“The way I see it,” Crow said, “this part of it—the, um, vampire, part of it—started with Ruger and Boyd coming to town.”
“You know that or are you guessing?” Weinstock asked.
“Guessing, but before they got here we didn’t have vampires.”
“Oh?” Val said. “And how do you know that?”
“I…well…”
Weinstock jumped in on Val’s side. “We can’t make assumptions here. Are you suggesting that Ruger and Boyd were vampires already?”
“No,” Crow said. “At least Ruger wasn’t.”
“He wasn’t,” Val agreed. “Not when he was at our house, not that first night. I think I would have known…and he probably wouldn’t have bothered with a gun.”
Crow nodded. “Absolutely. When he and I fought outside your house he was human enough, but when he showed up at the hospital it was like fighting a whole other person.”
“So what happened during those two days?” Weinstock pursed his lips. “I mean…I’ve seen enough Dracula films to know how vampires are made, but doesn’t it take three or four days?”
Crow shook his head. “I doubt we can trust what’s in the movies. I mean…this is real, and when it comes to vampires being real, what do we actually know? What are vampires, after all? I’ve read a lot of books…nonfiction stuff, folklore, and there are all sorts of vampires out there, all the way back through history. Hundreds of different kinds in different cultures. The whole idea of a vampire being some guy in a tuxedo and an opera cloak is for the movies. Even in the novel, Dracula, the vampire was different than they showed in the films. I don’t even think they staked him in the book. It’s been a while since I read it, but I seem to remember that Dracula was stabbed or something.”
“That doesn’t fit with what’s been happening here,” Val said. “I shot Boyd over and over again, and he lived through it, if ‘lived’ is the right word. It was only after I shot him in the head that he went down and stayed down.”
“That’s more like those zombies in those Living Dead films,” Weinstock offered.
“They were undead ghouls, not zombies,” Crow corrected.
Weinstock shot him a look. “Really? Nitpicking? Now?”
Val interrupted, “Are we sure Boyd’s actually dead?”
“Baby,” Crow said with a smile, “you blew most of his head off.”
Her eye was icy and she spaced each word out. “Are. We. Sure. Boyd’s. Actually. Dead?”
Crow and Weinstock looked at each other. The doctor cleared his throat. “I guess we could go and check?”
“Yeah,” Val said coldly. “Maybe you ought to.”
Neither of the men made a move to get up.
“What about Mark?” Val asked and her voice cracked on his name. They looked at her. “If Boyd is what we think he is—or was—then what about Mark? And Connie, too, for that matter.”
“Oh shit,” Weinstock said. Crow just closed his eyes and sighed.
“Crow…Saul…listen to me,” Val said, her tone cool but reasonable, “I know you’re both as freaked out about this as I am. It’s unreal…surreal—but my family was murdered last night by a monster. An actual monster.” She took a breath. “If there is even the slightest chance that my brother is somehow infected…” The word hung in the air like a bright flare and no one could bear to look at it. “If there is even the slightest chance that he and Connie could become like Boyd…then I want to know about it, and I want to know right now.”
Crow struggled to his feet and looked down at her. He was filthy and exhausted, his eyes were glassy with fear and shock, and his face was the color of old milk. He licked his lips. “Okay,” he said. “Okay…I think we’d better go check. Saul?”
The doctor nodded tiredly and stood, but suddenly swayed and sat down hard again on the bed. The jolt made Val hiss with pain. Weinstock grabbed the metal rail of the bed to steady himself, too frightened to be ashamed. Tears broke from his eyes and rolled down his cheeks and when he raised his hands to touch the wetness his fingers quivered with palsy.
“God…” he breathed and his voice broke into a sob. “I don’t know if I can do this…”
Crow stood by wretchedly and watched, but Val reached up with one hand and touched Weinstock’s chest, her palm flat. The doctor looked down at her slender tan hand, his lips trembling into a small smile at the tenderness of the gesture. “Val…I—”
Then Val’s hand closed into fist around a knotted wad of his lab coat and with a grunt she jerked him down to her level so that his face was inches from hers. Aghast, Crow saw her mouth twist into a harsh mask. Her voice was a whisper filled with razor wire. “Don’t you fucking dare! My brother is dead! My sister-in-law is dead! Friends of mine are dead. Don’t you dare wig out on me now, you son of a bitch.”
Weinstock stared at her in total shocked horror. That one blue eye seemed to radiate heat and he was burned by it. His own eyes bugged and his mouth hung open in a soundless O.
“Now you get your ass down to the morgue and you do whatever you have to do to make sure that bastard Boyd is dead…and you see to my brother, or so help me God, Saul, I’ll—”
“Val…” Crow said it softly, but it was enough. Val cut a hard look at him, and then her glare softened, just a bit. She pulled Weinstock two inches closer.
“Please,” she said, and this time it was a whisper of urgent need. “Please.”
Weinstock could feel his face change in that moment. Shock drained away and the buttery lines of his chin and mouth firmed up; shame and anger warred in his chest. Val pulled him one last inch closer, then leaned her head up and kissed his cheek. Weinstock closed his eyes for one long moment then nodded. “Yes,” he said, and kissed her; then he straightened and went into the bathroom to throw water on his face. When he was done, he stood in the doorway, patting his face dry with a wad of paper towels. “Crow…I’ll wait for you in the hall.” He shambled out.
When the door closed, Val looked at Crow and even managed a small smile. “See what you got yourself into when you proposed to me?”
He sucked his teeth. “Yep. It’s all clear to me now—you’re a complete psychopath. I’m on the first bus outta here.” He grinned. “Crazy or not I really do love you, Valerie Guthrie.”
“You’d better,” Val said and somewhere behind the stern lines of her face there was a tremble, a flutter in her voice that he could only just hear. “I don’t have anyone else left.”
Crow kissed her and went out to where Weinstock stood, hands deep in his lab-coat pockets, giving the hallway the thousand-yard stare. Without another word the two of them headed down to the morgue.
(4)
Polk’s voice was a shrill whisper. “You want me to do what?”
“You heard me. Search his office, his files, and his computer. Whatever he has that relates to what’s going on has to be completely destroyed. You hearing me? Everything.”
“I’ll get caught, Vic. There’s no way I can break into his office without someone noticing. He’s here all day and at night. Someone’d see the lights through his window.”
He heard Vic sigh and there was a pause as if Vic was slowly working through a slow ten-count. “Jim,” Vic said tiredly, “believe it or not I actually get tired of having to threaten you every time I want something done, so, let’s just take it as read that you’re going to do this because you don’t want to face the consequences of really, truly pissing me off.”
Polk sat down on the third step and rubbed his face with one hand. “Yeah,” he said tiredly, “okay. Only…I really don’t know how much more of this stuff I can take, Vic. My nerves are shot. My hands are shaking all the time, I got diarrhea now everyday, my gut feels like it’s full of broken glass.”