“And what business might you and Mr. Douglas have?”
“Business of an urgent and private sort. Do you know where he is?”
The barkeep seemed amused.
“Well, sir, you needn’t look far, that’s for certain.”
He put down the glass and stuck out his hand. “Tim Douglas. And your name, sir?”
Jack burst out laughing. There had to be some mistake. This inconsequential little man—a man who spent his nights polishing dirty glasses and playing matchmaker to whores and drunks? This was Henry’s vampire? Of course, I had no choice but take his hand, and did so. It was as pink and warm as my own.
“Hanks,” said Abe. “Abe Hanks, and I beg your forgiveness, for I mistook you to say ‘Tom’ Douglas. Yes, Thomas Douglas is the gentleman we’re looking for. Do you know where we might find him?”
“Well, sir, no. I’m afraid I’m not familiar with anyone by that name.”
“Then I thank you for your trouble and bid you a good night.”
Abe hurried out of the tavern, Jack laughing all the while behind him.
I resolved to wait. We had come this far, and Henry had never failed me in the past. At the very least, we would wait for this barkeep to close up and follow him home in the shadows.
After hours spent wandering the courthouse square, Abe (who’d since donned his long coat) and Jack (who hadn’t stopped teasing him since they left the tavern) finally saw the lights go dark and the barkeep make his way into the street.
He walked down Sixth Street toward Adams. We followed discreetly, Jack a good three paces behind; the ax ready in my hands. I darted into the shadows with every twitch of the barkeep’s head—certain he meant to turn back and discover us (Jack could hardly contain his laughter at the sight of my doing so). The little man kept to the center of the street, hands in his pockets. Whistling. Walking as any other man would walk, and making me feel a fool with each step. He rounded Seventh Street, and we followed. He rounded Monroe, and we followed. But on rounding Ninth Street, after letting him escape our sight for the briefest of moments, we saw no trace of him. There was no alley he could have slipped into. No house he could have entered in so short a time. How could it be?
“So… you’re the one.”
The voice came from behind us. I spun around, prepared to strike—but could not. For here was mighty Jack Armstrong, standing on his toes. His back arched. His eyes wide. And here was the little vampire standing behind him, a sharp claw pressed to his throat. Had Jack been able to see those black eyes and shining fangs, his terror would have been twofold. The barkeep suggested that I lay my ax on the ground if I did not wish to see my friend’s blood spilled. I thought his suggestion a good one, and let the weapon fall from my hand.
“You’re the one Henry spoke of. The one with a talent for killing the dead.”
Though Abe was surprised to hear Henry’s name, his face betrayed nothing. He could hear Jack’s panting quicken as the claw pressed harder against his throat.
“I’m curious,” asked the barkeep. “Have you ever wondered
“I serve no man but myself,” said Abe.
The barkeep laughed. “Avowed as only an American could.”
“Help me, Abe,” said Jack.
“We are all servants,” said the barkeep. “However, of the two of us, I have the fortune of knowing which master I serve.”
Jack began to panic. “P-please! Let me go!” He struggled to free himself, but this only dug the barkeep’s claw in deeper. A trickle of blood ran over his Adam’s apple as the vampire gave a reassuring “shhhh….”
Abe used the opportunity to slip a hand into his coat pocket, unnoticed.
“Your beloved Henry is no less deserving of that ax than the rest of us,” said the barkeep. “He merely had the good fortune of finding you fir—”
I pulled the martyr from my pocket and struck it against my buckle with all the quickness I possessed.
It lit.
Brighter than the sun—white light and sparks filling the whole of the street. The vampire retreated and shielded his eyes, and Jack pulled free. I knelt, grabbed the handle of the ax, and threw from my knees. The blade lodged in the vampire’s chest with a crack of bone and rush of escaped air, and he fell, clumsily clutching at the handle with one hand, dragging himself along the ground with the other. I let the martyr slip from my fingers to burn its last upon the ground, and retrieved my ax from the creature’s chest. That same familiar fear on his face. The fear of what hell or oblivion awaited. I did not care to revel in it. I raised the ax above my head and took his.
Jack was shaken to the point of being sick on his boots. Shaken by the fact that he’d been an inch away from death. By the glimpse he’d caught of those black eyes; those fangs after breaking free. He didn’t say a word on the ride home. Neither man did. They reached New Salem after sunrise and were about to part company in silence when Jack, who was continuing on to Clary’s Grove, pulled up his reins and turned toward the general store.
“Abe,” he said. “I wanna know everything there is to know ’bout killin’ vampires.”
SIX
Ann
I feel how weak and fruitless must be any words of mine which should attempt to beguile you from the grief of a loss so overwhelming… I pray that our Heavenly Father may assuage the anguish of your bereavement, and leave you only the cherished memory of the loved and lost.
I
New Salem hadn’t grown as quickly as Denton Offutt hoped; in fact, it may have lost a few residents in the months after he opened the store. The Sangamon was still a long way from being “the next Mississippi.” Navigation remained a treacherous affair, and all but a few steamboats remained trapped in the wider waters to the south, with all of their precious customers and cargo. It didn’t help matters that New Salem had a second general store closer to the center of the settlement, siphoning off customers before they’d even had a chance to reach his front door. By the time the ice began to break on the sluggish Sangamon in the spring of 1832, Offutt’s store had failed, and Abe was out of a job. His anger is evident in an entry dated March 27th.
Bade farewell to [Offutt] this morning, the last of the goods having been sold or traded; my belongings were moved to the Herndon place until such time as I am able to make other arrangements. I care not that he has gone. I feel no sadness at his leaving, and feel not tempted in the slightest to follow his listless example. I have never known idle hands, and shall not know them now. I resolve to remain. I shall prosper yet.
As always, Abe was true to his word. He did whatever it took to make money: Splitting rails. Clearing land. Building sheds. His relationship with the Clary’s Grove Boys paid its first dividends, too, in the form of the odd jobs they intimidated locals into giving him. He even found work as an “ax man” on one of the few steamboats making its way up the Sangamon, standing on its bow and chopping away any obstructions that slowed its struggle north. And through it all, he never stopped hunting.
