“What would make a man leave his wife and child for twelve years? He clearly loves them.”
Nancy put a pencil behind his ear. “An assignment?”
“Have to be. How old is Rachel Nakamura?” Ms. Magill was turning out to be the most important lead we’ve had.
“Twenty Five. If she’s been here twelve years that would put her in seventh grade when she came to America.”
“He’s her controller. What’s his name?” I picked up the file and read it. “Mr. Vitoli Ryabkin. He was sent as her contact and her control. We have to get a man on him now.” Shit was about to get serious. I looked around the room. I saw several of my agents, but I also saw Jakes. “I thought you were with Harvey.”
He shook his head. “Why would I do that?”
“I told him to call you.”
He shrugged. “Never called.”
Son-of-a-bitch. I hated it when my men went off alone, which was why I enforced partnering.
A phone rang. We have phones ringing all the time, but this time it rang in dead later-afternoon silence. I turned to Doris who was answering it. I felt a pit open in my stomach. I knew what it was before Doris turned to me, before I read it on her face, before she started to cry and mouthed the words it’s Harvey… he’s dead.
My men have died in Korea, Vietnam, Cambodia and Laos. They’d been shot, gutted, blown apart, run over, pungi staked, and on one occasion been laid low by the flu. But never have any of my men died on American soil. After all, we’re not supposed to be fighting a war here. We’re the home of the free and the land of the brave. We haven’t had a war on our own soil since we were stupid enough to fight ourselves in the Civil War. At least that’s what Mr. and Ms. Middle America think as they eat Salisbury steak and watch Walter Cronkite on the nightly news dispensing facts and reports that go well with dinner. They didn’t want to know the truth. They wouldn’t understand. Even if they did, they’d be terrified. To think that anyone — their next door neighbor, the girl at the grocery, the guy who picks up their dry cleaning, the kid who mows their lawn, the scout leader, their bowling partners — could be anything more than human would rock their fucking world. Then to try and understand that these creatures have aligned themselves against America and are working for the great Soviet Union would freak them the hell out.
After all, we’re America and this is American soil and no one can touch us here.
Tell that to Harvey.
Tell that to my man lying amidst the trash and empty booze bottles in an alley in the Castro.
Tell that to my man with no fucking head.
They call this a Cold War. I’ve never understood what that meant. Wars don’t rely on temperatures. They don’t rely on metaphors. Wars rely on one person hating the other enough to step over that line of civility which all of us were taught never to cross way back in the days when we had to work together or be eaten by all the savage animals on the planet.
This isn’t a Cold War.
This isn’t a Hot War.
This is just a war and Harvey Isiah Goldsmith is just its latest fucking victim.
Both ends of the alley had been closed by SFPD. They had several officers scouring the alley for evidence. All of my agents except for Jakes, who’d gone for the Box Man, were helping as well, some going door-to-door, some assisting the officers, and the rest searching for Rachel Nakamura. Although there wasn’t any direct evidence linking her with the murder, the coincidence was impossible to ignore. Plus, my gut said that it was her and my gut is hardly ever wrong.
Nancy came up to me and waited silently.
I shot a glance in his direction and nodded.
“No sign of his… head.” He said it in such a way I could tell he was taking it personally. “No evidence at all. Or if there is, it’s mixed up with everything else.”
I knelt beside Harvey. His head hadn’t been cut off, but ripped off. What could have that sort of strength? I examined the neck near the jagged edges. Then I saw it. I waved Nancy over.
“What do you see here?”
“Looks like a needle went in there.”
Placing my hand on it, I offered an alternative. “Could it have been a fang?”
His eyes widened slightly. “Possibly. But then the wound’s twin would have been on the other side of the tear.”
“There are vampires who are strong enough to do this.”
Nancy stood. “Not the young ones, but the older ones can.”
“Old as in Countess Mizuki?”
“Yeah.” Nancy smiled grimly. “Old like that.”
“What do we know about Japanese vampires?”
“There are no vampires endemic to Japanese mythology. We have demons and ghosts, but no strictly vampires. Malaysia has the Penanggalan. It’s the result of a woman who obtained beauty through black magic, or a deal with a demon, who then is cursed to feed on blood to sustain it, typically from pregnant or ovulating women. They’re easily identified because their heads leave their bodies.”
“Jesus. Do the heads fly?”
Nancy shrugged. “I’ve never seen one.”
“What about others?”
“The Balinese have the Leyek. Indonesians have the Kuntilanak, the Pontianak, and the Matianak. All are variations of the flying head female vampire. Then there’s the Aswang and the Mananangall from the Philippines which are vampire succubi with wings.”
Jakes stepped out of a van, went to the back, and pulled out the Box Man. The police let them in, staring fearfully at the hunched figure with the metal box on its head. I’m sure they wondered what it was. They didn’t want to know.
Jakes had been crying. His nose was red, his eyes were still a little wet.
I held out a glass jar.
He took it and peered inside. “A Black Widow. How fitting.”
I knocked on the side of the box. “Get ready, Boxie. This one’s important.”
“Spidles and spidles. Idles and oodles. Marvey it’s Harvey.”
“That’s right, Boxie. We need to talk to Harvey.” I glanced at Jakes. “Did you tell him who it was?”
“He wanted to know where Harvey was.”
I nodded. Harvey had been the Keeper of the Box Man for more than a year now. I’m sure they’d formed a bond.
Jakes shook the spider free inside the box, then closed the door.
We stood back and waited.
A full minute passed but the Box Man hadn’t even moved. Not even a twitch.
“Come on Boxie,” I urged.
“Don’t wanna,” came the low whisper of a child’s voice. “Me want Harvey.”
“Me want Harvey, too, Boxie, but he’s gone. Someone killed him. We need you to help us discover who it was.”
“Marvey Harvey Spiddle Diddle Marvey Harvey.”
“That’s right, Boxie. Marvey Harvey.”
The Box Man’s shoulders shook gently as he began to sob. A low moan resonated from the metal box. Then suddenly he moved, throwing himself against an alley wall. He staggered, then spun, then threw himself against the wall once more. He rebounded, listed like a drunken sailor, then fell hard to the ground, beside Harvey’s body.