“Deathwalkers? I’m not familiar with the term,” Pinkerton said, not taking his eyes off Chee.
“My people call them Deathwalkers, sir. They are blood devils: monsters that come awake at night and drink the blood of human beings.”
Hollister shifted uncomfortably. He realized, perhaps for the first time, how ridiculous his story had sounded. No wonder his colonel had not believed him. He understood why no one came to his defense. It sounded unbelievable to him, and he had lived it.
“And what do you think of his claim?” Pinkerton asked.
Chee shrugged. “I don’t know the major well sir, but I have no reason to doubt him. If he says it happened that way, then it did.”
“Really? And what about you, Chee? Tell me, do you believe in these so-called Deathwalkers?” Pinkerton held Chee’s stare until the sergeant looked down at the floor.
“Yes, sir. I do,” Chee replied quietly.
“Really? Have you ever seen one?”
“No, sir! And I hope I don’t. Bad juju. But Deathwalkers are real, all right.”
“Is that so? How do you know?” Pinkerton asked.
“My grandmother, Annabel. My people are from New Orleans, sir. My grandmother has told me stories about Deathwalkers,” he said.
“I see.” Pinkerton nodded. “Hmm. Well, you may hope you’re wrong. Did Major Hollister brief you on your mission?”
“No, sir, we… had dinner… then came here… I haven’t
… he hasn’t… no, sir.” Something was very wrong here. This Pinkerton fellow was very odd, and Major Hollister hadn’t said two words in his presence. Chee tugged nervously at his collar.
“Well as it turns out, his story may be true. There has been another incident in Colorado. You and the major will go there and investigate. How does that sound to you?”
Chee just shrugged and said nothing.
“No thoughts, Sergeant? You have no problem going after these Deathwalkers?” Pinkerton pressed.
“No. No, I don’t, sir,” Chee replied.
“And why is that? If Major Hollister has been telling the truth all these years, this could be a very dangerous assignment.”
“I expect so, sir. But it beats being in prison,” Chee said.
“Yes, Sergeant. From what I know of Leavenworth, I’m sure it does.”
Pinkerton chuckled as he walked behind the writing table and sat down.
Hollister took the opportunity to study the interior of the car. The writing desk was to his right and behind it another doorway led to the rear, where Hollister assumed he would find sleeping quarters. On his left between two of the windows a large wooden rack held several rifles and shotguns. There were numerous Winchesters, two Henrys, and a pair of short-barreled Greener ten gauges. Shelves below the gun rack held boxes of ammunition.
“Make yourselves at home, gentlemen,” Pinkerton said. “As I said, this car has been specially outfitted and…” He was interrupted by a knock at the door. “Ah, it must be our guest. Come in!”
A short, dark-haired man, wearing glasses and carrying a small valise, entered the train car. The better light inside revealed that his hair and the goatee framing his mouth were speckled with gray.
“Major Hollister and Sergeant Chee, it is my pleasure to introduce Dr. Abraham Van Helsing.”
Chapter Nine
Van Helsing was an energetic sort. He shook hands, rapidly moving from Chee to Hollister and finally Pinkerton.
“Mr. Pinkerton. So gud to see you! It has been far too long.” Pinkerton had mentioned that Van Helsing was visiting the States from Amsterdam, but his words were only lightly accented.
No one spoke as Van Helsing inspected the interior of the car. He traced his fingers over the markings surrounding the nearest window. “Yes. Ah. A devil’s trap… Babylonian, I presume?”
Pinkerton nodded.
“Gud!” He turned, slowly inspecting every visible part of the car. “Excellent work! You followed my instructions to the letter.”
“No expense was spared, I can promise you that,” Pinkerton said.
“What is all of this for? What does it do?” Hollister asked.
“In gud time, Major, I assure you. In the meantime, just know that, hopefully, it will keep you from getting killed,” Van Helsing said.
“How will some paint stop one of those creatures?” Hollister pressed. He was curious now. And annoyed.
“We haff learned some things, Major. A great deal, actually. But first some questions.”
Van Helsing seated himself at the small writing desk, and Pinkerton made no fuss over the fact he had just lost his seat. He pushed a button on the chair railing beneath the window, a panel in the wall slid open, and a wooden rack holding several folding chairs emerged. In no time, all of them were seated around Van Helsing who was pulling several journals and papers from his valise.
“First things first, Dr. Van Helsing, if you don’t mind?” Pinkerton asked. He pulled a small silver coin from his pocket and handed it to the doctor, who handed the detective his own similar piece. Both men held the coins in the palms of their hands for several seconds, then nodded as if satisfied that some unspoken test had been passed.
“What…” Hollister asked. Only to be interrupted by Chee.
“Silver?” Chee asked.
Van Helsing smiled. “Ach! Yes, silver! Very gud, Sergeant!” From his pocket he handed each man a silver coin identical to the ones he and Pinkerton held. Hollister inspected his. On one side was an engraved picture of a man with a halo about his head. A saint, he guessed, but which one he didn’t know. Hollister had grown up Presbyterian. The small words engraved around the edge read, T HE O RDER OF S T. I GNATIUS. On the other side were the words A ETERNAM V IGILANTIA. Hollister hefted it in his hand. It was solid silver.
“Mr. Pinkerton and I are part of a… society or perhaps association of sorts. We have an interest in the very things you witnessed in Wyoming, Major Hollister. There are many of us, and these coins, forged in solid silver, are one of the ways we can identify ourselves to one another,” Van Helsing said.
“I don’t understand… a society?” Hollister asked. He glanced at Chee, but the sergeant was still inspecting his coin.
“From the time of St. Ignatius. The first to fall. Many years ago we learned of the existence of…”
“Deathwalkers?” Chee asked.
“Vampires,” Pinkerton said.
“What the hell is a vampire?” Hollister asked, flipping his coin back on the desk, where it rolled around until falling on its side in front of Van Helsing.
“These creatures are called by many names,” the doctor said, pushing the coin back toward Hollister. “Your sergeant refers to them as Deathwalkers. As good a description as any, but most of Europe knows them as vampires. The living dead. Beings who were once human but are no longer, and must survive by drinking the blood of the living. As I believe you saw firsthand, Major.”
Hollister felt a chill fall over him. The car seemed smaller all at once and his mind’s eye flashed on the image of Lemaire dying as the white-haired thing chewed at his throat, its lips and fangs covered in blood. For a while he’d tried to tell himself he had imagined the whole thing. That he and his platoon really had been ambushed by Lakota, and in order to accept the destruction of his command, his mind had concocted an elaborate fantasy to disguise and excuse his shame. But what he’d seen was real.
“I saw…” he started to say, but couldn’t finish.
“You are familiar with vampires, Sergeant Chee? You knew about silver?” Van Helsing asked.
