“Those wouldn’t work for you. Their power requires faith which you do not possess.”
Caxton touched the cool metal at her throat. Deanna. Now that she was thinking about Deanna she couldn’t stop. “It’s not just a question of not kicking her out. I don’t want to lose her the way I lost my mother.”
Vesta stared at her and said nothing. It was as if she expected Caxton to tell her all about the sad, sorry tale of her mother’s insanity, the depression that had struck her after her husband’s death, her eventual suicide.
“She hanged herself,” Caxton said, finally, blushing. “In her bedroom. A neighbor found her and cut her down and tried to make her look presentable. My mother had always been very proud of her looks. When I got there she was laid out on the bed and her hair had been brushed and someone had even put some make-up on her. But they couldn’t hide the rope burn all the way around her neck.”
Vesta nodded and exhaled a plume of smoke. “You worry about losing Deanna, well, that’s just natural. But when the time comes you’ll be ready to let her go. You’ll have to be. I see it as strongly as I see the waves in your mind’s eye.”
That last bit confused Caxton—until she finally looked at the card in Vesta’s hand. It showed three wavy lines.
“Now, come, let’s collect the boys.” They rose and headed into the kitchen, where Arkeley and Urie sat around an enormous table that had once been a door and now was mounted on plain wooden trestles. They had between them a pile of small objects, triangular in shape and almost pearlescent in color. Caxton picked one up and saw it was a vampire’s tooth. After killing the vampire the night before the Fed must have pulled out all his teeth with a pair of pliers.
Urie Polder swept the teeth into a satin bag and tied it closed with a thong. “Now that’ll do just fine, in way of payment, ahum.”
“What are you going to do with those?” Caxton asked.
“He’ll find something they’re useful for,” Vesta told her, ushering her toward the front door. “Waste not, want not.”
As they drove away the little blonde girl watched them from the window. Caxton had never gotten to meet her, and didn’t even know her name.
18.
Caxton drove to State College, only a dozen or so miles away, just to get out of the suffocating atmosphere of Pennsyltucky. The tree-lined avenues of the university town were full of students in bright and colorful parkas and windbreakers. They walked in pairs or groups of four or more, laughing amongst themselves, shouldering backpacks, their faces red with the cold but their heads bare. They were alive, that was the main thing. Very much alive, and their concerns were for the simplest things—sex, grades, beer—none of them wanted to skin a ghost or drain the blood of a living victim. They were young, too, unwrinkled, innocent in their own fashion.
It did her good to see them.
She was losing it, and she knew it. That she would drive so far just to see young people made her realize just how dark her life had become in such a brief period of time. She pulled into a parking space on College Avenue before a big stone gate that let her look all the way up the quadrangle. She undid her seat belt but didn’t get out of the car.
Arkeley looked up. He’d been studying his Blackberry since she’d started driving. “Good news,” he told her. “The Investigative Unit has ruled out seventeen of the suspects. They decided to run down the medical personnel and corrections officers first—the ones who might have actually had physical contact with Malvern.
They’re about half done.”
Caxton nodded. That
How did she get here?” she asked. “She was in Pittsburgh when you found her, but she wasn’t born there, right?”
“No,” he said. He put the Blackberry in his coat pocket. “Vampires move around a lot—it’s how they stay one step ahead of people like us. It took me years to trace her route and I’m not done yet. I know she was born in Manchester, in England, around 1695. She terrorized that city for about sixty-five years before the bloodlust got too much of her and she couldn’t rise any more from her coffin. She lived for a while under the care of another vampire, a Thomas Easling, who was burned at the stake in Leeds in 1783. Malvern’s body was found among Easling’s property and it was assumed at the time that she was dead, just a mummified corpse. A curio. She was purchased for thirty five British pounds by a Virginian plantation owner, one Josiah Caryl Chess, who fancied himself a scholar of natural history. He had quite a collection of dinosaur and mammal fossils, so a moribund vampire must have been a prize find. He never bothered to remove her heart. She couldn’t move, after all, and even though he must have known she was still alive in there in some fashion—he may have even fed her—he was certain she was beyond harming anyone. Most likely she had him under her spell, though his journals suggest just the opposite. He was physically intimate with her at least once.”
“Shit, no,” Caxton said, her stomach squeezing down like a rubber ball. Caxton remembered then what Arkeley had said about Malvern and her current attendant, Doctor Hazlitt.
“Personal lubricants have been widely available throughout history. I know the ancient Romans used olive oil. And if you let her, if you play along, she can make herself look however you want. Your ideal woman. The illusion lasts as long as she wants it to.”
Something in Arkeley’s voice worried her. “You’ve seen her do it?” Caxton asked. She really wanted to ask if she’d changed her appearance for him—and if he’d succumbed. She couldn’t ask that, though, not in so many words.
He chuckled. “She’s tried plenty of tricks on me. I’ve been visiting her every few weeks for two decades now—she’s been trying to get me on her side this whole time. So far I’ve resisted.” He made it sound as if he couldn’t guarantee, even to himself, that he would always be successful. “Anyway. Chess died of blood loss, of course. No one ever officially put the blame on Malvern. She had never moved from her coffin, which was mounted in the front hallway as a kind of conversation piece.
Looking back now it’s pretty obvious that she sucked Chess dry but at the time they blamed a mutinous slave for his death. They locked Malvern up in the attic and forgot about her. The plantation was burned to the ground during the Civil War and she disappeared for a while. In fact the next time anyone has a record of her is when she showed up in the possession of Piter Byron Lares, and you know how that story goes.”
“Lares had plenty of moribund vampires, not just Malvern.”
Arkeley agreed. “They take care of their own. It’s almost like ancestor worship and it’s one of the very few things that can make them act irrationally. I assumed originally that the four vampires in Lares’ boat were all of one lineage, that one of them had made Lares while another had made the one who made Lares, and so on. I was wrong. By the time I discovered him Lares had been collecting old vampires for decades. Maybe he thought that by getting blood for them he was doing something good and nurturing. Maybe it helped assuage his conscience, assuming he had some kind of conscience. I don’t know. I’ve been studying vampires for twenty years myself and I still don’t know how they think. They’re just too alien to us.”
Caxton scratched under her armpit. She stared out through the windshield at the eighteen year olds walking by, their arms clutched around each other for warmth, their faces so clean. None of them knew what the future would hold, or what they would become. “You’ve been working the same case all this time.”
“Lots of cops define their careers with one case. The murderer who got away, the child who went missing and never showed up again.” Arkeley shrugged. “Alright.
You got me. I’ve never been able to get the Lares case out of my mind. I moved here, to Pennsylvania, to follow up on it. I’ve spent years getting to know people like the Polders who might have some information. And I’ve watched Malvern like a hawk.”
“And now when someone calls the FBI to say they have a vampire killing, they call you.” Caxton frowned. “That’s a lot of weight to carry around.”
“I do alright,” Arkeley told her.
Whatever. She should be focusing on the case, not feeling sorry for Arkeley.
“This is my first serious investigation,” she told him. “I’m no detective. But I think I have an idea of what’s been going on. Lares kept Malvern going until you killed him.
Then, through various bureaucratic channels, she gets installed at that hospital, at Arabella Furnace.”
