“What?”
“So’s you can get used to the idea he ain’t human anymore. So you won’t think, when you meet him again, that he’s the same man.”
Laura shook her head in bewilderment. She didn’t have the mental energy left to work that one out for herself. She would have asked more questions, but suddenly they were within earshot of the trio at the headstone.
She took off her sunglasses, as calmly as she could, and studied the marker. It was a simple stone with no complicated inscription:
JAMESON ARKELEY
MAY 12 1941–OCTOBER 3 2004
She was pleased, she thought, to see it didn’t read “Rest in Peace” or give some description of how he had lived or died or been reborn. Just the name and dates had some kind of dignity, and as desperate as she was to find Arkeley and put him down, she couldn’t begrudge him that. The stone’s cold shape, its solid physicality, calmed her a little. Enough that she could look up and study the people who were patiently watching her. The oldest of the three—Arkeley’s brother, Angus—had the same wrinkled face she knew so well, though there was a merriness behind his eyes that Arkeley had never possessed. He shook her hand and mumbled a pleasantry she didn’t catch. The two children were dressed more conservatively than their uncle, but their faces shared a certain family resemblance to the man memorialized at their feet.
“Raleigh, right?” she asked, and held out a hand. Arkeley’s daughter nodded but kept her own hands at her sides. She wore a formless black dress and a heavy winter coat that hung on her like a tent. She wore no makeup and her eyebrows and lashes were nearly as colorless as her dress. “We spoke on the phone.”
“Yes, Trooper. Hi. It’s nice to meet you.”
“Likewise.” Laura turned to look at Arkeley’s son. “And you must be Simon. I’m so very sorry for your loss.”
“My father isn’t dead,” he told her. “Can we get on with this sham? I have to get back to school tonight and it’s a long train ride.”
Simon Arkeley had sharp pale features, a long thin nose and eyes that were just narrow slits. His black hair was badly combed. He wore a powder blue suit that didn’t look thick enough for the weather.
She asked, “You’re a student at Syracuse, right? What’s your major?”
He stared hard into her eyes. “Biology.”
“We’re all here,” Urie Polder announced. Laura realized she was standing right in front of the stone. She would have been standing on top of the grave, if there had been one. Everyone else had formed a rough circle around her. She stepped back and stood between Clara and Patience. The little girl reached up to take hold of her hand.
Vesta Polder took a step inward and lifted her hands, her fingers decorated with dozens of identical rings. Slowly she reached up to take hold of her veil. Laura realized the woman hadn’t spoken a word since they’d picked her up. Everyone watched, even Simon, as she slowly lifted the veil up and away from her face. She smoothed it down on her shoulders, releasing her bushy blond hair so it bounced. Her eyes were closed.
When she opened them they looked wild—red and swollen, as if she’d been crying, but glinting with a feverish light. Her lips were pursed tight together. She turned to look at each of them, one at a time. She held their gazes until they looked away, even Urie and Patience. Then she began to speak.
“In the old days,” she said, in a loud, clear voice, “there were no winter funerals. When a man died in the winter his body was wrapped in a winding sheet and then put in the back of the larder where it was coldest, and left until the first buds appeared on the trees.”
Raleigh frowned. “Why was that? Was winter an unlucky time?”
Vesta Polder didn’t seem to mind the interruption. “No. The ground was just too hard to dig. Back then every grave was dug by a shovel. A man’s back could give out if he tried to upturn frozen soil. Now, of course, we have backhoes. Graves are dug all year round. There is no grave here, however. Just a stone—not even a gravestone, but a cenotaph.”
“What’s a cenotaph?” Patience asked.
Vesta did not smile at her daughter or even look at her. “It is a monument to a man whose bones lie elsewhere. This stone reminds us of a man who has died. A man well worth remembering. Jameson Arkeley devoted his life to our protection. To the protection of all mankind. We can memorialize his sacrifice here.”
His sacrifice. Laura bit her lip to keep from speaking. Arkeley had been crippled in life, unable to drive a car or tie his own tie. He’d received those wounds fighting vampires. He had made himself whole again, and strong, when he took the curse. At the time maybe he’d thought of that as a sacrifice, too. By now he was probably thinking of it as a gift. He’d had a chance to prove that his death had meaning. After he saved her life, he could have returned to her. He could have let her put a bullet through his heart. That would have been a real sacrifice.
Instead he’d run away, into hiding. Maybe he’d thought he could beat the curse, somehow. Maybe he’d thought he could stay human. The man she’d worked with would have known better, but the curse could be very persuasive. His sacrifice had been lost to greed, greed for blood.
“Further, we may read this stone as a warning. A warning that he is still at large.” Vesta turned to face Caxton. She held out her ringed hands and Caxton took them both. Vesta looked right into her eyes. “It is a warning, and an admonition to you, Trooper. We’ve made a place for him to rest. We’ve made a very nice grave for this man. Now it’s up to you to fill it.”
Caxton’s heart sank in her chest. She opened her mouth to reply, but what could she say? There was nothing, no words—“I’m working on it” would have been grossly inappropriate. “I’ll do my best”
sounded inadequate.
“No!” Simon said, and grabbed Vesta’s arm, pulling her away from Caxton. The older woman reeled as if she’d been smacked across the mouth. Caxton felt light-headed for a second, then came back to herself. She jumped between Simon and Vesta and dragged the boy away from the grave, away from the circle of mourners.
“What was that?” she hissed, marching him down a hill and out of earshot.
“How could you let that woman talk about my father like that?”
“She’s a friend of mine. And she was right.”
“I don’t want you to kill my father,” he said, as simple as that.
Caxton shook her head. “He’s not your father anymore. He’s a vampire. I don’t know if you understand what that really means—”
Simon let out a curt laugh that had no humor in it at all.
“—but it’s my job to hunt him down. And I’m going to do it. He’s a danger to the community. To everyone!”
Simon brooded for a moment before replying. “Tell me something. No opinions, just facts, alright? Do you have any evidence that my father has harmed a single human being? Have you found any bodies?”
“Well, no, but—”
“Then leave him the hell alone.” He turned to head back to the grave. She grabbed at his arm but he broke free easily. She half expected him to assault Vesta Polder on the spot, but instead he walked right past her, headed to the cars. “I have to go now,” he shouted, and folded his arms. It was all he had to say.
Chapter 6.
The mourners were already breaking their circle and heading for the cars—it seemed no one wanted to go on with the dubious service. Caxton hurried on to where Angus and Raleigh were climbing into the cab of the pickup. “I’d like to talk to all of you,” she said. “You might know something that could really help me find him.”
“Now, I doubt that highly,” Angus said. “Seeing as I hain’t visited with my brother in twenty years. Still,”
he said, and stopped in midthought. He looked Caxton up and down, from her legs to her chest, failing to look as far up as her eyes. “I was gonna go wash up and take myself a nap. You want to have a drink with me tonight, that I can accommodate. I’m staying at a motel near Hershey. Figured if I came all the way up here I might as well
