"You're sure that's what the vic was? Not some run-ofthe-mill B and E artist?"
"Oh, that's right," Scanlon said. "You haven't seen this stuff, yet. Come here."
I followed him over to Karl's sofa. On it was a long canvas bag, like the kind tennis players carry their rackets in. Scanlon sat down next to it and snapped on a pair of thin latex gloves.
"We found this next to the body," Scanlon said, and pulled the bag's zipper open. I had my own gloves on by now.
Scanlon removed from the bag a two-foot-long wooden stake with a sharp point and handed it to me. "He's got two more of those in here," he said.
I turned the stake over in my hands. "Made on a lathe," I said. "Wonder if he learned that in high school shop class."
"No wonder they call it 'occupational training'," Scanlon said. "Then there's this."
He produced a big mallet with a black rubber head and showed it to me. "Why rubber, and not metal?" he asked.
"Rubber on wood – less chance of slipping than iron on wood," I said. "You don't want to risk whacking your fingers when you're dispatching the bloodsucking undead."
"Trust you to know something like that," he said. "And we have this, which I don't figure was his lunch."
He handed me a large plastic baggie with a zip-lock top. It contained a freshly cut flower with a four-inch stem and a bushy white head.
"Wild garlic," I said, handing it back to him. "Traditionalists use it, along with the wooden stake. It's the Van Helsing method, which some people still swear by. Stake through the heart, cut off the head, and fill the mouth with garlic."
"That would explain this, then." Scanlon pulled from the bag and handed me a saw with a foot-long blade and orthopedic pistol grip. I recognized it as an amputation saw, the kind surgeons use. The blade was splattered with brown stains that I figured had once been red.
"He came well prepared," I said to Scanlon, and gave the saw back to him.
"The only thing that puzzles me is this."
He handed me a device that looked like what you'd get if you crossed an iPhone with an expensive calculator. It had two wires dangling from it with odd-looking plugs at the ends.
I looked at it, and then it occurred to me that the little keypad looked like the one on Karl's lock. That's when I realized what I was holding.
"I've never seen one of these," I told Scanlon, "but I've read about them. It's a gizmo that's supposed to crack the code on an electronic combination lock." I nodded toward Karl's bedroom. "Like that one."
Scanlon took it back from me. "I thought that was strictly James Bond stuff."
"Don't say that around Karl," I said, "unless you want a twenty-minute description of every similar gadget that ever showed up in one of those movies."
Scanlon started putting the vampire-killing gear back in the bag. "Guess yesterday's James Bond fantasy is today's reality. This dude really was well prepared."
"My guess is, he broke in for the first time a few days ago, and did a little reconnaissance."
"You figure he saw the lock, and realized he'd need special equipment to beat it."
I nodded. "Looks like if Sharkey, or whoever it was, hadn't stepped in, one of those fucking sticks would now be sticking out of Karl's chest."
They scream, when you pound the stake in. They scream, and they writhe, sometimes they beg, and the blood spurts all over – just like if it were you or me.
It looked like I'd have to buy Sharkey a beer sometime – or a blood, or whatever the hell he drinks.
"I know you'll be sending this guy's prints out on the wire," I said to Scanlon. "But you might save some time and trouble if you send them to Chicago first. Ask them to check the prints against those of a guy they call Duffy the Vampire Slayer."
Scanlon's face twitched, which I suppose was his version of a smile. He's not a big smiler, Scanlon. "Duffy the Vampire Slayer? No shit?"
"No shit."
I got home – again – a little after two in the afternoon. I was still riding the adrenaline wave that Harry West's call had given me, so I figured I'd better make some coffee and face the fact that I wasn't going to sleep again until my next shift was over.
Once the coffee maker was burbling away, I went into the living room to see if anything interesting was on TV. I didn't think my brain could handle anything complicated, like reading a newspaper. I got interested in a show on AMC that I'd never seen before, about a candidate for president who's secretly possessed by a demon. The next thing I knew, Christine was gently shaking my arm and saying, "Wake up, Daddy. Time to get ready for work."
I came awake with a start. "Shit!" I said. "Must've dozed off." I rubbed my face a couple of times and yawned. "Although, come to think of it, that's the best thing that could've happened." I checked my watch. Three and a half hours of sleep was better than none.
I saw that the answering machine's red light was blinking. I'd been down so deep, I hadn't even heard the phone ring.
"Hey, Stan – it's Karl. Thanks for the note you left me, man. At least I was prepared when I walked out of the bedroom and found the two homicide dicks waiting for me. Looks like I need a better lock on the front door, too, haina? Not to mention new plaster and paint in the living room. Listen, the homicide guys say they want to talk to me, although I figure I'll just keep tellin' 'em, 'Beats me, fellas, I was dead to the world when it all went down. Literally.' But that means I'm gonna be late coming on shift – tell McGuire, will you? See you soon – I hope. Bye."
Christine had heard Karl's message, too. She looked at me and said, "What the hell was that about?"
"I'll tell you about it over breakfast, honey. But right now I need a shower and a change of clothes."
"Want me to make you some eggs while you're upstairs? Save you some time when you come down."
"Hey, they'd be great, thanks. Messing with human food won't gross you out?"
"No, I don't think so. Watching you eat eggs with ketchup – now that grosses me out."