The Devil Will Come (11 page)

Another block went by before Gitner said, “Sorry if I had any doubts about you, dude. I should’ve known you were gonna do the right thing.” Gitner shifted in his seat a little, then said, “Listen, uh, you’ll probably see it in the papers later, so I oughta tell you now. I mean, I’m big enough to admit it when I make a mistake, and it don’t really matter none, anyway.”

Conroy’s eyes were back in the mirror now. They blinked twice before he asked, “Admit what?”

Gitner shrugged uncomfortably. “That I was wrong about you, okay? And that I wanted some insurance, just in case you’d gone all soft and mushy over that broad. No offense, all right? I wouldn’t even mention it, except it’ll probably be in the news when they talk about the score, and most likely you’ll see it.”

Conroy did not raise his voice, and none of them ever knew what it cost him to ask, in an almost normal tone, “What’s going to be in the news, Gitner?”

Gitner shifted position again, and he was looking out the window as he said, “About the broad being found with two bullets in the back of her head.”

After that, no one spoke for a while. Then Paglia said to Conroy, “You all right, man?”

“Yeah, fine.”

“Okay, good,” Paglia said. “For a minute there I kinda thought maybe you were—”

“It’s just my fucking allergies kicking up again. There’s a lot of pollen around, this time of year.”

None of the others thought to ask what kind of pollen was adrift in the air during October.

Conroy drove the van carefully. He kept within the speed limit, stayed in his lane, and stopped for all red and yellow lights. He did nothing that might encourage the attention of a cruising cop who hadn’t made his quota of tickets this month.

Conroy had been in the business a long time. He had not planned it that way, but the years had a way of accumulating, one day after another, and every day you were in made it that much harder to get out. Conway knew, deep down, that he was going to keep on taking down scores until he was busted, or burned out, or dead. But he was a professional, and in this he took a certain pride.

When things don’t work out as planned, a professional accepts the twists of fate, and moves on. A professional does whatever it takes to make the score go down right and to fade away clean when it’s over. He never loses perspective, never gives up control, never lets personal shit get in the way of his work.

A professional never cries.

* * * * *

Good Egg

A Fractured Fairy Tale

This is the city — Scranton, Pennsylvania.

It’s a nice place to live, work, and raise a family — if you don’t mind that your next door neighbor could be a werewolf, or maybe the guy down the street works the late shift because he’s a vampire.

In this world, the supernatural is real — and mostly the “supe” community and humans get along okay. But when there’s a crime involving supernaturals — either as perps or victims, I’m the one who gets the call.

My name’s Markowski. I carry a badge.

By the time we got to the parking lot behind Jerry’s Diner, the uniforms had already secured the crime scene. As we approached the yellow tape, the cop standing in front of it pulled it up so we could duck underneath.

“We” is me and my partner, Karl Renfer. Karl’s a vampire — deal with it.

Behind the crime scene tape, the ground was thick with small, jagged pieces of some white material. I tried not to step on any, but it was impossible to avoid them all. Some crunched under my shoes with a sound that made my skin crawl. Beside me, Karl walked silently. No matter what surface is under his feet, he never makes a sound. Sometimes that creeps me out.

Scanlon from Homicide was already there. As a Lieutenant, he doesn’t have to go to crime scenes, but he does anyway — a street cop through and through. It was Homicide who’d notified Occult Crimes that this was a case we might take an interest in. Once I had a look at the crime scene, I realized they’d been right.

“Evening, Scanlon,” I said. It was just past two in the morning. I’ve got enough seniority to avoid the night shift, but I work it because I want to. In Occult Crimes, that’s where the action is. I guess I’m like Scanlon that way. Karl works the night shift because he has no choice.

Scanlon turned slowly. We hadn’t surprised him — hell, with the crunching noises my feet were making, we wouldn’t have surprised a zombie, and they’re half-dead already.

“Stan,” Scanlon said. Karl just got a nod. I don’t think Scanlon cares for vampires much — but under the Department’s Affirmative Action policies, he has to accept them, like it or not.

“So, who do we got here?” I asked him.

Scanlon consulted the clipboard he was holding. “Dumpty, Humpty E. Looks like he took a tumble from up there.”

Scanlon looked upward, and I followed his gaze. There’s a welding operation next to Jerry’s Diner, and the two businesses are separated by a brick wall that looked to be fifty feet high.

“No wonder he broke up the way he did,” I said. “Jumper?”

“Doesn’t look like it,” Scanlon said. “He didn’t leave a note, and I’ve had some guys from the squad talking to his friends and family. He had a sunny personality, they say — never depressed. Everybody liked him — thought he was a good egg.”

“At least one person didn’t,” Karl said.

“The paramedics couldn’t save him,” I said. It wasn’t a question. If the EMTs had been successful, we wouldn’t be here.

“The King’s Men ambulance service got here just three minutes after the call came in,” Scanlon said. “You know how fast they get around in that special ambulance of theirs.”

“Yeah— it’s got a huge engine,” I said. “Lots of horses.”

“Well, they did what they could for the guy,” Scanlon said. “Paste, tape— even Super Glue. One of the EMTs is a jigsaw puzzle freak, and even he could get the poor bastard back together.”

“Whoever did him in sure knew how to crack an egg,” I said.

“Did the EMTs take anything from the scene with them, Lieutenant?” Karl asked.

Scanlon looked at him for a second, as if deciding whether to answer. “No, not a thing. Why?”

“‘Cause I just realized— something’s missing from this crime scene. Something big.”

Scanlon and I looked at each other, and the light seemed to dawn on both of us at the same time.

“There’s no yolk!” I said. “Just a lot of shell.”

“It was so obvious, I never thought of it,” Scanlon said. “We ought to be up to our ankles in the yellow stuff.” He looked at Karl with might have been a little respect. “Good catch, Detective.”

“Did they kill him for the yolk, or was there another motive?” I said. “That’s the big question.”

“Could’ve been a mugging that got out of control,” Scanlon said. “Or maybe some of those anti-cholesterol people— they’ve been getting more militant lately.”

“They’ve never killed anybody before, have they?” Karl said. “Mostly they just protest outside fast-food restaurants.”

“There’s a first time for everything,” Scanlon said. “I’ll have some detectives bring in their head nutritionist for questioning.”

“And we’ll work the supernatural angle,” I said. “See if some witch is running a spell that needs a lot of the yellow stuff as a base ingredient.”

“Sounds good,” Scanlon said. “Let’s keep each other informed.”

“Absolutely,” I said, and Karl and I turned away.

As we got around to the front of Jerry’s Diner I checked my watch— almost 2:30.

“About time for our break,” I said to Karl. “And it looks like Jerry’s running a special.”

“Scrambled Egg Buffet!” the sign in the window read. “All You Can Eat, $2.99!”

“Okay with me,” Karl said, “but you know I can’t touch that stuff. They got anything for vamps in there?”

“Of course,” I said. “All the restaurants do, these days.”

Karl shrugged his big shoulders. “I guess we could kick back for a little while, maybe see if we can make some sense out of this case.”

“Good idea,” I said to him. “Come on— I’ll buy you a blood.”

* * *

This “fractured fairy tale” is set in the universe of my “Haunted Scranton” novels, a place where supernatural creatures really exist, and everyone knows it. Detectives Stan Markowski and Karl Renfer are also featured, with no whimsy whatever, in the novels
Hard Spell
,
Evil Dark
, and
Known Devil
, as well as the short story, “Bump in the Night,” which appears elsewhere in this volume.

* * * * *

Blood Moon Rising

“Why do these damn faculty meetings always go on so
long
?” Ann Klump said. “We were supposed to be done by four o’clock, according to the fucking agenda, which turned out to be as useless as everything else that went on in there.”

Milos Petrovic buttoned his overcoat as they walked down the hallway. “Well, you know what they say about academic conflicts, don’t you?” His speech had a slight accent, its origins somewhere in Eastern Europe. “They are so vicious precisely because the stakes are so low.”

“Well, I hope you can still give me a ride home, even though we’re running late. I mean, it’s not
my
fault that our esteemed chairman doesn’t have better control over those garrulous old farts like Donohue, who can’t seem to make a point without bringing up twenty years of ancient history.”

“Do not be concerned. Of course I will take you home.”

They continued along the long, florescent-lit corridor, the stream of students flowing around them on either side.

“The garage told me that the new alternator would be in
today
,” Ann went on. “They promised me, but now they say there’s some kind of
shipping
delay. I ought to sue the incompetent bastards.”

Petrovic’s seamed face formed a slight smile. “Perhaps you should wait until you have reclaimed your car before threatening any—”

“Doctor Klump, can I talk to you a second?” The young man had come up from behind them, unnoticed until now. He wore an old Navy peacoat, a backpack, and a nervous expression.

Ann Klump did not break stride. “Surely this can wait until tomorrow, uh…”

“Tom, ma’am. Tom Montgomery, from your Anthro 304 class.”

“Yes, well, I’m just on my way out, Tom. My office hour tomorrow is at ten.”

The young man’s face reddened. “Yeah, but this is about the paper we have
due
tomorrow. I just need to, like, talk to you a minute.”

Ann Klump’s eyeglasses had slid part way down her nose, and she pushed them back in an impatient gesture. Frowning deeply, she turned to Petrovic.

“It seems I need ‘a minute’ for this. Do you mind?”

“Not at all. I will wait at the door for you. Take your time.”

“Not fucking
likely
.”

A few minutes later, she caught up with Petrovic, who was standing at the side door of the building, which led to the parking lot. “Can you believe that little bastard?” she said. “He wanted an extension on his term paper, just because he can’t find any material on the topic I assigned him. You can imagine what I told—” She stopped suddenly. “What’s the matter?”

Petrovic had not acknowledged her approach. Instead, he was staring out through the glass door. At first, she thought something was going on in the parking lot, but then saw that he was looking skyward, where the moon was already visible in the October twilight.

Without turning, he said, “Today is the 23rd, isn’t it?” His voice held no intonation whatever.

She checked her watch, which had a magnified day/date window. “Yes, that’s right. Is there some significance to that?”

“In fact, there is.” He sighed, quietly. “Among other things, it shows that marking something on one’s calendar does no good, if one neglects to check that calendar regularly.” He looked at her now, and his face was grim. “Come, let’s go. We have wasted enough time already.”

They went through the door and followed the sidewalk that led to the parking area. Petrovic’s stride was brisk now, and dead leaves skittered away from his feet like small, frightened animals.

“So, why did you mark today on your calendar?” she asked him. “Some special occasion?”

“In a way.” He did not slow his pace while talking. “It is, as you can see, the first night of the full moon.”

They reached his car, an old Renault with rust starting to nibble at the edge of the chassis. Petrovic let her in, then went around and got behind the wheel. He started the car and drove off at once.

As she fastened her seat belt, Ann Klump said, “Keep running this heap with a cold engine, and you’re going to need a valve job sooner or later. Then
you’ll
be the one at the mercy of the mechanics.”

Turning out of the parking lot he said, “I have greater concerns right now than the state of my valves and piston rings.”

“Milos, for God’s sake what’s
wrong
?”

He took a deep breath and let it out loudly. “Do you know what they call the full moon that appears in September?”

“Harvest moon, isn’t it? There’s an old song by that name, I seem to remember.”

“Harvest moon, yes, very good,” he said. “And do you also know the designation for the full moon of October?”

“That one has a special name, too?” She thought briefly, then shrugged. “No, can’t say that I’ve heard of it.”

“It is by tradition called the blood moon.”

“Really? How creepy. Something to do with Halloween, I suppose?”

“No, the name is older than Halloween, perhaps much older. And all its legends are of death.”

She laughed briefly. “Don’t get melodramatic on me, Milos, it hardly speaks well for your reputation as an anthropologist. There must be a perfectly mundane reason for such gory nomenclature. There always is.”

He braked for a red light. “I suppose it is mundane, at least some of it. In this hemisphere, October brings the first taste of winter, when all the plant life dies. So that is, of course, one likely source of death imagery. In addition, the coming of winter meant that our hunter-gatherer ancestors would have to forego the gathering of plant life and survive for several months by hunting alone. No growing for a while, you understand. Just killing.”

“See, I told you it would be something ordinary.”

“Perhaps it is so,” he said. “But there is also persistent evidence from several sources that blood sacrifice was made during the month we now call October, at the time of the full moon. A way of asking the gods for good hunting, I suppose.”

“Sacrifice of animals, you mean.”

“Frequently, yes— but not in all cases.” He turned from the town’s main drag onto a secondary road. “Why do you live so far away from town, anyway? It must be an inconvenient commute for you, especially in winter.”

“Real estate’s a lot cheaper out in the country, and I’m still paying off loans from grad school. Besides, it puts me far away from the students.”

“That is a good thing, you think?”

“You bet it is,” she said firmly. “It’s enough that I have to try to
teach
the ignorant louts. I certainly don’t want to
live
among them, as well. But you’re changing the subject.”

“My little anthropology lecture, you mean?”

“No, the reason why you’re acting so hinky. Are you actually spooked over some ancient stories about human sacrifice that supposedly took place this time of year?”

“No, not about that.”

“Then what
has
got under your skin?”

There was silence in the car for a long moment. Then he said, “You know that I am Serbian by birth?”

“You’ve never mentioned it, but I had noticed that your last name is Slavic, so I’m not surprised.”

“Slavic, yes, very astute of you. And are you by any chance familiar with the Slavic word
vlkoslak
?”

“No, I don’t think so. Should I be?”

He changed gears to pass a slow-moving tractor. Once the maneuver was completed he said, “Perhaps you should. Curiously, the term has different meanings in various parts of my country. In some regions it means “vampire,” whereas in others it translates as “werewolf.”

“This isn’t leading up to some sort of punch line, is it? Perhaps a Serbian shaggy werewolf story?”

“Humor is not my intent, I assure you. But what is most interesting about this term from an anthropological perspective is that the
vlkoslak
is sometimes described as a
combination
of werewolf and vampire.”

“Lon Chaney Junior in an opera cape? Oh, come on,” she said, laughing.

“I do not understand that reference, but no matter. In the legends I refer to, the
vlkoslak
is a normal man who is cursed by periodic transformations— not into a werewolf, but into a vampire. That is what I meant when I spoke of a ‘combination.’”

“Temporary vampirism? That’s an interesting variation of the legend. I haven’t come across it in the literature before. And I suppose the transition takes place during the period of the full moon?”

“Some of the accounts say that, yes. But others hold that it occurs far less frequently. Once a year, to be precise. During the time of the blood moon.”

“Don’t forget, you take the left fork up here.”

“I remember.” He made the turn, then flicked his headlights on with an economical movement of his long fingers. It was nearly dark now.

“So, you’re telling me that you’re acting like a cat in a roomful of rocking chairs because you’re afraid of
vampires
? With all you know about folklore and its origins? It’s absurd.”

“It is precisely because of what I know of folklore that I am… concerned. Most legends, most myths, have some basis in fact, no matter how far removed the facts may be from our modern experience. You know that as well as I.”

“Of course, but that doesn’t—”

“And there is one other thing that aggravates my concern.”

“What’s that?”

“Do you recall what took place last fall? The murder?”

“You mean the young woman who was found in the cornfield just outside town? Of course— it was all over the news. The police said they figured a transient did it, right?”

Petrovic snorted in derision. “A ‘transient,’ yes. That is what the police say when they have no suspects and no leads. It was the same in my country, under the Communists. Now, then, what was the cause of death?”

“Excuse me?”

“The woman who was murdered. How did the local news say she was killed?”

“I hate it when you get didactic like this, Milos. It gives me grad school flashbacks.” Her brow furrowed for a moment. “I think the paper said she was stabbed. So?”

“So, one of my former students, Paul Tracy, is now an investigator with the State Police crime laboratory. He told me that the victim’s throat had been torn out. Not cut, not stabbed, but torn out. It was concluded that she bled to death— ‘bled out,’ as Paul put it. And yet, curiously, very little blood was found at the scene.”

“Well, it must have soaked into the ground beneath her.”

“Paul said they checked. The amount of blood in the earth was negligible.”

“I see.” Her voice was subdued now.

“If you will indulge my didacticism for one more question, Ann, I will ask only if you remember the date of this murder.”

“Apart from the fact that it was in the fall, no. But I’ve got a feeling that you’re going to tell me, and that I’m not going to like what I hear.”

“The poor woman’s body was found on October 20th, and forensic examination revealed that she had been killed the night before. That was, of course, October 19th— which, last year, was the first night of the full moon. The blood moon, to be precise.”

She tried to speak, failed, cleared her throat, then tried again. “So you actually believe there’s a… a vampire stalking this area, looking for prey.”

“I fear that there may be a person living in this vicinity who
becomes
a vampire once a year, for three or four nights. He cannot prevent it, and may not even be aware that he’s
doing
it, for God’s sake.” He paused, then produced a wry smile. “Or, I may simply be an old man who spent too many nights as a boy listening to my grandfather tell stories by the fireplace— a possibility that should not be discounted.” He peered through the windshield. “This is your house up here, isn’t it?”

“No, the next one, just past the street lamp.”

He slowed the car and put on his turn signal. “Still, if you are inclined to humor my peasant superstitions, it would be a very good idea to stay indoors tonight, and for the next three nights, as well. Just as a precaution.”

“Well, I had no plans to go out anyway, and I
do
have all these term papers to grade.”

He made the turn that she’d indicated. The driveway was long, with tall poplar trees bordering it at either side. Leafless branches came together overhead like a canopy, making the shadows even deeper here.

He brought the car to a gentle stop and said, “Well, even if my childish fantasies are right, you’re safe now.”

“You think so?” Something strange in her voice caused him to turn toward her, and in the reflected glare from the headlights he saw everything in one electric moment of total
gestalt
: the cruel claws, the razor-sharp fangs, the eyes behind her glasses now a glowing, predatory red.

He could see his own astonished face reflected in those lenses, but only for an instant.

Then they were spattered with blood.

* * * * *