As I got behind the wheel I said to Karl, "Still think Thorwald likes me?"
Karl fastened his seatbelt and pretended to ponder it. "Well, maybe the same way that Cain liked Abel, something like that."
"Yeah, I was thinking along those lines myself."
"Where we going?" he asked.
"Let's pay another call on the rug merchant," I said. "I wanna ask Castle how it is that a few hours after we're talking to him about Helter Skelter, I've got a bunch of goblins in my garage, wanting a close-up look at my liver."
"You think Castle's on the same side as people who are killing supes and making snuff films? Those guys oughta be Castle's worst enemy, man."
"Yeah, you'd think so, wouldn't you? But if we're working off the assumption that the gobs were sent after me because we're on the trail of those Charlie Manson wannabes, how many people know that? Castle sure did."
"That's true," Karl said. "Plus whoever Castle told about it. Maybe he put the word out to the local supe community – 'Anybody heard anything about Helter Skelter? A couple of cops think someone's trying to make it happen here in Scranton'."
"If he did that, wouldn't you have heard something?"
"Not necessarily," Karl said. I caught his grin out of the corner of my eye. "I haven't been going to the meetings."
"We'll see if we can get Castle to tell us who he's been talking to."
"You know who else could've put out the word that we're looking into Helter Skelter?" Karl asked.
"Who?"
"Pettigrew. Our favorite human supremacist."
"Why would he do that?" I said. "He doesn't want Helter Skelter to start – he isn't sure his side would win."
"Maybe he didn't do it deliberately," Karl said. "Could be he told somebody he trusted, who told somebody else, who told the bad guys – whoever they are."
"Yeah, that's not exactly impossible, is it? Guess we better add Pettigrew to our list of people to see."
"We? You mean I get to go along this time?" To his credit, there wasn't a lot of sarcasm in Karl's voice. A little, maybe – but not a lot.
"Sure," I said. "Maybe your fangs'll scare him."
"They didn't work real well with Thorwald."
"Shit, Pettigrew's not nearly as tough as Thorwald."
Karl snorted laughter. "You know, it occurs to me, Pettigrew's little Nazi playpen is closer than the rug shop from here. Save us from doubling back if we go there first."
"Sounds like a plan, man," I said, and turned right at the next corner.
About five minutes later, we pulled into the parking area of Born to Be Wilding. The only other vehicle there was a customized Harley that I was pretty sure belonged to Pettigrew. Good – he was still here. I would've figured that anyway, since all the lights in the place were on.
As I turned the engine off, I said to Karl, "Look, I don't expect you to put up with any shit from Pettigrew, but try not to start something, OK?"
Karl unlatched his seatbelt. "I seek peace, and pursue it," he said, the way you do when quoting somebody.
I looked at him. "Where's that from?"
"Psalm 34."
"You've been reading something besides James Bond," I said.
"No Bibles for me anymore. I just remember it from school."
We were walking toward the open service bay when Karl suddenly stopped. "Uh-oh."
"What?"
"Blood, close by," he said. "Fresh, and lots of it."
"Human?"
"I think so."
As we started forward again, I drew my weapon and saw Karl do the same. That turned out to be unnecessary – the only one in there was Pettigrew, and he wasn't going to be dangerous to anybody ever again.
The human supremacist lay on his back near one of the big workbenches, splayed out like an abandoned rag doll – except you never find Raggedy Andy in a pool of his own blood. Pettigrew's lips were drawn back in a snarl, as if he were defying what had recently killed him. Most of his throat seemed to be missing.
After a quick look around to be sure that nobody was lurking, we walked toward Pettigrew, stopping at the edge of the blood pool.
"Pardon the stupid question," I said to Karl, "but is he dead?" If by some fluke Pettigrew was still alive, I'd be legally and morally obligated to try CPR and call an ambulance. Otherwise, I planned to stay out of the blood and not mess up the crime scene.
"No heartbeat at all," Karl said. "He's gone."
"Can you tell how long?"
"Uh-uh. But it's a fresh kill."
Karl's voice sounded a little shaky. It couldn't be because he was grieving for Pettigrew – if anything, he'd probably have a drink of plasma to celebrate. That's when it hit me. My vampire partner was in the presence of an awful lot of the stuff that constituted his diet. His training as a detective was probably warring with a strong impulse to start drinking the evidence.
"Listen, Karl, you wanna wait in the car? It's cool."
"No, I'm all right." His voice didn't completely support his words.
"Are you sure? Because I–"
"I said I'm all right."
"OK, then. OK."
I knelt down and touched a finger to the blood on the floor. It was only slightly tacky, which supported Karl's conclusion that the attack had been fairly recent – probably within the last couple of hours.
We were supposed to call this in, but I figured there was no hurry. And I wanted to have a look around before every cop and forensics tech in town started traipsing through the place.
As I stood up, I said to Karl, "You're the one with the super-acute vision. See anything that I'm missing?"
He didn't answer for a couple of seconds, and I wondered if he had zoned out on me. But then he said, "There are some hairs in the blood. See there?" He pointed, and I could just make out three or four hairs, a couple of inches long. "There's more over there," Karl said, and pointed again. "And some more, over near the body."