Well.He’d have to try normal, mundane bluffing, wouldn’t he?
Heknocked on the door. A shadow passed over the peephole, and a voicecalled, “Who is it? What do you want?”
“Myname is Rick. I’m an old friend of Charles Blake, and I heard he washere. Can I see him?”
“Doyou know what time it is?”
“Yes—sorryabout that. I just got off work. Bartender.”
“Justa minute. I’ll gethim.”
“Mindif I wait inside?”
Aftera brief, wary moment of waiting, the deadbolt clicked back, and thedoor opened. A gruff man in his forties stood aside and held the door.“Come on in.”
Rickdid.
Theliving room was worn and sad, with threadbare furniture and carpets,stained walls, a musty air. A bulletin board listed rules, notices,want ads, warnings. The atmosphere was institutional, but this mighthave been the first real home some of these men had known. Halfwayhouse, indeed.
“Stayright here,” the man said, and walked to a back hallway.
Rickwaited,hands in pockets.
Thedoorman returned after a long wait, what would have been many beats ofhis heart, if it still beat. Behind him came a very old man, pulling asmall oxygen tank on a cart behind him. Tubes led from it to his nose,and his every breath wheezed. Other than that, he had faded. He wassmaller than the last time Rick had seen him, withered and sunken, skinlike putty hanging off a stooped frame. Wearing a T-shirt and ratty,faded jeans, he looked sad, beaten. The scowl remained—Rick recognizedthat part of him.
Theold man saw him and stopped. They were two ghosts staring at each otheracross the room.
“Hello,Blake,” Rick said.
“Whoare you? You his grandson?”
Rickturned to the middle-aged doorman and stared until he caught the man’sgaze. “Would you mind leaving us alone for a minute?” He put quietforce into the suggestion. The man walked back into the hallway.
“Bill—Bill!Come back!” Blake’s sandpaper voice broke into coughing.
“I’mnot his grandson,” Rick said.
“What is this?”
“Tellme about Helen, Blake.”
Hecoughed a laugh, as if he thought this was a joke. Rick just stared athim. He didn’t have to put any power in it. His standing there wasenough. Blake’s jaw trembled.
“Whatabout her? Huh? What about her!”
Rickgrabbed the tube hanging at Blake’s chest and yanked, pulling it offhis face. Blake stumbled back, his mouth open to show badly fitteddentures coming loose. Wrapping both hands in Blake’s shirt, Rickmarched him into the wall, slamming him, slamming again, listening forthe crack of breaking bone.
“Youthought no one would know,” Rick whispered at him, face to face. “Youthought no one would remember.” Blake sputtered, flailing weakly,ineffectually.
Thefront door crashed open. “Stop!”
Rickrecognized the footfalls, voices, and the sounds of their breathing.Detective Hardin pounded in, flanked by two uniformed officers. Rickglanced over his shoulder—she was pointing a gun at him. Not that itmattered. He shoved his fists against Blake’s throat.
Blakewas dying under his grip. Rick wouldn’t have to flex a muscle to killhim. He didn’t even feel an urge to take the man’s blood—it would becool, sluggish, unappetizing. Rick would spit it backout in the man’s face. He could do it all with Hardin watching, becausewhat could the detective really do in the end?
“Rick!Back away from him!”
Hardinfumbled in her jacket pocket and drew out a cross, a simple version,two bars of unadorned silver soldered together. Proof against vampires.Rick smiled.
Blakehad to have known he wouldn’t get away with murdering Helen. What hadhe been thinking? What had he wanted, really? Rick looked at him: thewide, yellowing eyes, the sagging face, pockmarked and splashed withbroken capillaries. He expected to see a death wish there, a determinedfatalism. But Blake was afraid. Rick terrified him. The man, his bodyfailing around him, didn’t want to die.
Thismade Rick want to strangle him even more. To justify the man’s terror.But he let Blake go and backed away, leaving him to Hardin’s care.
Theold man sank to his knees, knocking over the oxygen canister. He heldhis hands before him, clawed and trembling.
“He’sdead! Dead! He has to be dead! He has to be!” He was sobbing.
Maybeleaving him on his knees and crying before the police was revengeenough.
Rick,hands raised, backed out of the line of fire. “I could have saved yousome paperwork, Detective.”
“You’djust have forced me into a whole other set of paperwork. Whatthe hell did you think you were doing?”
Theuniforms had to pick up Blake and practically drag him away. Theydidn’t bother with cuffs. Blake didn’t seem to know what was happening.His mouth worked, his breaths wheezed, his legs stumbled.
“Itake it you got your evidence,” Rick said.
“Wefound the shooter, and he talked. Blake hired him.”
Hecertainly didn’t look like he’d pulled any triggers in a good long time.
“Sothat’s it?”
“Whatelse do you want?”
“Iwanted to get here five minutes earlier,” he said. Not that any of itreally mattered. It all faded from the memories around him.
“Ineed to ask you to depart the premises,” she said. She wasn’t aimingthe gun at him, but she hadn’t put it away. “Don’t think I won’t arrestyou for something, because I will. I’ll come up with something.”
Ricknodded. “Have a good night, Detective.”
Hereturned to his car and left the scene, marking the end of yet anotherchapter.
Rickhadn’t been able to attend the trial, but he’d met with Helen everynight to discuss the proceedings. She came to Murray’s, tearing upwith relief and rubbing her eyes with her handkerchief, to report theguilty verdict. He quit his shift early and took her back to his place,a basement apartment on Capitol Hill. With Blake locked up, he feltsafe bringing her there. He owned the building, rented out the upperportion through an agency, and could block off the windows in thebasement without drawing attention. The décor was simple—a bed, anarmchair, a chest of drawers, a radio, and a kitchen that went unused.
Theylay together on the bed, his arm around her, holding her close, whileshe nestled against him. They talked about the future, which was alwaysan odd topic for him. Helen had decided to look for an old-fashionedkind of job and aim for a normal life this time. “But I don’t know whatto do about you,” she said, craning her neckto look up at him.
He’dbeen here before, lying
