Knights of the Blood (9 page)

A crossbow bolt slammed into the door behind Kluge, missing him by inches and sending him diving for cover as another warrior bore down on him with an axe. Firing wildly at the man’s head, Kluge managed to slow him down only when one of his bullets struck and shattered his assailant’s jaw. His pistol empty, Kluge grabbed the sword from the dead man at his feet and, swinging it with all his might, nearly severed the head of his latest attacker. Dropping the sword and crouching low, he reloaded his P—38 on the run as he made his way towards Baumann and his other men.

“Down!” boomed Baumann’s heavy voice, and instinctively Kluge dropped flat on the ground and tried to cover his ears. He heard the metallic clatter of the grenade hitting the stone floor, followed seconds later by the deafening blast as it went off.

All of them were momentarily stunned by the concussion of the exploding grenade, The sharp smell of cordite stung Kluge’s nostrils as he gasped for air, while the chapel filled with a combination of smoke from the grenade and plaster dust from the damaged walls. The ringing in his ears made it impossible to hear anything, but instinctively he knew that he had to act before the knights recovered their senses.

Pushing himself up onto his hands and knees, Kluge shook his head and tried to clear his vision. The concussion grenade had done its job: Kluge’s nose was bleeding, his own men only faintly stirring, and the knights were collapsed in disoriented heaps around the chapel. The triptych on the north wall had fallen down, almost on top of Kluge; and as his eyes finally focused, he found himself staring at the center panel, at the scene of the knights sharing their sanguine communion.

Even in his stunned condition, Kluge knew immediately what he had to do. Half crawling, half walking, he tottered his way to the nearest downed knight, fumbling inside his battle—dress jacket as he fell to his knees beside the man. The knife he withdrew had a gravity—operated blade–the sort usually issued to paratroopers–and with a flick of his wrist, he opened it. He had to struggle to roll the stunned knight over, but his blade slit the man’s throat with hardly any effort.

Blood gushed from the wound, and Kluge looked around belatedly for something to catch it in; but seeing nothing in reach, he bent down and pressed his mouth over the wound. Now was not the time to be fastidious. He drank greedily of immortality, swallowing as much of the knight’s blood as he could stomach.

The others were stirring by the time Kluge raised his head. From behind the pillar, a groggy Father Freise watched in stunned disbelief as Kluge, gorged on the fallen knight’s blood, lurched unsteadily to his feet and staggered over to two of his men, shaking their shoulders and rousing them to consciousness.

One of the captive SS orderlies had been hit by stray bullets and would not be going anywhere, but the other two were dragging themselves upright, starting to stumble towards Kluge, too. Another gained his legs a few feet away and helped Kluge get the others standing.

All around them, the knights were stirring, too, and with a signal to Baumann and the other SS men, Kluge dashed for the door of the chapel and out into the courtyard. Most of Kluge’s men were through the door to the courtyard when William of Etton and a few others managed to find their feet, but they had not reckoned on the speed of the vampire knights.

The SS medical orderly stared in disbelief at the knight whose sword had just sliced through his torso, before the top half of his body toppled to the cobblestones just outside the chapel. Bursting into the courtyard, the knights fell about the nearest Germans with incredible ferocity, literally hacking the men to pieces as they fan for the gates and the safety of the war beyond.

Kluge had just dived through the postern door when he heard something smack into the man right behind him. Turning, he saw one of his men catching himself on the sides of the door jamb, wideeyed, the point of a crossbow bolt jutting out through his forehead. Baumann had been hit as well, the iron bolt passing nearly through his shoulder. Grabbing the
Scharführer
by the front of his battle jacket, Kluge yanked him through the opening and, half carrying, half dragging the wounded soldier, made for the wood at the edge of the clearing.

Back in the chapel, as the sounds of fighting subsided in the courtyard beyond, the trembling Father Freise finally dared to venture out from behind his sheltering pillar. Averting his gaze from the dead and dying all around him, he crept stealthily back to the rear of the chapel and peered out cautiously. Outside, he could still see a few of the strange white—robed inhabitants of the castle, but they seemed to be preoccupied with caring for their wounded and searching for any remaining Nazis. If Freise was to have any hope of escape, he must try it now.

Closing his eyes briefly in wordless prayer, Freise crossed himself nervously, drew a deep breath, then began making his way stealthily along the shadows of the walls of the castle, heading for the open castle gates and the moonlit meadow beyond. When he had managed to reach the shadowed arch of the gatehouse unobserved, he crossed himself once again, then dashed across the hundred yards to the woods and began to make his way south, toward the advancing American troops.

LOS ANGELES, 1991

THE SILHOUETTE
target danced its way back to the firing line, the twelve small holes neatly grouped in a tight cluster crossing the ten—ring.

“Good shooting, Captain,” was the range master’s only comment as he initialed Drummond’s score card.

“Thanks,” said Drummond. He was more intent on wiping down his Beretta and reloading its magazine than he was in verifying his qualifying score.

Drummond holstered his pistol, picked up his shooting card, glanced at it–292 out of 300 possible–and headed down the stairs, pausing to turn in his card before heading on down the hill. The parking lot of the Los Angeles Police Academy was a sweltering asphalt square, and his red BMW 635 was parked at the far side. Before opening the driver’s door, Drummond pressed a small button on the key fob to deactivate the car’s alarm system. He let the hot air escape from inside while he moved around to the back of the car, opened the trunk, and locked his pistol in his briefcase. When he had closed the trunk lid, he circled back to the front of the car and slid in, grateful that the sheepskin seat covers didn’t soak up the heat the way leather seats did.

He started the car and let it run for a few seconds before turning the air—conditioning on, then opened the sun—roof to let the hot air out, fastened his seat belt, and closed the door: Slipping the shift lever into first gear, he eased the BMW out of the parking lot and turned right past Dodger Stadium, heading out of Elysian Park into downtown Los Angeles.

In the 1930s, City Hall had towered over Los Angeles, then a medium—sized town basking in the last days of Southern California’s golden era. Now, as Drummond moved along the Harbor Freeway, heading toward the off—ramp that would take him to the municipal archives, City Hall was overshadowed by more than a dozen buildings that shot skyward, reaching for skies that were once again turning blue. Drummond’s father had been one of the top camera men in Hollywood before he retired, and his critical eye had taught John Drummond how to look at his city, to see beyond the chrome and glass of the Bonaventure Hotel and to admire the town that had once been there.

Drummond turned the BMW into the security parking lot of the archive building and hunted for a parking place well away from the acre—and—a—half of Japanese jalopies that brought in most of the three thousand city employees every day. Finally parked, he retrieved his briefcase from the trunk of the BMW, turned on the alarm, and headed for the cool basement of City Hall.

The stairway leading down to the archives was lined with marble, and despite the glossy sheen on the banister, smelled of corroded brass. At the bottom of the stair, a large bronze door opened into a windowless basement room filled with hundreds of oak filing cabinets. In front of the cabinets was a counter presided over by a formidable black woman of more than ample proportions: the city archivist.

“You again, huh?” she said with mock hostility.

“Yup. Still working on the same old case.”

“Sugar, you ain’t never gonna crack this one.” She smiled at Drummond before waddling off to retrieve his files.

Drummond moved over to a small table in the corner of the room, opened his briefcase, and tossed his jacket over the back of the chair. He had no more than sat down when the city archivist returned to the counter with the thick file.

“Honey—chile, I don’t mind dragging this outta the dust for you, but I ain’t gonna lug it over to your desk.”

Drummond got up and walked over to the counter. “Thanks, M’Azee.”

The archivist gave Drummond a huge smile. “You’re welcome, Captain Drummond. Need anything else?”

“No, this should do me for a while.”

“Okay, then. I’m going on my break. You want anything from upstairs?”

“Yeah,” said Drummond, “a big iced tea. I’ll buy if you’ll fly.” He handed her a five—dollar bill.

M’ Azee grinned and stuffed the fiver in the pocket of the baggy sweater she was wearing.

“Back in half an hour, Mr. Man.”

Strictly speaking, Drummond shouldn’t have been opening the folder that M’Azee had handed him, Department regulations were clear on accessing the “unsolved crimes” section of the archives. Anyone who wanted to see anything had to have departmental clearance, and because of the eager—beaver work of a cop trying to break into the movies as a writer, some years back, the department no longer gave permission to access unsolved murder cases.

Fortunately, Drummond did a lot of routine research for Homicide Division, so no one had questioned his asking for the file on a series of unsolved murders in 1972. Not that Drummond was interested in turning the gruesome events of two decades ago into a movie for television. On the contrary, as a part—time student at USC, Drummond was using this case as the matrix for his master’s thesis in criminology.

From the academic point of view, it was nearly perfect. .A series of six unsolved murders, sensationalized by the press and with no suspects. The victims were never identified, and almost as quickly as the crimes had been uncovered, the entire case was overshadowed by the events of the Watergate scandal. As the press hounded the President of the United States out of office, the East L.A. “vampire” killings were quickly forgotten.

Drummond undid the string that held the folder closed and spread out the contents on the desk in front of him. It took about five minutes to sort the jumble of papers into neat piles, and then he was ready to begin.

The photos were first, both the crime scene shots and those taken before the autopsy had begun. The carefully typed reports of the investigating officers were next, and as Drummond placed these in chronological order, he made a mental note to check with personnel to find out what had become of Detective Sergeants Sprague and Demitter.

There should have been more in the file, but there wasn’t. There was no suspect sheet, no list of interrogations, and no summary of events—the gut feelings of the officers involved—in the folder. It was as if the crimes had occurred, been reported, logged in, and then filed away. Even the referral to the DA’s office was missing from the file.

M’Azee came in with Drummond’s iced tea. As she set down the large paper cup, she picked up one of the photos.

“Mmm—mmm! This sure was a fine—looking boy before he got himself killed. Must have made his mamma real unhappy when he died.” She dropped the picture back on the desk. “Here’s your change. You catch that killer, and the next iced tea is on me.”

That evening at home, Drummond reread the photocopied reports of the killings for the umpteenth time. The reports, all six of them, were virtually the same. The location of the discovery of the body varied in each report, but other than that, it was as if each report had been photocopied and added to the file.

Drummond placed one report on top of the other and held the two of them up to the light. While the reports didn’t exactly line up, the signatures of Sprague and Demitter did. Exactly.

Drummond grabbed another report and held it up behind one of the two he had already checked. The signatures were identical. He checked the rest of the signatures in the same way, and all were identical copies of the first one. That could mean only one thing. Someone had doctored the original reports and had copied them above the genuine signatures of Sprague and Demitter. But why?

The next morning, Drummond stopped off at Personnel to find out the whereabouts of Sprague and Demitter. The blonde twenty—year—old behind the counter spent nearly ten minutes trying to access the records of Detectives Sprague and Demitter on the city’s computer before she had to throw in the towel.

“I’m sorry, Captain Drummond, but unless they retired within the last five years, they won’t be in the system.” She smiled at Drummond.

“Do you think that you could call down to payroll and see if they’re still drawing their pension benefits?” Drummond asked.

“Sure, no problem.” She turned on her Valley girl smile again. “Try back after lunch.”

After lunch, Drummond’s luck hadn’t improved.

“I’m
real
sorry, Captain, but I’m afraid I’ve hit a blank.” Her pout was unbelievable. “Both those officers are dead, and no survivor bennies have been paid for–oh, let’s see.” She picked up the hard copy of her computer printout. “Yes, here it is. Mrs. Sprague last received a check three years ago.” She handed Drummond the hard copy. “I’m sorry.” Her Valley girl smile was on at full volume.

Drummond took the paper, thanked the girl, and headed back down the hall to his office. Later that afternoon, he stopped by the Los Angeles City Library and pulled the microfilms of the
L.A. Times
from three years back, scrolling through the obituaries until he found the entry for Mrs. Sprague. After noting the name of the cemetery where she had been buried and the names of her surviving children, he rewound the microfilm, turned off the projector, and dropped the film off at the librarian’s desk as he headed out to his car.

Before starting home, he stopped at an LAPD sub—station and ran the names of Mrs. Sprague’s children through the Department of Motor Vehicles computers, but drew a blank. Even more curious now, he climbed back into his car and drove over to Forest Lawn in Glendale.

Some wit had once described Forest Lawn as a Disneyland for shut—ins. As Drummond pulled up in front of its mock—Tudor offices, he mused that whoever had first coined the term hadn’t been far off the mark. The sprawling cemetery had been built in the 1920s and endowed with a significant degree of wealth. The founder and early promoter of Forest Lawn had been a gentleman of exquisite taste, with a fine sense of proportion. So, in true California style, he had set about acquiring great works of art–or perfect replicas–for his cemetery. Only Disneyland had knocked it from the number one slot in the tourist parade.

The interior of the offices wouldn’t have been out of place in an English country house, or on the set of an old Basil Rathbone film. Smooth leather, thick carpets, and burnished paneling all added to the dignity of the somber office. A woman in a severe dark suit greeted Drummond as he entered the offices, and once he had identified himself as a police officer, ushered him into the office of the manager.

“Mr. Kelso? I’m Detective Captain Drummond, LAPD.” Drummond stuck out his hand, and the other man took it.

“Yes, Captain Drummond. What may I do for you?” Kelso’s voice was well—modulated and positively oozed sincerity. Drummond wondered briefly what the man would sound like if he laughed.

“I’m here to inquire about the graves of Sergeant and Mrs. Jackson Sprague. We’ve lost track of the family and were wondering if you might have an address for next of kin.”

Drummond could tell from the way that Kelso knitted his brow that it was unlikely he would get any assistance.

“Well, our files are strictly confidential, but ... let’s see what we can do.” Kelso got up and went to a filing cabinet behind his desk. He returned after a few moments with a three—by—five card and pressed the button on his intercom.

“Miss Lambert, could you bring me Plot Book 126, please?” He eased back into his chair and smiled at Drummond as though he were sizing him up for a pine box.

Not that Kelso would ever stoop to selling pine boxes, Drummond decided. No, Mr. Kelso was more the bronze—with—gilt—handles type.

Just then Miss Lambert came into the room carrying a thick black book and handed it to Kelso. Kelso opened it, thumbed through a number of pages, and finally found the one he wanted. Using the edge of the three—by—five card as a guide, he quickly skimmed down the page until he found the entry he was looking for.

“Ah, here it is. Mrs, Mary Sprague, plot 1114, right next to her husband. He was buried by the Los Angeles Police Department–but then, I’m sure you know that. Her grave was paid for by the Prudential Insurance Company. And the headstone was paid for by,” Kelso squinted at the page, “a Mr. Lincoln Sprague.”

“Do you have an address for Mr. Sprague?” Drummond asked.

“Yes, indeed. We
always
keep a record of the name and address of the next of kin, just in case there are any problems at a later date.”

“Problems?” Drummond arched an eyebrow.

“Heavens, yes,” said Kelso. “Quite often families want to re—bury someone, and it’s vitally important that we make sure we’re giving them the right remains.”

“I see.”

“Anyhow–“ Kelso took a crisp white piece of paper from his desk and quickly wrote on it, then handed it to Drummond, “Here’s the address of Lincoln Sprague. If I can be of any more help, just call. “

“Thank you, Mr. Kelso. Good—bye.”

As Drummond walked out to his car, he had a sinking feeling that the trail was growing colder by the minute.

The address that Kelso had given him was in San Marino, the last bastion of white, Episcopalian wealth and power in the San Gabriel valley. Drummond checked the address in his Thomas Brothers Guide and then headed up Glendale Boulevard to the Foothill Freeway. In twenty minutes he was in San Marino, driving up Huntington Boulevard to the address given as the home of Lincoln Sprague.

The house was a large Spanish colonial hacienda, the type popular with millionaires just after the First World War. It was set well back from the street, and three ancient eucalyptus trees provided nearly an acre of shade on the front lawn. Drummond turned into the sweeping drive and parked in front of the door.