was a solid lack of aught else to do where we were brought up.”
“Where was that?”
Angus shook his head. “Didn’t have a proper name. A length of North Carolina that didn’t get electricity till the sixties, if that tells you something. We called it Bald Hill, but you won’t find that on any map.”
Caxton smiled. “It’s funny. I never thought of him as a country boy.”
Angus scratched his chin. “That’s understandable, since he weren’t. He got out quick as he could. Tried learning his daddy’s trade, but then one time when the law did catch old Longlegs—it weren’t the first time, or the last—Jameson came to his ma and told her he wanted to move away. Said he had saw the light and he wanted to go be a copper himself, ’cause they always won in the end. Old Fae she just grinned ear to ear, and gave him forty dollars she kept in an old pomade tin, and sent him off to police school in Raleigh-Durham. Far as I know he never went back to Bald Hill again. He was a patrol cop in town for a while, but that didn’t suit him either, so he studied up for some big examination and got himself a job with the federales.”
“The U.S. Marshals,” Caxton said.
Angus nodded. “Longlegs didn’t care for that, not one bit. Disowned him and everything. Best thing Jameson could have done for himself, though, I always thought. I always wished I had the same idea.
Instead I spent another forty years knocking around the hills, working one angle or another. Old Fae taught me a mite of what she knew about magic, though not enough to get me in real trouble. I told fortunes for a while, telling people what they wanted to hear. In the eighties I had a good thing going selling voodoo supplies and the like to farmworkers, but that all fell through with the scare about Satanists stealing babies left and right. Turned out that was all a hoax, but I was ruined. After that I switched to religious articles—statues of Saint Joseph to bury in your front yard when you want to sell your house, scented prayer candles for getting money or love. You know.”
Caxton frowned. “After he joined the Marshals—after he came to Pennsylvania—did you see much of Jameson?”
“Like I told you, there ain’t much to tell. Jameson and I had a visit in 1984, when I saw him married.
Before that it must have been sometime in the seventies, ’cause I remember my hair was still black.”
Caxton’s heart slumped in her chest. This whole trip had been a waste of time, she thought. “That was the last time you saw him? Did you ever talk to him on the phone, or via email, or anything since then?”
“At Christmas, most years.”
“I see.”
“Of course, often as not he’d ask how I was doing, and I’d say fine, and I’d ask how he was doing, and he’d say he was busy, and then he’d pass the telephone over to Astarte or one of the kids.”
“Okay.”
Angus stubbed out his cigar on the plastic arm of his chair until it bubbled and hissed. “You’re clutching at straws, aren’t you, girl? You got no better lead to follow up than something he might have said to me at his wedding.” He was looking right at her, searching her face. “That must mean you don’t even know where to start looking for him.”
Caxton’s face burned, even in the cold. “I’m on his trail. I’ll find him. But if you must know, no, I don’t have a lot of leads.”
Angus shrugged expansively and drank from his frosty glass. “Well, if you don’t mind a little advice, especially since it’s free, I’ll tell you you’re barking up the wrong tree. Don’t go talking to his family.”
“I need to interview everyone who knew him, just in case.”
Angus shook his head. “You do what you need to. All I’m saying is this is one man who cared less about his loved ones than he did about what he was going to have for breakfast. You seen those kids of his?
They barely know him, and what they do know is hate. They hate him for not being there most of their lives because he was too busy off chasing vampires, and when he was there they hated him for not loving them enough. They’re rotten little brats, both of them, but maybe they got a reason to be. Jameson was my brother once, my little brother, and still I looked up to him. But since he worked that first vampire case, just before his wedding, he’s not been the same man I knew. He’s not been any kind of man at all.”
Caxton’s immediate reaction to Angus’ words shocked her. She felt her heart grow cold and heavy in her chest. She almost stood up out of her chair. She was, she realized, offended.
But she guessed that was behind him, too.
“Ah, hell,” Angus said, suddenly. “What the hell’s he doing here? He ain’t supposed to arrive yet, not for hours.”
Caxton was still too busy being angry to get what he meant. Then she turned and saw that a late-model maroon sedan had pulled into the motel’s asphalt lot. Its headlights dazzled her eyes for a second and then cut out as it rolled to an uneasy stop. Maybe it had stalled out, or maybe the driver was drunk, she thought. Immediately her eyes went to the license plate and memorized the number, just in case.
“You’re meeting someone?” Caxton asked. “I have some more questions, but they can wait.” She turned back to face Angus, but he was still staring at the car.
Grumbling, swearing a couple of times, he levered himself up out of his chair. She could only stare in disbelief as he pulled a massive buck knife out of his pocket and snapped open the blade.
She turned around again then, and looked as the car’s door popped open and something sagged out onto the dark pavement. It was a body, a man’s body, and at first she thought the driver must be so drunk he couldn’t even stand up properly. Then she saw it was just a boy, a teenager in a hooded sweatshirt. He turned to face the two of them and she saw his face was torn and bloody, with pale strips of skin hanging from his cheeks and chin.
“Half-dead,” she breathed, and grabbed for her weapon. Angus was already halfway to the car, his knife out and low by his side.
Chapter 10.
“Angus, get back,” Caxton called, grabbing for her Beretta and jumping out of her chair. The old man was well ahead of her, closing quickly with the half-dead.
“Don’t you worry, young lady. I can handle this sort.” The half-dead knelt on the asphalt, down on all fours as if it was too weak to stand. Angus grabbed at the creature’s arm and yanked it painfully up until it was standing on its feet. “You said you’d call on me at midnight. It ain’t time yet!”
Caxton moved quickly, her weapon down and pointed at the ground next to her feet. The half-dead wasn’t armed and it seemed barely capable of standing—in fact, it was tottering back and forth as if it would fall as soon as Angus let it go. That didn’t mean it wasn’t dangerous. Half-deads were the victims of vampires, drained of their blood and then raised from the dead. They were nasty little creatures, spiteful and cruel and lacking all the human qualities they’d had in life. The curse that animated them corrupted their flesh as much as it did their souls; a half- dead’s body started to rot and fall apart almost instantly, and it was rare that one of them could last more than ten days before disintegrating completely.
This one looked at least a week old and smelled terrible, even in the cold night air. Weak as it might be, however, it could bite Angus and give him a nasty infection, if nothing worse.
“Let him go and stand back,” Caxton ordered, but Angus acted as if he hadn’t heard her.
“Twenty-four hours, you said,” he told the thing. “You’re early!”
She had another interest in the half-dead, beyond protecting Angus. It took a vampire to raise a half-dead— which meant Jameson Arkeley had done it. That meant all kinds of things, some of which were more pleasant to think of than others. It meant Arkeley had killed a human being, proof positive that he had gone over to the darkness. If Caxton could keep the half-dead from falling apart for a little while, though, it could also mean a real break in the case. The half-dead might know the location of Jameson’s lair.
She could interrogate it. She could intimidate it into telling her everything it knew. As long as Angus didn’t finish it off first. She started to raise her weapon, planning to point it at Angus if he didn’t start complying with her orders.
The half-dead spoke, though, and Caxton froze in her tracks.
“My master grows impatient,” it creaked. Its voice was high and unnatural, like the sound a nail makes when pulled out of a rotten piece of wood. “He has offered you a gift, and you have failed to accept.
