Slattery: Emails can be tampered with, Lieutenant, as I’m sure you’re aware. Some geek with the right technical background can make an email look like it came from Lee Harvey Oswald on November 22, 1963, if he wants to.
[Snide bastard.]
Markowski: I’m pretty sure they didn’t have email back then, Mister Slattery.
[I can be pretty snide myself, when I want to.]
Franks: I think there’s been quite enough of this. Mister Slattery did not volunteer his time to come down here and be badgered about some foolish
[That’s when Karl made his move – the reason why this whole charade was happening in the first place. ]
Renfer: There’s just one thing I was wondering about. Mister Slattery, what do you expect to happen in Scranton if you and your party win the election?
[That was what they used to call the $64,000 question. And Slattery’s answer turned out to be worth every penny. He frowned deeply and blinked several times, as if trying to resist what Karl was doing inside his head. Finally, he answered.]
Slattery: Helter-skelter, of course. The race war will start here, but we have no doubt it’s gonna spread quickly, once other humans see that it’s possible to take a stand against–
[That was when his campaign manager grabbed Slattery’s arm, and he wasn’t gentle about it.]
Franks: That’s it! We’re done here. Don’t say anything more, sir. Not another word!
All four of the Patriot Party guys stood up and headed toward the door. Franks was in the lead along with his boss, still maintaining his death grip on Slattery’s arm, as the group headed down the central aisle between the chairs on their way to the door. Behind them, the murmur of conversations started again, as the cops asked each other what had just happened. Several of them stood up and made their way into the central aisle as well, probably figuring that the show was over. They couldn’t have been more wrong.
McGuire and I looked at each other but didn’t have to say anything. We knew what had just happened. There was a lot we had to talk about, once the crowd had cleared.
One of the detectives who had already stood up was Karl, who had taken a few steps that put him next to the media room’s only door. He wasn’t blocking the way, but anybody who wanted to leave was going to have to pass pretty close to him.
This move wasn’t part of the playbook that we’d worked out earlier, and I wondered what Karl had in mind. Maybe he hoped to get one more shot at Slattery with his Influence as the PP leader and his entourage left the room. But things didn’t quite work out that way.
I turned in my chair, and watched as the Patriot Party foursome made their rapid way toward the exit. Franks, the campaign manager, must have noticed Karl standing near the door, because he let go of Slattery’s arm and turned to say something to Brody, the bodyguard posing as an administrative assistant.
The instructions that Brody had received became clear a couple of seconds later. As the group reached the door, Brody put his wide body between Slattery and Karl – typical bodyguard behavior, even though Karl hadn’t made any kind of threatening move. But then Brody did something that wasn’t so typical of his profession: he reached inside his coat and came up with a crucifix, extending it out toward Karl they way all the vampire hunters do in the movies. I’ve done the same thing myself – for the simple reason that it works.
I was still in the front of the room and too far away to hear what Brody said, with all the other voices in the room competing with his. But from his posture and expression, I had no trouble guessing that it was something like “Get your ass back, bloodsucker!”
I sucked in a breath. We hadn’t planned for this, either. Franks must’ve figured out that Karl was a vampire, even though it was common knowledge that no member of the undead could possibly be up and about this long after sunrise. I guessed that I wasn’t the only Sherlock Holmes fan in the room, because Franks had clearly adopted one of the Great Detective’s core principles: “When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”
Quite a few of the cops were milling around in the aisle now, asking each other variations on the “What the fuck?” question. I shoved my way through them, in a hurry to get to Karl so I could do something about that cross Slattery’s bodyguard was using to threaten my partner. Brody was still standing in his Van Helsing pose, even though the tactic had already served its purpose: Slattery and the other three had slipped out behind him and were probably halfway to the front door by now. I didn’t know what Brody intended to do – maybe the big man wasn’t sure himself. I just knew I wanted to get that cross away from him before the situation went from bad to worse. But this seemed to be my day for surprises.
Karl had flinched from the crucifix at first, turning away and using his arm to shield his face, just like movie vampires have been doing since Bela Lugosi – the real ones have probably been doing it a lot longer. But then something strange happened.
Karl slowly turned back toward Brody and looked right at the cross that the bodyguard was pointing at him like a pistol. I couldn’t see his face then, but Karl’s body was tight with tension as he reached out his left hand and grabbed Brody’s wrist.
I’d made enough progress through the press of bodies in the aisle that I was close enough to hear my vampire partner say, “That’s a nice piece of religious art you’ve got there, Brody. Mind if I take a look?”
Karl must have tightened his grip as he spoke. Brody was big and tough, but his muscles and pain threshold were no match for vampire strength. After a couple of seconds, his hand opened involuntarily, letting the cross drop from his grasp. It was falling toward the floor when Karl reached out his other hand and caught it.
I stopped pushing my way through the crowd then and just stood still, watching. I don’t think my jaw dropped, but it might’ve. The conversations in the room, which had been fading as more people saw what was going on, went completely silent, as if the talk had been coming from a TV that somebody had just turned off
Karl let go of Brody’s wrist then, glanced down at the crucifix in his palm and said, “So, where’d you get it – Vlad-Mart?” Brody didn’t say anything. He was staring at Karl as if a three-headed alien from the Planet Mongo had just beamed down in front of him and asked directions to the White House.
Karl looked down at the cross again. “It’s nice work,” he said. “Not too elaborate. I always thought less is more, myself.” I think he was trying for a casual tone, but to me, at least, the strain in his voice was unmistakable. “I bet you had it blessed by a priest, too, didn’t you? Maybe even the bishop himself.”
Brody took a step back, stared at Karl a few seconds longer, then turned on his heel and walked rapidly out the door. In the silence, I could hear his footsteps in the hall outside, receding rapidly. He was not quite running.
The buzz of talk came back all at once, twice as loud as it had been before. I shook off the paralysis caused by amazement and made my way over to Karl. Now that I could see his face, the strain of what he’d just done was obvious.
He tried for a smile but it barely displayed the points of his fangs. Handing the little crucifix to me, he said, “Just as well it’s not made of silver. That would’ve made things… difficult.”
“Difficult,” I said, and grinned at him. “Yeah, absolutely.”
Karl’s smile broadened into something more genuine. “Guess Doc Watson had it right, after all,” he said.
I was about to say something clever involving a pun on “elementary”, but I never got the chance – because suddenly Karl’s eyes rolled back in his head, and he collapsed in a heap on the floor. I knelt to check his pulse before realizing just what a futile exercise that would be.