Stalking the Vampire (6 page)

“There might be another one on a side street,” suggested Mallory.

“You're ruining my digestion, and I haven't even eaten anything!” wailed the vampire.

“Thank you, Bats,” said Mallory. “You've finally been a help.”

“I have?” asked McGuire, blowing his nose on his sleeve.

Mallory nodded. “You've told me what kind of weapon I ought to have with me.”

“Me? Really?” asked McGuire, his chest puffing up proudly. Suddenly he frowned in confusion. “What kind?”

“The inefficient kind,” admitted the detective, “but it's the best I can do on short notice and limited information.”

“Where will you find this weapon?”

“Unless I miss my guess, it'll be sleeping on top of the refrigerator in my office,” said Mallory.

Mallory opened the door to his office and turned on the lights.

The first thing McGuire saw was the pair of Playmates (on which Winnifred had meticulously drawn undergarments with a Magic Marker) tacked to the wall behind Mallory's desk. Then there was the photo of Flyaway parading to the post; it was getting difficult to distinguish his features after the hundreds of times Mallory had thrown darts into it. There was the omnipresent
Racing Form
on the detective's desk. There were the fresh-cut flowers and the copy of Byron's poems on Winnifred's desk. But there was no Felina.

“Thank goodness she's gone!” breathed McGuire with a sigh of relief.

“No one else would put up with her,” answered Mallory. “She's here.”

“Now, you're
sure
she doesn't eat vampires?” asked McGuire nervously.

“Only when I'm hungry,” purred a feminine voice from atop the refrigerator in the next room.

“Only when she's hungry,” repeated Mallory.

“Is she hungry now?” asked McGuire, stepping hesitantly into the room while peering into shadows and corners.

“I'm always hungry,” said the voice.

“That's it!” said McGuire. “Nice knowing you, Mallory, and I'm sure you'll get your man. Or bat. Or whatever.”

He turned and started walking toward the door, but Mallory reached out and grabbed him by the back of the collar, pulling him back even as his short legs kept moving.

“Calm down,” said the detective. “Felina, get over here.”

“Beg me,” purred Felina.

“I don't have to,” said Mallory.

“Oh?” said Felina, puzzled. “Why not?”

“Because I'm on a case and I'm in a hurry, and if you don't come here right now I'm leaving, and there won't be anyone around to feed you.”

“I'll just eat your friend.”

“He's coming with me.”

“And vampires taste terrible!” added McGuire urgently.

“Oh, all right,” said Felina, and suddenly ninety pounds of feminine fur and sinew flew through the air, cartwheeled across Mallory's desk, and landed on her feet right next to him.

“He doesn't look very tasty,” she opined, staring at McGuire. “Were they selling the runt of the litter?”

“His name is McGuire,” said Mallory, “and he's working for us. I don't want you hurting him.”

Felina walked once around the little vampire, who eyed her nervously.

“I can't hurt him?”

“That's right.”

She studied him for a long moment. “It'll take all my skill, but I can do it.”

“Do what?” asked McGuire uneasily.

“Kill you so fast it doesn't hurt.”

“I don't believe you were paying attention,” said Mallory, keeping his grip on the vampire's shirt as he tried to race to the door. “He's a friend. You will not hurt him. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” said Felina.

“Good.”

“No,” said Felina. “Maybe. Perhaps. Possibly.”

“Let me put it in terms you understand,” said Mallory. “You hurt him and there's no milk for a week.”

Felina studied the vampire, her pupils mere slits. “Even a little one like this could last more than a week.”

“All right, then,” said Mallory. “No milk for a month.”

“It's not fair!” pouted Felina.

“Believe me, if things work out the way I think they will, there'll be plenty of things for you to hurt.”

A huge happy smile. “You promise?”

“I said I
think
so.”

“And I can play with them as long as I want?”

“Within reason.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means until I tell you to stop.”

She sniffed unhappily. “You always ruin everything.”

“We're wasting time,” said Mallory. “Felina, this is McGuire. Bats, this is Felina. Felina, you don't hurt him; Bats, you don't suck her blood. Has everyone got the ground rules straight?”

“Yes,” said McGuire.

Felina turned her back on both of them and began licking her forearm.

“Felina?”

“Yes,” she muttered.

“All right. It's All Hallows' Eve, every spook and spirit in the city is up and around, and we've got a killer to catch. Let's go.”

He walked to the door, followed by McGuire. Felina leaped onto Winnifred's desk and sat down, her back still turned to him.

“Felina, let's go,” said Mallory.

“I'm not coming,” she announced.

“You're making a big mistake,” said Mallory. “Think it through.”

She turned and stared at him curiously.

“You're always saying that you'll desert me in the end, right?” said Mallory.

“Always,” she agreed, nodding.

“Well, this is just the beginning,” said Mallory. “It's too soon to desert me.”

“You're right, John Justin!” she said happily, launching herself through the air and landing in his arms. “Let's go get the bad guys. I've got all night to desert you. I should wait until you're seconds away form a hideous death!”

“How thoughtful of you,” said Mallory, setting her down on the floor.

The three of them walked out into the chilly October night.

The morgue was five blocks away from Mallory's office. This meant that he had to pull Felina out of three grocery stores, a fish market, a lingerie shop, and a hunting boot store along the way, but eventually they made their way to the large bleak building.

The first hint they had that they were getting close was the pipe organ, which spewed Gregorian death chants into the night.

“I don't remember anything like that,” remarked Mallory as they approached the morgue.

“They always bring the pipe organ out for All Hallows' Eve,” said McGuire knowingly.

“Why?”

“It makes the corpses feel more relaxed.”

“Aren't they all dead already?” asked Mallory.

“Absolutely,” answered McGuire. “But not necessarily permanently.”

“You know,” muttered Mallory, “every time I think I'm getting the hang of this place, something like this happens.”

“Yum!” said Felina, looking up at the roof where a flock of crows were eyeing all the new arrivals.

“You stay with me,” Mallory ordered her.

“You didn't say anything about not eating crows,” pouted Felina.

“I didn't say anything about not flapping your arms and flying to the top of the Vampire State Building either,” said Mallory.

“Let's make a deal,” offered Felina. “Let me eat two crows and I won't fly away.”

“If I have to put you on a leash I will,” said Mallory.

“Then I'll scream and tell everyone you're sexually abusing me.”

“You don't even know what that means.”

“No,” she admitted. “But it always works.”

“Around here they'd probably give me a prize.”

“Would it be good to eat, I wonder?” asked the cat-girl.

“Felina, you're here to watch my back. Now, you do what you're told, or I lock you up in the office until this case is finished.”

She hissed at him once, then walked behind him and stood still.

The pipe organ was joined by some truly bone-chilling wailing.

“What the hell is
that?
” asked Mallory.

“Unless I miss my guess, it's the Vienna Boys' Choir,” said McGuire.

“They flew them all the way over here just for tonight?”

“No,” said McGuire. “This is the eighteenth-century Vienna Boys' Choir. They show up
somewhere
every All Hallows' Eve. Lends atmosphere, don't you think?”

“Sounds eerie,” said Mallory.

“Well, this
is
the City Morgue,” replied McGuire.

Mallory looked around. “Where did Felina go?”

“I'm right here,” said a voice from behind him.

“What are you doing?”

“I'm watching your back,” she said. “But it's a really dull job. It just stays there between your head and your hips and doesn't do
anything
”

“Just make sure no one sneaks up on it,” said Mallory.

They entered the building, found themselves in a small foyer, signed in at a registration desk, then signed statements that they were not dues-paying members in good standing of the Graverobbers Union. They were then ushered through the foyer and into a vast room, taking up almost a full city block. There were tables and slabs everywhere, orderlies rushing to and fro, the occasional pathologist examining the occasional corpse, and a huge coin-operated ice machine in one corner.

“They're not very well organized, are they?” remarked McGuire.

“What do you expect?” replied Mallory. “They're a bureaucracy. Look around and see if you can locate where they dumped the kid. You know what he looks like, right?”

“Yes.”

“Take the left side of the building, I'll take the right.” Mallory turned to Felina. “You stick with me.”

She leaped lightly to his back. “Yes, John Justin.”

“Not that close.”

“You ruin everything,” she said, sliding back down to the floor.

They began walking among the slabs. One housed a coffin, and a woman with chalk-white skin, a black dress, and bright red lipstick was standing next to it, arguing with an orderly.

“I don't care what quality the soil is,” she was saying. “It's from the wrong country.”

“Beggars can't be choosers,” shot back the orderly. “You want a place to sleep tomorrow morning, you take what we've got. And I need five bucks up front.”

“But I
can't
sleep in it!”

“Look, lady, that soil has been fertilized by the great Phar Cry himself. Soil like this, you'd have to pay three bucks a pound anywhere in the city.”

“I don't care who crapped in it!” snapped the woman. “I need soil from my home in the Loire Valley!”

“Have you considered moving to Kentucky?” suggested the orderly.

“
No!
”

“Well, then, how about Yonkers?” said the orderly, moving to the next slab. “Now, this coffin is filled with the soil of beautiful downtown Yonkers and was fertilized less than four months ago by Harvey Melchik, who told me the entire shameful story in confidence and made me swear never to repeat it.”

“You're hopeless!” snapped the woman.

“Maybe so,” said the orderly with dignity, “but at least I know where I'm sleeping tonight.”

Mallory continued walking. Felina looked like she was about to wander off, so he decided to hold her by the wrist.

“That hurts!” she complained.

“No it doesn't.”

“Well, it would if I pulled and you twisted.”

“So don't pull and I won't twist.”

She smiled. “You think of everything, John Justin.”

She made a sudden break for the back of the room. “
Ow!
” She glared at him. “I thought you weren't going to twist.”

“I thought you weren't going to pull,” said Mallory.

“Whatever gave you that idea?”

“Hey, Mister,” said a goblin, sidling up to them. “You need some help beating up the little lady?”

“No,” said Mallory.

“You sure?” said the goblin. “I come equipped with brass knuckles, blackjack, billy club, cattle prod, bullwhip…”

“Go away,” said Mallory.

“What kind of talk is that?” said the goblin. “Here I make you an honest business proposition, and you tell me to go away. Where are your manners?”

“I left them in my other suit. Go away.”

“Last chance,” said the goblin.

“No.”

“Okay, so I admit my equipment is a little out of date. But I have hobnailed boots back at my place. I can run home, get ‘em, and be back in just three days' time.”

“Forget it.”

“Thumbscrews!” exclaimed the goblin. “How about thumbscrews?”

“I give up. How about them?”

“They do wonders on a recalcitrant cat-girl. I consider them a perfect balance to the red-hot pokers. Or (get this!), we tie her to a slab and I read every word of
Silas Marner
to her without taking so much as a single potty break. Can you think of a more excruciating torture?”

“Not for either of you,” admitted Mallory. “If I do, I'll let you know.”

“You will?” said the goblin, his face brightening. “Great! Shall we trade business cards?”

“Let's just remember,” said Mallory. He gestured to the room. “You never know who might be watching or listening.”

“Oh, right,” said the goblin with a conspiratorial leer. “Catch you later.”

He headed off at a trot.

“They let just anyone into a morgue these days,” muttered Mallory.

“You said it, Mac,” agreed a nearby orderly. “We ought to charge double-time for zombies. They keep coming in, we stick ‘em on slabs and put ‘em in the deep freeze, and an hour later they're pounding on the door to get out.”

“So use salt,” said a second orderly. “You know the routine.”

“There's a routine?” asked Mallory, curious.

“Sure,” said the second orderly. “Everyone knows that. You get a zombie, you lay him out on a slab, you fill his mouth with salt, then you sew it shut.”

“Must give him one hell of a thirst,” commented Mallory.

“It glues him to the spot. Only way to make a zombie stay dead.”

“The
mouth
, you say?” repeated the first orderly, frowning.

“Of course the mouth.”

“
That's
what I've been doing wrong!” exclaimed the first orderly. “I thought it worked like with fawns. You sprinkle some salt on the tail, it nails ‘em to the spot.”

“Nah!” said the second orderly. “That's an old wives' tale.”

“The hell it is!” snapped the first orderly. “I sprinkled some on
my
old wife. Didn't glue her anywhere. She took after me with an umbrella.” He pointed to a scar on his forehead. “Three stitches to close it up. Old wives' remedy be damned.” Suddenly he frowned again. “You know,” he continued thoughtfully, “my next-door neighbor Amos has a gorgeous twenty-four-year-old wife. I wonder if it works on
young
wives? Maybe if I'd sprinkle a little salt on
her
tail when he's off at work…”

Mallory was about to comment when he had to step out of the way of what seemed a funeral procession. A gang of tough-looking trolls was carrying a dead troll on their shoulders, followed by a weeping gremlin girl and a gang of gremlins. Suddenly, as if by mutual consent, they all broke into dance.

“What the hell was
that
?” asked Mallory.

“Tony and Maria and their gangs,” said a medic, who was examining a corpse at the next table. “They're here every night. They never got over that damned play.”

“So they're just acting?”

“Not at all,” said the medic. “Tony's as dead as a doornail.”

“And they bring him by every night?” said Mallory. “He must not be turning into any nosegay.”

“Oh, he smells all right,” said the medic. “After all, he's only been dead for maybe half an hour.”

“So all the other nights were just rehearsals for tonight?” asked Mallory.

“No, he was dead every night.”

“What am I not understanding here?” asked Mallory.

“It's a mild case of death,” replied the medic. “Hardly ever proves fatal. And it gives us a little entertainment, too. Believe me, we can use it in a place like this.”

At just that moment the two gangs broke into song. A moment later Tony's corpse joined them.

“Fascinating,” said Mallory, who in truth was getting more annoyed than fascinated with all the distractions of the City Morgue.

“Oh, we get a lot of theatrical types in here,” offered the medic. “You see those three guys in the togas?”

He pointed across the room at the three men who were engaged in an animated conversation over a body that was stretched out on a slab.

“Yeah?” said Mallory. “What about them?”

“They're checking each corpse to see if its name is Caesar.”

“Julius?” asked Mallory.

“Well, I'm sure they'd prefer Julius, but at this late date I think they'd happily settle for Augustus, or even Sid.”

“What happens when they find him?”

“They each perform Caesar's funeral oration, of course,” said the medic. “I think it's some kind of drama school assignment. The last time they found a Caesar, the guy in the middle was so magnificent that the corpse itself stood up and applauded.” A pause. “By the way, you look exceptionally alive, as does your pet. Is there something I can help you with?”

“A young man was killed earlier tonight and brought here.” Mallory flashed his detective's license. “I need to talk to the examining pathologist.”

“I wish I could help you,” said the medic, “but we're already nearing the thousand mark for the night. You'll just have to look around.”

“That's what I've been doing. Would it help if I told you his name?”

“Will he answer to it?”

“No.”

“Then it can hardly help, can it?” said the medic. “Keep a stiff upper lip, and best of luck to you.”

The medic wandered off, and Mallory kept making his way among the beds and slabs.

“You don't get out of it this easily, Horace!” said a harsh feminine voice. Mallory turned and saw a woman who looked like the littermate to a pair of linebackers bent over a skinny, balding corpse that lay on its back with a peaceful expression on its face. “You promised to rake the leaves and paint the closets, and by God a little thing like a fatal heart attack isn't getting you off the hook. Are you listening to me, Horace?”

Horace lay motionless on the slab.

“I'm giving you one last chance, Horace!” she bellowed. “You get up right now, or we do it the hard way!”

Horace didn't respond.

“Okay,” she said, “you asked for it!” She nodded to a lean man dressed in a robe and a conical hat, both covered with the signs of the zodiac.

The mage lit a candle at each end of the slab, rolled his eyes, and began chanting an ancient spell. He'd been at it for about thirty seconds when a second mage, dressed in similar patterns though different colors, emerged from the shadows and also began chanting.