Authors: Jean Lorrah
“But this is not how I look. Touch me."
Hesitantly, she touched his face—and felt his familiar smooth, youthful complexion, not the aged, blemished skin her eyes perceived.
“More hypnosis,” she said.
“Related. But a mirror will show its limitations."
There was a full-length mirror in the entry hall. Brandy led Dan to it. She backed off, putting him between herself and the mirror, and still could not believe what she saw: the man before her looked like the old man he claimed to be; the mirror showed the young man she knew and—
“I can't fool mirrors or cameras,” Dan explained.
It had to be a trick—but how was it done? When she touched him again, the aged image dissolved. “Bring the old man image back,” she said.
“What?” he asked, glancing reflexively at the mirror, then back to Brandy with a self-deprecating shake of the head. “What do you see now?"
“You. Or what I thought was you."
“You can penetrate the illusion,” he said, something like awe in his voice. “All right, Brandy—I'll stop trying to make you see anything but the truth. Now it's time to tell you."
But Dan would not simply state his “truth.” Back in the kitchen, he urged, “Add it up. Put the fact that I'm seventy-four together with mirrors revealing the truth, rapid healing, hypnotic powers, extra strength, sun allergy...” He looked at her hopefully, the professor waiting for a student to draw the correct conclusion.
In her research she had run across a possibility for some of his odd quirks. “You have porphyria?"
He blinked. “Have you considered trying out for Jeopardy? How many people have ever heard of that disease?"
“I looked up causes of sun allergy. Is that it?"
“No,” he replied. Then, steeling himself, “I'm a vampire."
“No you're not,” she said automatically. “You're out in daylight. You eat—even food with garlic. You show in mirrors. You've got a crucifix hanging on your living room wall, for goodness’ sake!"
“Bram Stoker researched the superstitions, not the truth. I'm what started the legends. We are few, but we're human. I'm not a resuscitated corpse. I don't sleep in a coffin or fear religious objects. You've just seen where the superstition about not showing in mirrors comes from."
“You show."
“I show, as I really am. If I used influence to look older, to stay in one place for many years, if you looked for ‘me’ in the mirror, you wouldn't see an old man. You might conclude that I didn't show at all."
“Oh,” said Brandy. This was getting too complicated.
Dan started to reach toward her, but pulled back. “If I touch you it's too hard not to influence you,” he explained. “You must see the evidence. I'm a vampire, not a psychopath. You can't kill me with a bullet."
“Not even a silver one?"
“That's werewolves. You could kill me with a dum-dum bullet if it destroyed my heart or my brain. Otherwise the damage would heal, rapidly and without scars."
Brandy remembered blood on Dan's hands after they rescued Jeff Jones—blood that washed off, leaving partly-healed skin underneath. And the next day there had been no blisters, no scabs, no scars—
She turned his hands palm up on the table. They were, as always, far softer than hers. “You don't have calluses,” she said.
“My flesh regenerates perfectly. A disadvantage, actually. Manual labor causes cuts and blisters."
“And the next day they're gone."
He let out a breath. “You're starting to believe me."
“It's not a logical explanation."
“It is to me,” he said. “I live with it."
“How did you—?"
“I was born this way. It's an extremely recessive gene. My parents weren't vampires—"
“You're adopted?"
“No. I assume they both carried the gene for vampirism. But it had never happened to them, so they were no help when I started showing the signs at puberty. A craving for blood at the full moon is pretty frightening to an adolescent! But I learned to hide it, and began to research what I really am. It's hard to sort out superstition from fact, but I learned from experience. By now I have a pretty good idea of the truth."
“Which is?"
“I don't have to kill—I never have. You've seen my hypnotic powers."
“Why can't you just make me believe you?"
“I don't want our relationship to be forced. I'm working very hard not to influence you,” he explained. “I wanted to tell you all this yesterday or the day before. Tonight the full moon rises at sunset, and I don't know how well I'll be able to control myself."
“Do you turn into a bat?"
“I'm not a shape-shifter, either, although sometimes you make me feel as if I've melted into a puddle."
“Nothing happened at the last two full moons,” Brandy pointed out.
“Last time I had to tear myself away before I—"
“—tried to suck my blood?"
“Yes,” he said, almost defiantly.
Sylvester, whom Brandy had left on her bed upstairs, came in and hopped onto Dan's lap. He petted the cat while Brandy thought over what she had just learned. The last full moon had been her mother's wedding reception. “When you left me, did you go after Carrie instead?"
There was a long pause, during which Brandy could hear the beating of her own heart. Then, “Yes,” he said. “I put the puncture wounds in her throat. But I didn't kill her."
“Oh, God,” Brandy whispered helplessly. Could her mild-mannered professor be the psychopath who had murdered her best friend? Cold prickles ran over her skin, but with the same discipline she used when she was shooting, she listened dispassionately.
“I—almost took from you—but I couldn't without your permission. The Craving was so strong when I left you that I took the easy way. Carrie knew me. She wasn't afraid."
“You—drank her blood."
“I don't deny it,” he replied, “but that's all it was. Just an ordinary feeding."
“Ordinary!” Brandy gasped, his casualness penetrating her enforced calm as no ranting could have.
“Ordinary to me,” Dan explained. “I feed at every full moon. I never hurt my donors—I don't even frighten them. It's easy when the person knows me—just a little influence to avoid questions. I flagged Carrie down and told her my car had stalled. She offered me a ride."
“And you killed her."
“No!” he insisted. “I influenced her to go to her own house and park in the drive. Brandy, I left her safely asleep in her car. I locked the doors when I left."
“Did you wipe your fingerprints off the car door?"
“I didn't have to. I—don't leave fingerprints."
Brandy accepted that statement at face value, for, “No prints but Carrie's were found in or on her car. If you don't leave prints, that implicates you."
“Or another vampire,” said Dan. “Carrie should have wakened naturally some time after I left her. She wouldn't have remembered seeing me."
“How did she get to the park?"
“I don't know!” Dan said vehemently. Then, “She could not have wakened before the wounds on her neck had healed. At least two hours. When I heard that you had found puncture wounds, I knew there was another vampire involved."
Dan's story became more pathetic with every new embroidery. He was mad—but calm for the moment. Sunset was her deadline; meanwhile Brandy's safety depended on keeping him talking. “What other vampire?"
“Whoever used his influence to override mine,” Dan explained. “He made Carrie wake up and drive to the park—or just had her open the door, and he drove. Then he—murdered her. He wanted you to find puncture wounds, so he cut her throat."
Brandy shook her head. “The slashes were made to obliterate the puncture wounds."
“No,” said Dan. “Just the way my saliva healed the cut on your finger, all sign of the puncture wounds would have disappeared long before morning. Carrie was killed to stop the healing process, leaving the bite marks as evidence. Didn't you run a DNA test on the saliva?"
“There was so little, there were no skin cells in it.” The cop in her wanted to scold the woman in her for her relief, and both were angry at her stupidity; she had a confession. There was no need for physical evidence. Except—
Brandy took a glass from the cupboard and wiped it clean, then handed it to Dan with the towel. “Show me,” she directed. Obligingly, he gripped and released it. She held it up to the light. No prints.
Again Brandy felt the shiver she had known when the mirror told her something different from what she saw looking at Dan. She now knew why no prints but Carrie's were found in her car.
Dan was suffering from schizophrenic delusion. He probably wasn't fit to stand trial, but she needed to take him into custody before he tried again to act out his fantasies.
Keep him talking while you figure a way out
.
“Why do you think whoever killed Carrie left evidence of a vampire's attack?"
“It's directed at me,” he repeated. “I'm the only vampire likely to hear details of a murder investigation. Only you're too good a police officer to discuss your cases, so I didn't know till Dr. Sanford blurted it out. You said Carrie died of knife wounds. She wasn't drained of so much blood that she died first, and then her throat was cut."
“No."
Dan thought a moment. “You think I'm the killer. A man who thinks he's a vampire tries to act it out, and slashes his victim's throat when he can't drink enough blood to kill her."
Now it had hit the fan. Brandy's gun was in the front closet. She had training in unarmed combat, but she also knew Dan's strength.
Sylvester was bumping Dan's chin, trying to soothe away his tension. Why was her cat sympathetic to a psychopathic murderer?
Dan stroked the cat, but his eyes were on Brandy. She saw sadness in them, perhaps fear, but no anger.
And no madness.
“You think I killed Carrie,” he repeated. “How can I prove what I am without terrifying you?"
Dan rose to his feet, dumping Sylvester off his lap. “What if the murderer planted vampire clues in Carrie's murder to scare me away from you? I've put you in danger!"
“More danger than being here with you?"
“I won't hurt you. But if there's another vampire who doesn't want the police to know that we exist—” But then he shook his head. “After tonight it won't matter. Either way, he'll know his secret is safe."
“Either way?"
“If after tonight I don't see you anymore, and you don't reveal my secret, he'll assume you don't know. But—if we remain together he will know you'll never reveal that vampires exist."
“How would he know that?"
“Because to reveal his secret would be to reveal mine.” He sat back down and took her hand. “I love you, Brandy. But you don't know whether I'm a madman, possibly a psychopathic killer. After sunset you will see the truth."
Brandy stared at the man whom only days ago she had thought to be a nice, if rather stuffy, college professor.
A man who thought he was a vampire.
If she pretended she believed him she would have to point out the holes in his logic—such as that even if a vampire killed Carrie, it was still her job to apprehend him.
Just as she was about to plead too much coffee for an excuse to escape, Dan said, “Please don't go."
Usually it was comforting or humorous when he read her mind. Tonight—
“I'm sorry,” he said. “It's hard to resist our rapport. I hope I'll never have to fight it again. I almost couldn't last month—but if you tell me to go away, somehow I'll find the strength. For now—get your gun, Brandy, handcuff me if that will ease your fears—but please, stay with me until the sun sets."
Daylight was dimming, but as Brandy got up she noted that it was due to snow clouds gathering again. It wasn't sunset yet. Dan's story was utterly bizarre—but how could she believe he was a dangerous psychopath?
What it boiled down to was logic vs. emotion.
Oh, thanks again, Mr. Spock!
she thought. But it was still true: there was no way she could believe that Dan Martin was a vampire, twice as old as he appeared to be, a being with supernatural powers who wanted to suck her blood. His trick with the mirror was only hypnosis, but it could be dangerous if he could use it to make her hand over her weapon. She had no idea why he didn't leave fingerprints, but it implicated him in Carrie's murder. She should cuff him and march him down to the station.
And yet—Dammit, she spent her life rounding up and questioning every imaginable kind of loony. She knew how they talked and acted. This man, for all his impossible beliefs, struck her as eminently sane.
She wanted desperately to trust him!
When Brandy returned to the kitchen, Dan said, “Call Church. Tell him to call you here at 6:00pm, and if he doesn't get an answer to come over with a SWAT team."
“Murphy doesn't have a SWAT team,” said Brandy, “and if we did, what good would they be against a vampire?"
“Brandy,” Dan said, “you are only in danger if I'm not a vampire."
“Maybe. Just remember, if I'm found dead, or not found at all, you will be the first suspect."
“If I were delusional, I would think I could get away with it, wouldn't I?"
Mind games. Brandy checked that her gun was loaded, then put it on the table in front of her, out of Dan's reach. “Now I'm only in danger if you're not an ordinary human,” she said.
Dan shook his head sadly. “I'm human, just not ordinary.” Then he added, “You'd better frisk me."
“Why?"
“I don't want to be shot for reaching for my handkerchief. I may heal rapidly, but it still hurts."
He did have a handkerchief, a pen, a billfold, a few coins, keys, and a Swiss army knife. That last he placed in the middle of the table, with a shudder. “I never realized before—it could be used to slit a throat.” Then he looked sadly at Brandy. “It would be easy to use my influence to keep you from feeling apprehensive. But if this is going to work, it must be of your own free will."
“Is that how it was with your wife?” she asked.
A puzzled look came into his eyes for a moment. Then he said, “The answer is, yes and no. Megan knew what I am, and loved me anyway. Brandy—I'm not confessing to criminal activity, to an addiction, or to having a dread disease. I'm telling you what I am, and hoping that you can accept it."