To be sure.  But ... have you ever noticed though how 
our mortal ... lovers are so delicate?  They just seem to 
fall apart in our hands sometimes.  Our kind are so much 
more ... robust.  You'd be amazed what you can do to another 
vampire.  Over and over and over again."

"Yeah ... ?"

"Oh, yes."

"And this kid looks like he's following _me_?"

"It certainly looks that way.  Perhaps he saw you at the 
subway, too."

"Yeah, maybe."  The other scratched the dark stubble on 
his head making a dry, rasping sound.  Then draining the 
glass before him, he slid off the bar stool.

"Maybe I'll go look him up."

"Try Old Weston street.  A lot of youngsters hang out 
there."

"Thanks, man.  Hey, wanna come with?"

"Not tonight, I'm afraid."

"Okay, okay.  I'll see you `round."

"Good hunting," said LaCroix, to the man's rapidly 
retreating back.  "Have a _fine_ evening."

***

Michael was at the most difficult point of his feeding.  
The blood lust gripped him, punishing him with wracking 
pains in his guts as he denied its instant gratification.  
At the same time he had to hold the man with his mind, 
balancing him at the point of a blinding orgasm.  He fumbled 
for the damned cup on the ground between his knees, bringing 
his sharpened thumbnail over the artery in the man's groin, 
preparing to make the necessary small cut.  He snarled as 
the man's thighs began to shake, threatening to topple him 
over, his pants wound around his ankles.  He quickly moved 
the cup up, stabbing with his thumbnail.  Just as the blood 
began to spurt, Michael was hit from behind.  He dropped the 
cup to catch himself, fresh  arterial blood spraying across 
his eyes.  Then the man, his dinner, was grabbed and flung 
down the alley to land with a bone breaking crash.  Michael 
scrabbled around on his knees, trying to get up and away, 
and blink the blinding blood out of his eyes.  Then brutal 
hands took him by the throat and he was lifted up to face 
his attacker.  His mind froze as he stared into the yellow 
burning eyes of the vampire he had followed from Montreal.

"Hey, you little whore," he hissed through glittering 
fangs, "voolay voo cooshay avek mwah?"

***

Nick went into the Raven to see if he could spot the man 
he was tracking.  LaCroix sat at the bar this time, and gave 
him his maddening I've-been-up-to-mischief smirk when he saw 
him.  He got up and sauntered over, and Nick saw he had the 
choice of ignominiously cutting and running, or standing 
there and fending off whatever barbs LaCroix was going to jab 
him with.  He gritted his teeth and stood his ground.

"Well, Nicholas," said LaCroix, "it's been ages.  What 
can I do for you?  I assume you want something.  You never 
drop by just for a visit."

"I'm looking for someone, LaCroix.  I don't see him.  
I'll leave."

"Now, now," said LaCroix, taking hold of Nick's wrist in 
a grip Nick knew better than to struggle against.  "Don't be 
in such a hurry.  Perhaps you could describe this fellow for 
me and I could tell you if I've seen him or not.  After all, 
it's my duty as a law abiding citizen to cooperate with the 
police."

"That's all right, LaCroix.  I can find him without your 
help."  He tugged experimentally against the grip on his 
wrist, and was surprised when he was let go, without even a 
painful departing squeeze.

"Very well, just trying to be helpful," LaCroix said with 
his most charming deadly smiles.  "Besides, only one person 
has come and gone again since we opened.  It is a bit early, 
after all.  A fellow with one of those ghastly haircuts that 
reminds one of Auschwitz or boot camp."

Nick stood there staring at LaCroix, as the other vampire 
smiled in that damned knowing way.

"Oh?" he squeezed out.

"Oh, so you are interested.  How delightful."  LaCroix 
turned and walked away from him, back to the bar.  Nick 
followed.

"Did ... did he say where he was going?" he asked, working 
to keep his tone civil.

"Mmmm," said LaCroix through the mouthful of blood he had 
just taken from his glass.  He swallowed, and went on, "Now, 
he didn't seem to be the kind of person I usually care to 
converse with.  Would you care for a glass?"

"No," Nick snapped, then tried to soften his tone.  "No, 
no thank you."

"I'm sorry, Nicholas," he said with a great sigh, "I 
don't think I have the information you want.  I guess just 
have to go do your, what is the cop term?  Leg work?  Yes," 
he smiled again, "perhaps you had better go work your legs."

"All right," Nick muttered, "thanks."  He turned and was 
most of the way to the door, when LaCroix called out.

"Oh, Nicholas, I remember now."

Nick turned, schooling his face to stillness.

"Yes?"

"He did say something about getting together with someone 
he'd met in the subway.  Some nice little blond ...  piece.  
Yes, piece was the word he used."

Nick ran out the door, LaCroix's laugh echoing in his 
ears.

***

Nick flew the short distance to Old Weston, his senses 
wide open.  There were a number of vampires prowling the 
street below and he quickly checked them out, giving a few a 
nasty shock.  None of them were Michael or the man the had 
been tracking.  As he sped past one alley, he caught a whiff 
of fresh blood.  He stopped long enough to hear a low moan 
and he quickly moved down the alley.  Crumbled in a heap of 
trash, he found a pants-less man with a clearly broken 
collar bone and a possible skull fracture.  The blood was 
from a small puncture wound in the artery near his groin.  
The bleeding had mostly stopped.

As he trotted down the alley to get to a phone in a 
nearby bar, he saw something that made him stop short.  
Lying next to wall was a large bloody cup and a dirty, 
crumpled cloth bag.

He ran to the bar and made his emergency call.  Then he 
ran back out and down the alley.  He flew up, knowing he 
didn't have much time before the alley was full of people, 
and scanned the buildings on either side.  Nothing.  
Frustrated, he moved to the rooftops, trying to find 
something in the surrounding buildings.  Then he heard the 
scream.

It was an inhuman, piercing shriek, a banshee's wail 
suddenly choked off.  Nick arrowed toward the sound's 
origin, two streets over.  He then picked up a feeling of 
two vampires in the basement of an apartment building.  
Dashing down the stairs, he broke down the door to what 
seemed to have been a storage room, but which was now chaos.  
Crushed cardboard boxes, scattered papers, drifting downy 
feathers, overturned chairs, a twisted bicycle, these made 
flashing impressions in Nick's mind, but his attention was 
focused on the two figures struggling on the for side of the 
room.  The man, one hand crushing Michael's throat was 
turning toward Nick, snarling his rage at being interrupted.  
His shirt was in tatters, the skin on his face, arms and 
torso shredded, covered with dark blood.  If he looked bad, 
though, Michael looked worse.  His clothes had been torn off 
him.  Almost all of the skin on his torso was black with 
deep bruises, he had deep, bloody gashes on his chest and 
abdomen.  One forearm was twisted into an odd angle, 
rotating slowly as his body attempted to reset the broken 
bones.  Blood was foaming from his mouth from his crushed 
throat.  His genitals were a shapeless red mass.  He was 
still struggling strongly, trying to kick out with both legs 
at the same time like a cat.

Nick absorbed this in an instant and launched himself at 
the man.  Wheeling to meet Nick's charge, the man swung 
Michael around in front of him, then sent him sailing across 
the room.  He landed hard, his back, with a wet popping 
crack, hitting the edge of  a heavy oak table. Then Nick was 
on the man, smashing him with all his strength with his 
fists.  The man fought back fiercely, his rage and blood 
lust driving him wild.  They whirled around the room, 
sending boxes and furniture flying.  The man tried to 
grapple with Nick, to set his teeth in his throat.  Nick 
sent him staggering back with a tremendous push.  The man 
tripped backwards and fell, and before Nick knew what was 
happening, Michael was on him.  The man screamed and began 
to buck, Michael's useless legs flopping against the floor.  
Nick dashed over and saw that Michael was jamming a piece of 
broken wooden picture frame into the man's heart.  Suddenly, 
the man stiffened and his scream choked off.  Then he sighed 
and relaxed into death.  Michael continued to work the piece 
of wood deeper into the body, making hoarse rasping sounds 
that might have been words.


CHILD KILLER   (9/10)   by Leslie GrantSmith

Nick crouched down beside him.

"Michael," he said gently.  The boy started directly into 
his eyes, but clearly wasn't seeing him.  His lips moved in 
a pattern as though he were saying the same set of words 
over and over again.  Nick finally caught what it was.

"Diable.  Vous etes le diable."

"Michael," he tried again.  Then on impulse, "Michel.  
Michel."

The boy became silent and stopped shoving against the 
stake.  Then he rasped out, "Gilles?"

"Non, non, c'est Nicolas."

Michael frowned, cocking his head in puzzlement.

"Nicolas?"

"Nick, Michael, it's me Nick."

The boy's staring eyes slowly cleared.

"Nick.  Nick."  He tried to get up, and gasped in pain, 
then noticed what he was lying on.  He wrenched himself to 
one side, with a sick, choking sound.

"Lie still, dammit, Michael.  Your back's broken.  You 
have to hold still."

Michael slowly lay back, closing his eyes, and waved a 
hand weakly to indicate he understood.  Nick could hear the 
stirring of people on the first floor of the building, 
probably working up the courage to see what was going on in 
the basement.  No doubt someone had called the police.  He 
stood up, running his hands through his hair, straightened 
his clothes as best he could, and went up the stairs.  A 
woman gave a small shriek when he appeared and then he was 
staring down the barrels of a revolver and a rifle.  He 
slowly raised his hands and said, "Put down your guns.  I'm 
a police officer.  Everything is under control."

He managed to avoid displaying his badge, then to gently 
"suggest" to each of them that they would feel safer in 
their own homes.  As they all felt this was the truth 
anyway, they all trotted immediately to their apartments and 
locked their doors.  He hurried back into the basement.  
Michael opened his eyes when he came in, but otherwise 
didn't move.  Nick could hear police sirens in the distance, 
coming up fast.  He went to the man on the floor, and 
snapped off the protruding piece of wood.  Then he opened 
the window of the light well to the basement, and stuffed 
the body up into the well, where he could come back and fish 
it out the top later.  He shut the window and lifted a tall, 
heavy cabinet in front of the window, hoping it would 
dissuade any of his colleagues from viewing it as a 
potential escape route and looking there for evidence.  Then 
he took off his jacket, and very carefully wrapped it around 
Michael.

"Michael.  Michael, I'm going to pick you up.  I'll be as 
gentle as I can, but it's going to hurt."

"All right," rasped the boy.  He wasn't healing well.  
His injuries were severe, he'd lost a lot of blood and he 
probably had been hungry to start out with.  He gasped as 
Nick lifted him up, then lay still.  Nick carried him 
quickly up the stairs, and managed to duck into the shadows 
of a nearby alley as the first police cars showed up.  From 
there he flew to his own place, laying him carefully on the 
bed when he got there.  He pulled a blanket over him, more 
to hide his wounds than for warmth.  Then he called Natalie.

***

"Hi, Nat-"

"Think of the devil."

"What?"

"Sorry.  I was just wondering what you were up to, when 
the phone rang."

"Oh.  Listen, Nat, can you get a hold of some whole blood 
for me?  Fast?"

"Nick ..."

"It's not for me!  I have a badly hurt friend here at my 
place."

"Well, will your friend be taking his blood intravenously 
or by mouth?"

"Uh, by mouth."

"Fine.  So blood type doesn't matter."

"I don't think he's particular."

"Be there as soon as I can.  Bye."

"Bye."

***

Nick looked in on Michael, who seemed to have lapsed into 
the semi-stuporous state vampires needed for deep healing.  
He was so short on blood, though, that his body was starting 
to metabolize its tissue for energy.  His cheeks and eyes 
had a hollow look.  Forty-five minutes went by and the 
doorbell rang.  He dashed down to buzz the door for Nat and 
waited impatiently by the elevator door for her to come in.

"I brought my kit-"

"Great, Nat, thanks a lot," he said, taking a large box 
smelling of blood from her and tucking it under one arm, 
then hustling her upstairs to his bedroom.  A bit 
breathless, she stepped into the room and gave a small gasp.

"Nick, a child!"

"Shh, shh, Nat, not really."

Michael's eyes slitted open, but he remained still 
otherwise.

"What happened, Nick?" whispered Natalie.

"He was in a fight with another vampire.  The other guy 
is a lot worse off, by the way."

"All right," she said and walked toward the bed, putting 
her bag on the foot of the bed and reaching for the blanket 
in order to pull it off her patient.  Nick didn't realize 
something was wrong until Nat's gait took on a peculiar 
tottering quality and she was bending forward as though to 
kiss Michael's face.  Michael's arms swept up to embrace 
her, she was jerking away with a gasp, then Nick snatched 
her sharply back.  The box of blood fell to the floor on its 
side and the top broke open.  Plastic pint bags slithered out 
across the rug.

Michael struggled to rise, snarling, eyes burning and 
senseless.

"Michel," barked Nick, furious at both himself and the 
boy.  The fury made his voice a whip snap, and Michael 
cringed back, looking confused.

"Whoa, what ..." said Natalie, trying to avoid stepping 
on the bags of blood, practically dangling in Nick's grip.

"Nat, you need to leave," said Nick, dragging her out the 
door and down the stairs.  "I was stupid to let you in."  He 
caught her in a quick, fierce hug that left her breathless 
with its strength, then practically tossed her into the 
elevator.  "I'll call you."

"Nick-", started Natalie, her face a study of 
frustration, but the elevator doors closed on her words.

Nick bounded back up the stairs, and into the room, 
nimbly stepping around the full bags on the floor.  
Fortunately, none of them had been ruptured.  Michael wasn't 
in the bed.  He was hovering in the far corner of the room, 
up near the ceiling, legs dangling limply.  As Nick burst in 
he held out his hands in a fending off, pleading gesture.

"Nick," he begged quietly, voice hoarse and trembling, 
"don't kill me."

"Michael," said Nick through his teeth, running a hand 
through his hair, "that was my best friend you tried to make 
your dinner."

Michael looked stricken, eyes wide.  "Your best friend?" 
he wailed, "I'm so sorry!  I didn't know.  She was there 
suddenly and I just pulled her to me ... I-I wasn't even 
thinking."

Nick took a deep breath and said quietly, "Get back in 
the bed.  Every time you move around you re-injure your 
spine."

"Okay, okay, Nick," said the boy with a placating tone.  
He slowly drifted down to the bed.  He flinched when Nick 
reached out to grab his ankles to help him lie flat.

"Easy," said Nick gently.  "It ... it really wasn't your 
fault.  I shouldn't have brought a mortal into a room with a 
badly injured vampire.  It was stupid."

"I wasn't even really awake, Nick," whispered Michael.  
"I ... I would never hurt a friend of yours on purpose."

"Okay, okay," muttered Nick.  Crouching down on the 
floor, he began scooping bags of blood back into the box.  
He showed one to Michael.  "She brought these.  Think you 
can handle them without making a big mess?"

"No problem," rasped the boy, eyes fixed on the bag,  
yellow lights glittering in the blue.

Nick put six bags up by the pillow, pulled a trash can 
over to the edge of the bed to catch the empties.  Hefting 
up the box with the rest of the bags, he said, "I'll put the 
rest in the `fridge."

"Mmm," said Michael, unhearing.  He had nipped open a 
corner of a bag and was squeezing the blood into his mouth 
as fast as he could swallow.  His face was pure bliss.

"I'll just leave you two alone," said Nick.  He went down 
to the kitchen and stashed the pint bags in the 
refrigerator.  He gave Michael 15 minutes then went upstairs 
to check on him.  All the empty bags had been placed neatly 
in the trash can, except for the sixth which lay, still 
about a quarter full, across Michael's chest.  The boy was 
fast asleep, the bruises on his face, throat and torso gone.  
He was still filthy, and Nick winced, thinking of his 
sheets.  He carefully took away the unfinished bag.  Michael 
didn't stir.  He didn't think the boy would wake up until 
maybe sunset tomorrow, so he decided to take the chance to 
go out and fetch the man's body to leave on the roof for the 
morning sun.

It was nasty work, dragging the stiffening body up 
through the light well, and it made more noise than he cared 
for.  But he wasn't discovered and he got back, bringing the 
body in with him, in about a half an hour.  He checked on 
Michael, who hadn't moved.  He put the man's body on the 
roof at the last minute.  He knew LaCroix was mixed up in 
this somehow, and though it was unlikely, it wasn't 
impossible that his old master would attempt some kind of 
"rescue" of this unlikely ally, if only to irk Nick.

He really wanted Nat to come and take a good look at 
Michael.  He'd ask her at work.  He took a shower, curled up 
on the couch with a book and promptly fell asleep.  He woke 
up about four in the afternoon, and got himself some lunch, 
studiously ignoring the tempting bags nestled up to his not 
so tempting bottle of cows' blood.  He took another six bags 
up to Michael.  The boy was hard to rouse until Nick flicked 
off the top of the bag and waved it under his nose.  Michael 
came out of sleep growling, and Nick stepped back to give 
him a chance to wake up.  The boy was clearly frightened and 
confused.

"Gilles?" he asked, blearily trying to focus on Nick's 
face.  "Nicolas, ou est Gilles?"

Unable to answer, and not sure he wanted to be able to, 
he said, "Michael, are you hungry?"

Blinking, mind sorting out place and time, he replied, 
"Oh.  Oh, yeah."  Nick handed him the open bag and Michael 
settled back with a sigh.  Nick watched he eat, handed him a 
second open bag when he was finished with the first.

"Michael," he said before he handed him the third bag, "I 
need to go to work tonight.  Will you be okay here alone?"

"Oh, sure, Nick.  This is real nice.  But, uh ..."

"Yeah?"

"Do you have any books?"

"Books?  What kind?"

"Anything."

"Well, sure, I'll set you up before I go.  Another 
thing."

"Yeah?"

"I'd like Nat to take a look at you sometime after work.  
If I feed you up before she gets here, do you think you'll 
be all right?"

"I'll keep my hands to myself, I promise."

"It's not your hands I'm worried about."

"No teeth, no nothing, I swear."

"To that end, I'd like to scrape some of the crud off of 
you, so she can actually see you."

Michael's eyes slid uneasily away from Nick's face.  "Oh, 
ah, sure," he mumbled.  "Good idea."

Nick cocked his head, silent a moment.  Then he said, "If 
it's a problem, this can wait.  Nat couldn't be described as 
squeamish."

"No, no," protested Michael, "it would be great to be 
clean.  It's just ..." He shrugged.


CHILD KILLER   (10/10)   by Leslie GrantSmith

"Okay.  I'll go set it up."  He handed Michael the third 
bag, put the others down next to him and went to get the 
sponge bath ready.  When he came back with a bucket of warm 
water, wash cloth and towel, Michael had finished five of 
the bags and had propped the sixth on the night table.  The 
boy lay passively as Nick washed his face, arms and 
shoulders.  When Nick pulled down the blanket to wash the 
rest of him, Michael laid one arm over his eyes.  Nick kept 
his ministrations gentle, but business-like, hoping thereby 
to seem less intrusive.  All of Michael's surface injuries 
had mostly healed, only the deepest still showing up as red 
marks.  Nick pulled the blanket back up and lifted it from 
the bottom in order wash his legs.  While his legs hadn't 
been injured, there were tracks of dried blood from the 
gashes in his in his stomach and the mangled genitals.  Nick 
was scrubbing some stubborn street dirt off a foot, when 
suddenly, Michael lifted his arm, eyes wide.

"I can feel that."

"Really?" Nick said.  He pinched Michael's little toe.  
"What am I doing?"

"Pinching my toe!"

They grinned at each other, then Michael frowned fiercely 
as he tried to wiggle his feet.  Nothing.

"Hey, don't sweat it," said Nick at the disappointed 
expression on his face.  "It's coming back.  Just a matter 
of time."

"Sure," said Michael, smiling weakly.  "`Oy've `ad wuss.'"

Nick raised an eyebrow, and grinning, scrubbed his feet 
hard, until Michael begged him to stop tickling.

***

"Oh, Proust." said Michael reaching out eagerly, as Nick 
set up a stack of books on the bed side table.  "This guy is 
a real hoot.  'No exile at the South Pole or on the summit 
of Mont Blanc separates us more effectively from others than 
the practice of a hidden vice.'  Think maybe he was one of 
us?"

"Humans have their own vices."

"I guess that was pretty egocentric, huh?"

Nick smiled.

"We tend to be."

***

Nick came back from work to a strange, lived-in feeling 
in his apartment.  He went up to the bedroom to check on 
Michael.

"Hey, Nick, look," cried the boy as Nick walked in.  He 
wriggled his toes under the blanket.

"That's great!  You'll be up and around in no time."  The 
stack of books had moved from the table to scattered around 
the pillow and head of the bed.  The bags of blood he had 
left were empty husks in the trash can.  He had an image of 
Michael laying back reading a book, absently sucking on a 
bag, his toes wiggling under the blanket.

"I see you got some reading done."

"Oh, it was great.  Remind me to become an invalid more 
often."

Nick chuckled, then went down to get some dinner.  The 
smell in the bedroom was making him hungry.  He pushed the 
button on his phone machine to listen to his messages as 
poured his dinner.  The last message was from LaCroix.

"Nicholas, I do hope all is well.  You left in such a 
hurry the other night.  I hope the affair worked out to 
someone's satisfaction.  Keep in touch."

Nick went slowly back up to the bedroom, wine glass in hand, 
where Michael was snickering at Nieztsche. The boy looked up 
and put his book down, alarmed, when he caught sight of Nick's 
serious expression.

"What?" he said, looking as though he were going to toss back 
the covers and try to run.  Nick made patting, soothing gestures 
in the air.

"Don't panic.  Nothing immediately dangerous.  But I 
think you need to know something."

Michael settled back, but he didn't look relaxed.  Nick 
pulled the chair next to the bed and sat down.  Suddenly 
Michael wrinkled his nose and looked in an offended manner 
at Nick's wine glass.

"What are you drinking?"

"Why?  Want some?"

"Thank you, no.  I'll stick with what I've got."  He 
paused, then went on.  "I'm sorry.  The question was 
impertinent."

Nick smiled and waved it off.  Then he said, "One of the 
calls was from LaCroix.  The one who brought me over."

"I-I think I heard that call.  The Roman?"

Nick blinked.  "You know him?"

He must have let his growing suspicion seep into his voice, 
for Michael shrank back into his pillow, saying, "No, no!"

"How did you know he was Roman?"

"N-nick, everyone knows LaCroix.  Even those of us who avoid 
other vampires."

Nick leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair. 
He hated how LaCroix managed to twist everything that came into 
his hands.  He hated the paranoia in himself.  Michael sat, 
studying him anxiously, biting his lower lip, and twisting the 
blankets in his hands.

Nick sighed. "It's all right, Michael.  LaCroix does this to me.
  I believe you."

Michael stopped twisting the blankets, leaving them a bit worse 
for wear, but he continued gnawing on his lip, his eyes still 
fearful.

"Michael,"  Nick said gently, "it's okay."

"Nick, I-" Michael took a deep breath.  "I have seen him before. 
When-when I heard the message, I recognized the voice.  But-but, 
it was long ago.  I don't think he would know me.  I don't think 
it had anything to do with...what happened."

Nick grunted.  "You can never be sure with him."

"Are...are you going to tell him what happened?  If you...if you 
don't, he might come over here to find out.  Maybe while you're 
gone at work."  Michael's voice was rising in panic.

Clearly, the idea of coming face to face with LaCroix had 
Michael terrified and Nick wondered what had happened at that 
long ago meeting.  He didn't think this was the time to push for 
that story, though.

"I'll call him, Michael, and tell him all about it.  He'll have 
no reason to come over."

"Okay, okay, thanks, Nick."  The boy's eyes became less wild 
looking.

"It's clear from the call, though," went on Nick briskly, "that 
LaCroix had something to do with that man's attack on you.  He 
had at least spoken to him and knew the guy was going after you."

"You think..."

"I think he saw us, figured out what we were doing, and 
then put his own spin on it."

"Oh, good," said Michael, smiling weakly.  "It was a deus 
ex machina.  I was afraid I was losing my touch, that the 
guy had known I was there the whole time and turned it 
around on me."

"Mmm.  I don't know how much LaCroix had invested in this 
game.  It must have been pretty spontaneous, so hopefully 
not much.  But I have no was of knowing what his feelings 
are toward you, if he even cares."

"Oh, I hope he forgets I even exist.  Maybe I should find a 
nice, cozy hole to crawl into."

"I don't know what to tell you, except ... watch yourself."

"Thanks, Nick.  I'm usually pretty good at that.  Usually."

Nick pushed himself up out of his chair.  "Look, Michael, 
Nat will be over pretty soon.  Time to tank up."

"Oh, beat me, hurt me, make me drink blood," quipped 
Michael, clearly working on pushing his fear down.  Nick 
brought up six bags, but Michael had a hard time finishing 
the fifth.  Nick insisted he drink the whole thing.  Michael 
crossed his eyes and puffed out his cheeks in protest, but 
swallowed it down obediently.

***

Michael looked very sheepish when Nick escorted Natalie 
into the room, and apologized in a humble, courtly manner 
which caused her to raise an eyebrow.  She brushed the 
incident off, and very briskly and professionally went over 
Michael's symptoms and progress.  Nick watched in amusement.  
Michael clearly enjoyed being managed by a forthright woman 
and turned on the charm.  Nat responded with her own acerbic 
wit.  With her help, Nick rolled Michael onto a board so 
they could change the filthy bedding.

"Too bad he's not going to grow up," she murmured to Nick 
as she left the room, an impish quirk to her lips.

"Should I be jealous?"

"I dunno.  Should you be?"

"Mmmmph."

"Mmmph, yourself."

When she had left and Nick was in the bedroom getting a 
fresh change of clothing, Michael said, eyes sparkling, 
"What a delightful woman."

"That she is."

"Are you going to bring her across?"

Nick froze, then turned, a clean shirt in one hand.

"No," he said firmly, staring directly into Michael's 
eyes, "And no one else had better either."

Michael raised his hands, saying, "I wouldn't presume."  
Nick stared at him a moment, then turned back to his closet. 
"Still," muttered Michael, almost to himself.  "It does seem 
a shame."

***

Nick called LaCroix while Michael was sleeping.  Talking to 
his "father" was one of his least favorite things, but Michael 
was right.  If he wasn't forthcoming, LaCroix might decide to 
come over and get the story out of the boy.

"Yes?" 

"LaCroix-"

"Nicholas!  How delightful.  What can I do for you?"

"You were curious about how things turned out a few nights ago. 
The man is dead, the boy was hurt, but is healing.  All right?"

"Nicholas.  So brusque.  I do hope you didn't have to do 
anything against your good conscious."

Nick gritted his teeth, and said, "No.  The boy killed him."

"Really?  There must be more to him than meets the eye."

"Only if your tastes have changed, LaCroix."

LaCroix laughed.  "Nicholas, you wound me.  After all, he's not 
sleeping in _my_ bed."

Nick felt his temper slipping.  "Look, I have things to do.  
I've returned your call and you know how things turned out.  
I don't know what you were after here, but I hope you're 
satisfied."

"Oh, eminently.  Give my best to your little friend."

Nick hung up, managing, barely, not to slam down the receiver.


Michael slept soundly through the entire day, improving 
even more, though again his waking had a confused, 
nightmarish quality to it.  When Nick came home from work 
the next morning, he found the boy in the shower.  He 
followed the sound of singing and stood outside the bathroom 
listening.  The tune seemed vaguely familiar, some folk 
song, then he heard the words and began to laugh quietly.  
Somehow Michael's etheric tones weren't the right medium for 
a raunchy, comic mid-16th century German bar song.

Michael only slept about half the day and spent some time 
staggering around the apartment, trying to get his legs to 
work for him.  He seemed very quiet and abstracted, though 
as polite as ever.  Nick had gotten him some clothes, 
underwear and a sweatsuit, which proved to be a little too 
large.

"Thanks very much, Nick," he said, running his hand up 
and down the soft fabric, and smiling.  "Don't worry, I'll 
grow into it."

When Nick came back the next night, he wasn't surprised 
to find the apartment empty, the bed made up with clean 
sheets.  On the piano was a bouquet of roses for Natalie and 
sheaf of paper.  Nick picked it up.  It was a hand-written 
musical score, labeled "Mozart/Michelangelo", one melody 
line set down firmly, and under it, the piano's part.  With 
it was a short note.

     Nick,
     Thank you.  I just can't stay inside anymore.
     You've been a real friend.  (Aren't they the ones
     that help you move the bodies?)  I'm leaving
     Toronto, it's still too crowded.  But I'll write.
     And if you see a shooting star, think of me.  After
     all, it very well may _be_ me.  Please, give my best
     to Natalie, though she's given me another reason to
     hate looking like a child.
     Michel

Nick sat down at the piano and began slowly playing the 
melody line.  The voice of an angel echoed in his ears.