The Vampire Files - Art In The Blood Part 15

"She was insane. It didn't show, but part of me must have known. That's why I didn't want to do it.""What about to me?"

"How do you feel about it?"

She shrugged. "I don't think I know enough yet to tell you."

"That's a good answer."

"It's not easy for you, is it?"

I drew a breath and sighed. "It's just at times all I see are the disadvantages. My life is limited in a lot of ways, ways I'd never thought about until it was too late."

"Like what?"

"For one thing, I miss socializing over food, and I'm really beginning to hate mirrors. Sunlight blinds and paralyzes me, and if I don't sleep on my earth I have the most G.o.d-awful dreams. Going to the Stockyards is a real pain. I often leave it till late so I don't have the cattle smell on me all the evening and can wash it off when I get home."

"Did she feel the same way?" She was referring to Maureen.

"She let me know what to expect, but she never complained, except about mirrors whenever she bought new clothes." But Maureen had had decades to adjust to things and I was still gra.s.s green. Maybe in time...

"Then why did you want to change?"

"I loved her."

"Don't you believe I love you just as much?"

"Yes. I see what you're getting at, Bobbi, but you need to know there are no guarantees. We could do it, but it might not work."

"And then again, it might. I don't see it as a promise or even as insurance, but it is hope. That's all I really want, Jack, just that piece of hope."

I thought long and hard about it for maybe two seconds. She had a serious decision ahead, though I was sure she'd made up her mind already. When I'd talked things out with Maureen, I'd been the same. I'd loved her and we both wanted the hope in the background of our lives that it would continue. Now I loved Bobbi and life was repeating itself.

"Look, you need to see exactly what it's like for me. I want you to know the worst of it, and then if you still feel the same-"

"What are you talking about?"

"I want to take you to the Stockyards. I think you need to see what it is that I have to do every few nights."

"You want to show me how you eat?"

Things twisted inside. "I don't eat, Bobbi. I open up a vein in a live animal with my teeth and drink its blood."

She shifted around a little and crossed her arms, prepared for hostilities. "Are you trying to put me off?"

"I'm trying to give you an idea of what it's like to live this way."

"And painting anything but a rosy picture about it. Don't you think you're being too hard on yourself?"

"Well, I-"

" And pa.s.sing that att.i.tude on to me is hardly fair to either of us."

"Uh..."

"Exactly," she said. "Now, how about some straight honesty? Is what you do really so horrible? What happens to the cow after you're through with it?"

"Well, nothing. I don't drain them dry, you know."

"I didn't know, but I'm not too surprised or you'd have to have a hollow leg. As for the cow, she hangs around in a smelly pen until driven to the slaughterhouse, then some guy smacks her between the eyes with a sledgehammer. Depending on how she's processed, sooner or later she ends up on my dinner table. Does that make me better than you just because I pay to have someone else do the dirty work?"

I'd thought the whole business out before, but had never applied such logic specifically to Bobbi. She had me cold and she knew it. She smiled as the dawning finally broke on me.

Somehow things didn't seem so hard, after all.

Chapter Eight.

WE SPENT A little more time talking and decided to postpone our Stockyards visit for some other night. Bobbi was physically and emotionally exhausted and I wanted her to sleep on things. My own trip there could not be put off, though. I was getting nerved up and had to concentrate on simple tasks-indications that I badly needed my long drink. After seeing her to bed, I drove straight over.

I'd purposefully overfed last time and it had bought me an extra hunger-free night. The tiny amounts I took from Bobbi also helped to some degree, but were really insufficient to maintain me. Earlier, when my lips were on her throat, it had taken a conscious effort on my part not to go in a little deeper. The temptation had certainly been present, and this time it had been very difficult to end things and pull away. When hungry, my body only knew that blood was blood, whether acquired by feeding off cattle or through s.e.x with Bobbi. The very real possibility existed that I might lose control and continue taking from her past the point of safety. To prevent that, I wanted to be well supplied from a less fragile, more bountiful source.

Again, I parked on a different street from my last visit, ghosted in, and did what I had to do. Bobbi's logic floated through my mind as I knelt and drank. Talking things over with her made one h.e.l.l of a difference; tonight was the first time I admitted to myself that I enjoyed the taste of the animal's blood. It is different from human blood, like the difference between milk and champagne: one nourishes and the other leaves you high as a kite. Tonight I'd had the best of both.

The feeling lasted until I was back on the street again and walking to my car. I was walking, seeing things, thinking thoughts, and Sandra Robley was dead, her inert body awaiting its turn for the autopsy table. Some b.a.s.t.a.r.d had shut her down.

G.o.d knows why; there's never a good reason to be a victim.

I got in and drove half a block on an impulse. It paid off. The lights of Escott's second-floor office were glowing. Parked near his door, just behind his own huge Nash, was one of the newer Lincolns. It was really too late for him to be interviewing clients, so his visitor was probably connected with the murder investigation in some way. I shut down my motor and softly approached the building. Beneath his window, open to catch the night breeze, I could listen in on their conversation.

"... anything, absolutely anything at all, I would be very grateful to know about it."

"Do you wish to retain my services, then?" Escott asked.

Inasmuch as you are connected with this... this terrible business."

A drawer slid open. "Very well. Here is my standard contract. It's fairly straightforward. I cannot make you any promises, and in a case such as this I am under strict limitations. If I should find evidence pointing to a specific person's guilt I am legally bound to turn it immediately over to the police." He sounded extremely formal and was uncharacteristically discouraging, an indication he was not happy with his latest employer.

" You mean you think Alex did it?"

"I have no opinion one way or another, I merely follow a line of inquiry until all questions are answered."

I lost the reply, because by then I was walking up the covered stairs to the office.

Two raps on the frosted gla.s.s of the outer door seemed sufficient to announce me, and I was inside, matching interested looks with Leighton Brett. His big frame and expensive clothes made him look out of place in the inst.i.tutional wood chair opposite Escott's equally plain desk.

He was puzzled by my showing up, but it shifted into acceptance when Escott greeted me and explained I was an a.s.sociate."I thought you were a writer," said Brett, turning it into a friendly jibe.

"Only on my days off. This is what puts bacon on the table."

"Mr. Fleming was the one who originally called me in," said Escott.

"I'm glad he did, you were the only one there talking any sense."

It seemed more likely that Escott had been the only one there willing to listen to him.

"How did things wind up?" I asked. There was no other place to sit so I hitched a leg over one corner of the desk.

Escott moved a heavy gla.s.s ashtray a little to give me more room. It contained only one dead cigarette and no pipe dottles. They hadn't been there long. "Evan Robley is in the hospital- Miss Stokes is sitting with him now-and Alex Adrian has gone missing."

"What do you mean? Is he out on a drunk or just not home?"

"The police are waiting for him to turn up at his residence."

"To arrest him?"

"Possibly. Lieutenant Blair is being especially close about his plans, but Adrian's disappearance from the crime scene does not look good."

"It stinks to high heaven, Charles, and we all know it." I turned to Brett. "You know him best, where would he be?"

He spread his large hands. "I haven't had much contact with him since Celia died. Evan might know, but with the condition he's in..."He didn't have to finish, but thinking about Evan gave him another idea. "I could call Reva at the hospital, she and Sandra..." Again, he did not finish.

Escott pushed his desk phone toward him and we waited as he went through the motions. While he struggled to locate Evan's hospital room and consequently his fiancee I quietly asked for more information.

"What did you get from the other tenants?"

"The people on the same floor were out all evening. Those above did hear a man and woman arguing, thought nothing of it, and turned their radio up to drown the noise. The rest were a singularly deaf and incurious lot with problems of their own. A quarreling couple is not an oddity in that neighborhood."

"And nothing on who the man was or what the fight was about?"

"Nothing at all. No one is even sure if the argument is even connected with the crime; it could have been quite another couple fighting.""What do you think?"

"That I need more information. There was one thing which you might enlighten me about: one of the reporters there was asking after you by name."

Oh yeah?

"Extremely female, tall, with dark hair and light brown eyes; very well dressed and quite striking." Barb Steler."

"The journalist who knew Adrian in Paris?"

"The same. Wonder what she wanted."

"An interview?"

"No, thanks. As it was, Bobbi and I barely made it out of there. She probably spotted me when that photographer popped u Hash right in my kisser."

"I wonder if you left an image on the negative," he mused in a very low voice so Brett wouldn't hear.

"I hope not. The last thing I want is my mug plastered all over the morning editions."

Brett hung up and shook his head at us. "Sorry, but she said she couldn't think of anyone or any place Alex would go to. She's hoping he'll turn up at the hospital to check on Evan."

"If he left prior to Mr. Robley's breakdown, he won't know to go there," Escort pointed out.

"Yes. d.a.m.n, how could he go tearing off like this?" Brett smacked the desk lightly with the flat of his hand, then got to his feet. "I have to leave now, Reva made it clear she doesn't want to be alone anymore."

"Of course, and if I should learn anything..."

It reminded Brett of the business contract on the blotter. "I think I'll take this along for reading material. You'll hear from me in the morning."

We all said good night and Escort let him out the door. He didn't speak again until Brett's Lincoln rolled off and cleared the street.

"You've an idea?" He made it more statement than question.

"Just a small one. This a.s.sumes that Alex didn't kill her and that before he disappeared he was able to get some kind of sense out of Evan."

"Concerning Dimmy Wallace?""Jeez, Charles, why do I bother to think with you around?"

He took it as a compliment. "Our problem is to locate Wallace."

"No problem," I told him.

A smile briefly crossed his bony face as he understood the reference. "My phone is entirely at your disposal."

I entirely made use of it. The call took almost as long as Brett's, but I finally got through to Gordy.

"This is Fleming. I need an address."

There was a pause, because Gordy survived through caution. "Whose?"

"Dimmy Wallace."

"He making trouble again?"

"No, but I'm trying to prevent it. Someone I know might be gunning for him. I want to stop it."

A longer pause, but I knew Gordy wasn't one to waste words or time. The line was empty for a few seconds, then he came back with an address, which I wrote down.

"You never called me for this, got it?"

"I never even heard of you-and thanks." I hung up and turned to Escort. "He says it's an all-night gas station."

He glanced at my scribble. "It's on the south side-enemy territory for our benefactor, if I recall the current gang political situation correctly. His wish for anonymity is well placed."

"Wallace isn't there all the time, he's usually on the move, but we might be able to talk to the people there."