She kept going down the stairs, wondering how she was going to find another cab, when he caught up to her and came around to face her. “A k-k-k-cry for help!”
She brushed him aside and the robe billowed out. She marched ahead of him.
He came alongside like a puppy trying desperately to keep up. “It doesn't change the-the fact I–I-I know who's been doin' all them aw-awful things.”
There was a childish innocence about Gamble, a fat boy who never grew up. “I'm not here for fun and games. Gamble,” she said curtly, moving along the street.
“ He drives a-a-a van, a-a gray van,” Gamble said. “N-nn likes classy music.”
This made her stop.
She had half prayed that Gamble would turn out to be a crank, just another of the thousands of members of the fringe element that contacted police personnel whenever they could for any number of deep-seated reasons. She had also half prayed that he was legitimate, and now the conflict arose in her again. She was not at all sure she wanted to come face-to-face with Teach, the man she had spent so many hours and days chasing in the lab and in autopsy rooms, the same man who'd sent her a blood letter and now had telephoned her at the crime lab. If Gamble was a man with a wire loose, she could walk away with no harm done. But if she investigated with backup cars and agents, she'd come off looking like a fool, and lately, she had had enough of that. And if Gamble truly had something in this neighbor of his, she might prove that Lowenthal had not acted alone, that his death was indeed a setup to throw them off and that this final action taken by the killer was just another of his chess moves. Maybe Gamble was a big gamble, and maybe he was a pervert, but he might also possibly pinpoint the location of the madman.
If this was the case, she could then call for all the backup help she needed. She was also painfully aware of the fact that in coming here like this, alone, she was violating one of the Bureau's most sacred prime directives. But she had thought that Kaseem would have been here by now.
“ 'Round b-b-back is the-the van, just next door,” he assured her.
A look inside that van could prove to Otto and the others that she was right, that the vampire killer was still at large.
“ P-p-p-lease, you've come all this w-way. Don't let my sic-sickness stop you n-n-now. I'm sic-sick, but I'mmmmm not-not k-k-k-crazy. I kn-kn-know it's him.”
“ Take me to see the van,” she said.
“ Oh, g-g-g-g-gooood.
Brewer put out an all-points bulletin on two people, calling it in from the car that sped toward Matisak's place. He asked every law enforcement official in the city to be on the lookout for Dr. Jessica Coran, and anyone hearing from her was to report to him. He secondly gave out a description of Matthew Matisak, his address, the vehicle he drove, a light gray van bearing the markings of Balue-Stork Medical Supply along the driver's side door, down to the plates-all information gleaned from his employee record card.
They soon reached the residence of the supposed vampire killer. It looked like any other house on the block, as it was in an older district where all the brick houses were designed in identical proportions, one after another. Matisak's lawn. however, was weedy and destroyed by chinch bugs and neglect. The door was peeling and the brickwork in need of repair. The overall effect of the house was one of darkness with a tinge of despair.
The moment they pulled into the driveway, a neighbor came outside, a dog yipping at his feet at the FBI men. The neighbor shouted at them, “What're you doing there? You get away from there or I'll call the cops!”
Boutine was peering into the garage while Brewer picked the lock on the door.
“ Nothing inside,” Boutine said. “He appears to be gone.”
“ What's going on here?” the neighbor persisted.
“ This is a police matter, sir!” shouted Brewer over his shoulder. And then he said to Boutine, “If he's not here, then maybe Jessica's not in harm's way after all. Otto.”
“ He always kills in remote locations-away from home,” Boutine countered.
“ So we stash the cars and stake out the place, Otto. What other choice do we have? Otto? Otto?”
“ We've got to get inside, case the joint. See if there's any information whatever that might lead to his whereabouts.”
“ We could be blowing it, going in, Otto.”
“ We've got probable cause.”
“ That might wash if we had the CPD with us, but not as FBI men.”
“ You two sure you know what you're doing?” asked the neighbor, who had walked over to them in his bathrobe.
“ We'll thank you to get inside your home and stay there, sir,” said Brewer officiously. “We are FBI agents.”
“ Really? FBI? Really?”
Brewer felt like decking the bastard, but instead he flashed his badge and ID. “Satisfied?”
“ What in God's name has Matisak done?”
“ Please, sir, move back into your house and do not create any alarm for Mr. Matisak on his return.”
“ But he won't be back for days.”
“ How do you know that?”
“ Told me so. Usually, when he packs his van, he's going back on the road, and we don't see him for days.”
“ We're going in,” shouted Otto, smashing a window and stepping through, tearing down a set of dark blue drapes from the wall mount as he did so.
The moment Otto stepped into the dark interior he felt an almost tangible wall of oppressiveness descend upon him with the drapes that he fought off. It was the closeness of the place and the darkness, but something beyond that, an untouchable, unseeable rankness and the closeness of the den of an animal. As he moved further into the interior, he thought he sensed something else in the house with him, something alive-or something not quite alive-and for a moment, he feared the worst: he feared Jessica was hanging upside down deep within the labyrinth of this black little castle, her blood drained away like the other victims that Matisak had put through his torture chamber. He imagined that when they found the lights, Jess's body would confront him, and in her throat would be the dangling spigot used by Matisak.
Behind him he heard Brewer bitching about being unable to find the goddamned lights when suddenly he did and the house was lit, but only dimly. The bulb must be colored a strange hue, and some kind of odor was rising from it.
“ What the hell is that smell?” Brewer wondered aloud.
Otto was too impatient to care. He moved along the corridors, his gun extended. Even though Otto believed the place to be empty, his gun and his hands over the gun were shaking. Brewer was right. Something about the smell of the place, like a rank, animal musk.
“ Good Christ,” muttered Brewer behind him.
“ What is it?” he called back.
“ Friggin' light bulb.”
“ What about it?”
“ It's-it's painted red, Otto.”
Otto knew instantly now what the odor was-hot blood. The bastard used the blood to decorate his bulbs to create the red glow of the room that he apparently grooved on. Brewer's remark had made Otto look away from the corridor he was going down, but a sudden flicker of noise made him wheel and fire. A single shot plastered Matisak's big black torn cat to a back wall, blood streaking the floor to mark the trail of its having impacted with Boutine's bullet.
“ Son of a bitch,” moaned Boutine.
Brewer rushed to stand beside him, wondering what the sudden, high-pitched screech was. Boutine hadn't heard the screech because of the noise of the gun in his ear. The taste and smell of gun smoke intermingled now with the odor of dried, sizzling blood on the bulb as it grew hotter and hotter.
“ Think we'd better turn on some more lights,” suggested Brewer.
“ I want everything in this filthy place torn apart,” Boutine replied.
