Chapter Eight
Russell Howard was a self-satisfied man. He was only thirty-seven, but already well on his way to becoming a multimillionaire. Seven years ago he was a struggling real-estate agent, handling third- and fourth-rate rental properties on the wrong side of Army.
Now he had a Lamborghini with its very own phone and fax machine. His office took up half of the fifteenth floor of a spanking-new high rise in the Embarcadero. His clients were some of the wealthiest in the Bay Area, if not the state. His name and face often graced the Chronicle's society pages. Yes, Russell Howard was on his way to big things.
Thanks to his oh-so-silent partner.
Howard didn't like to think too much about his partner. It tended to make his palms sweat and his brain itch. Sometimes it even gave him nightmares. But if there was anything he'd learned from life, it was that money solved everything. Even if his problems didn't exactly disappear, at least they left him alone.
Howard sat in his swivel chair and watched the shadows lengthen as the sun set. He'd just finished a late afternoon conference with a client and was contemplating calling his wife and telling her he'd be home late. He did not know the elevator was on its way to the fifteenth floor, carrying two visitors. And even if he had been aware of it, he would not have cared.
He occasionally read Dr. Seuss books to his three-year-old, Kristin, before she went to bed. Right now her favorite was Yertle the Turtle. The symbolism was lost on him.
The secretary looked up from her word processor to see two strangers, a man and a woman, enter the reception area. She frowned and glanced down at the calendar on her desk. It showed no more appointments scheduled for that day.
"May I help you?"
The man spoke first. "We're here to see Mr. Howard."
"Do you have an appointment?" she asked, her voice dripping icicles as she eyed his outlandish haircut.
"No. But he'll see us anyway." This from the woman in the leather jacket and mirrored glasses.
"I'm afraid that's not possible. Mr. Howard is a very busy man and - " "It's time to go home."
The secretary stared dumbly at the woman in sunglasses for a heartbeat, then got up and switched off the word processor, snugged a plastic cover over the electric typewriter, retrieved her purse from its place in the filing cabinet, and marched out the door.
The sound of the outer door slamming shut brought Russell Howard from his office. He stared in surprise at the two strangers for a second before looking for his secretary.
"Where's Patricia?"
"She had to go home. Something came up all of a sudden. Besides, it's late. You work her too hard."
Howard was uncertain whether to be frightened or offended by the strange man and woman. They looked like they belonged on MTV or the back of an album cover instead of his reception area. The man seemed to be in his late thirties, dressed in faded jeans, a dark bulky sweater and a black raincoat. His hair, while relatively short, was wiry and stood straight up from his head like he'd received a jolt of electricity. A profusion of gray frosted his temples and his chin was bisected by a narrow width of beard that made him look like a punk pharaoh.
The woman was much younger, wearing reflective sunglasses, tight-fitting jeans, steel-tipped boots and a battered leather jacket over a Dead Kennedys T-shirt. Her dark, unruly hair made her look like an exotic bird. "Who are you people? What do you want?"
The woman stepped forward. There was something familiar in the way she moved, but he couldn't place it. "My name is Sonja Blue, Mr. Howard. My... associate is Mr. Palmer. As to what we want - all we want is information, Mr. Howard. Information I have reason to believe you can provide." She motioned to the filing cabinets lining the wall. "Check 'em out." Palmer nodded and began rifling Howard's files.
Howard's face had gone the color of a ripe tomato. "You can't do that! I'm calling the police!"
Sonja Blue clucked her tongue reproachfully. "Now, that's not a very nice thing to do, is it?" She took another step closer to the realtor. He could see his own outraged features, twisted and twinned, reflected in her glasses. Menace oozed from her like an expensive French perfume. "Why don't you tell me where Morgan is, Mr. Howard?"
Howard's heart iced over. Now he knew why she'd seemed so familiar. It was the way she handled herself, the way she talked, her mannerisms those of a creature impervious to threats and accustomed to power. Just like his partner.
He made a strange gargling noise that sounded like a deaf-mute's attempt at speech. He tried to slam the door on her, but she moved too fast for him. He stumbled backward into his spacious office with its pastel color schemes and trendy halogen light fixtures, his eyes riveted on the woman as she advanced on him. He could not look away from her. He remembered stories he'd heard as a child of snakes hypnotizing birds into their open jaws. When she grabbed him, it was with the speed and precision of a cobra striking.
She jerked him forward by his yellow silk power tie and thrust her pale, ice-maiden's face into his own. He saw himself in her glasses again; this time his skin oozed beads of sweat like tiny pearls of mercury. She smiled, revealing canines as white as new bone and sharper than hypodermics. Howard moaned.
"I see Pangloss wasn't lying about your connection with Morgan." Sonja Blue yanked harder on Howard's tie. He was suddenly aware that his feet had nearly cleared the floor and that he could no longer breathe.
Sonja dragged the strangling realtor around the desk and dumped him unceremoniously in his chair. Howard gasped and coughed and tried to free his neck of the power tie cum garrote. The Windsor knot he'd done that morning was now the size of a small pea and could not be budged. The realization that he would have to destroy the eighty-dollar tie in order to get it off was enough to make him forget his predicament.
Sonja Blue walked back around the desk - an impressive walnut job the size of a pool table - and came to rest in one of the chairs he reserved for clients. This apparent resumption of the power structure Howard was familiar with triggered something instinctual in him: He automatically sat upright, attempted to straighten his ruined tie, and put on his best angry tycoon face.
"Now see here, whoever you are! I won't stand for this! How dare you come into my office and threaten me in such a manner!" He reached for the multiline telephone on his right. "I'm calling security right this minute!"
"Touch that phone, and I will tear your fingers, one by one, from your hands. Is that understood?"
Howard blanched and let the receiver drop back into its cradle. "What do you want?"
"I've already told you. I want Morgan's address and the name he's using." When Howard remained silent, she sighed and crossed her legs. "Mr. Howard, you know what I am. You know what I am capable of. I could pop your memory open like a raw cauliflower and get my information that way. But such measures are drastic and not necessarily effective. It would also lower your IQ by more than a hundred points, and I have serious doubts as to you escaping unimpaired."
"I can't tell you anything."
"You mean you won't."
Howard pulled a monogrammed linen handkerchief from his breast pocket and mopped his forehead, his hands shaking. "He'll kill me."
"So will I, Mr. Howard, if you don't tell me what I want to know."
"Look, I haven't done anything - "
"You traffic with monsters, Mr. Howard. Four hundred years ago you would have ended up in the hands of the Inquisition, your feet stuffed into iron boots full of molten lead. I am far more reasonable than Torquemada, if not as patient. Tell me what your connection is to Morgan."
"It's nothing important."
Sonja sighed again. "Mr. Howard, Lord Morgan would not bother to become involved with a dreary little human such as yourself unless you serve some purpose useful to him."
Howard shifted his weight on his buttocks, unhappy with his situation. "Look, he gives me money, okay? He's what's called a silent partner. He gives me money, I buy and manage properties for him. Nothing illegal about that."
"Indeed."
"I also find places for him to stay. He moves around a lot, okay? Never stays anywhere more than six months. There's nothing wrong with that, is there?"
"No. Nothing at all." It was obvious from her voice that she was thinking. Howard didn't want to know about what.
"Sonja?"
Palmer stood in the doorway, holding aloft a fat manila file folder. When Howard saw it he felt his guts knot into a sheepshank. Sonja took the file and began flipping through the documents inside, occasionally lifting her head to study Howard with her impassive, mirrored gaze. It did not take more than the most cursory of glances to realize that the properties in question were in the worst parts of Oakland. Howard patted his forehead with his damp handkerchief.
"Well." Sonja closed the folder and handed it back to Palmer, returning her full attention to Howard. "Things are starting to make sense. Those are the properties you purchased and manage for your partner?"
Howard nodded weakly. "Look, I can explain - "
"I'm sure you can. But you needn't bother. I understand all too well. Not all vampires are bloodsuckers. Only the more primitive species feed in that manner. Vampires as old and as powerful as Lord Morgan require far more refined sustenance. They feed on human despair, hate, fear, anger, frustration, greed, cruelty, madness... And what better breeding ground than some festering hellhole of a slum, where rats bite babies, old women are murdered for their social security checks, pregnant women smoke crack, children are abused, women are raped and beaten by the men they love?" She smacked her lips and patted her belly in a broad parody of hunger. "That's good eating!"
Palmer snorted in disgust. "Fuckin' traitor!"
Sonja nodded in agreement and leaned forward, fixing Howard with her unseen stare. "Do you know what humans such as yourself are called? By the Pretending races, I mean, not your own species. No? You, Mr. Howard, are a bellwether. Some would prefer the term Judas goat. Bellwethers willingly lead their fellow humans onto the killing floor in exchange for a reward from the butchers. Bellwethers like to think themselves immune. But all that means is that, once their usefulness is at an end, they are the last of the sheep to die."
"He - he's staying in a place near the Marina. Where they're rebuilding from the quake."
It did not surprise her that Morgan would make his nest close to a scene of destruction and suffering. The psychic aftereffects of a catastrophe would be as invigorating as sea air for such a creature.
"And his name?"
"I'm getting to that. He goes by the name of Caron. Dr. Joad Caron."
Palmer and Sonja exchanged glances. "Doctor?"
"Yeah, he's a shrink."
"Jesus H. Christ!" Palmer turned around and walked out of the room. He had enough of Russell Howard to last him several lifetimes.
Howard decided it was time for him to make his move. The woman was preoccupied, staring off into space. He slowly reached for the drawer where he kept his gun. If he was lucky, he could get the drop both on her and the middle-aged punk in the front office. He'd learned enough about what the bitch called Pretenders to know that a bullet in the brain killed them as dead as humans.
It would look funny to the cops, but he could claim they were hopped-up crack addicts he'd surprised in the act of ransacking his office. Yeah, that would wash. If there was too much of a fuss, Morgan could pull a few strings - or whatever the hell it was he pulled - and quiet things down. Like he had during the Harvey Milk fiasco.
He felt the cool metal grip of the chrome-plated pistol as his fingers wrapped around it. Yeah, it would be easy. Easy as shooting clay pigeons.
Sonja Blue leapt onto the desk, snarling like a leopard freed from its cage. It happened so fast it seemed as if she'd materialized out of thin air. One second she was sitting in a chair three feet away, the next she was squatting in front of him like a desktop gargoyle. She crouched on her haunches, her arms bent and hands splayed across the expensive walnut finish. Her head was thrust forward, reminding Howard of an attack dog straining on its leash. The crest on her head bristled like a wolfs hackle. Howard wet himself.
She jerked the gun out of his unresisting hand, studying it with mild distaste. A .22 automatic. She barked a humorless laugh as she turned the toylike weapon over in her hands. "You'd have to do better than that, buddy. I've metabolized more .22 slugs than Carter's has Little Liver Pills!" She hopped off the desk, leaving deep scratches in the six layers of lacquered finish. After a moment's contemplation, she tossed the gun back to its owner.
Howard was too surprised to do more than ham-handedly catch it. He stared at the gun, then back at her. He set the weapon aside. He realized there was no way, even at such close range, he would be able to shoot her and still live.
"You're holding out on me, Howard."
The realtor shook his head vigorously in denial. "I swear I've told you everything I know about Morgan. What else do you want?"
"The truth."
"I told you the truth!"
"Not all of it. You told me what identity Morgan is operating under, yes, and where I can find him. But not where his lair is."
"Lair?"
"Yes, lair. Lions have them. Bank robbers have them. Every king vampire has one. It is a place where they can retreat to, without fear of attack."
"Look, I told you he lives in the Marina area, somewhere off Fillmore . . ."
Sonja shook her head. "He moves every six months or so - you said so yourself. This place you mentioned is a nest, nothing more. I want to know where he can be found when he goes to ground."
"I told you everything - "
"Pick up the gun, Mr. Howard."
The crisp, surgical steel civility was back in her voice. Without wanting to, Howard picked up the discarded .22 by its muzzle.
"Place your left hand on top of the desk, Mr. Howard. That's right. Now spread your fingers. Yes, like that. Now wider."
Howard stared in horrified silence as his left hand did as it was told.
"Now, hit your left hand with the butt of the gun. Hard."
Howard emitted a strangled cry of pain and terror as the butt of the automatic smashed into the middle of his hand. His fingers writhed, but he still could not move his left hand no matter how hard he tried.
"Again."
Another powerful, hammerlike blow. Howard felt something like a green twig break in the middle of his palm. He tasted blood and realized he'd bitten through his lower lip.
"Where is Morgan's lair?"
Howard whimpered.
This time the pistol smashed the knuckle of his index finger. Howard wondered if he would pass out before every finger on his left hand splintered. He was afraid he wouldn't.
"If you do not tell me what I want to know, Mr. Howard, I will make you pistol-whip your right hand with what remains of your left one. Then, if you're still being uncooperative, I will have you start on your left hand all over again."
"Ghost Trap."
"Beg pardon?"
"Ghost Trap!"
The vampire looked genuinely puzzled.
"It's the name of a house, somewhere out in the SonomaValley. Supposed to be haunted or something. Some crazy millionaire built it back before the Depression." Howard's face was the same shade of yellow as his tie. Sweat dripped from the end of his nose in greasy drops. "That's all I know about it. I swear." Tears leaked from the corners of the realtor's eyes. "Jesus, isn't that enough? Please go away. Go away and leave me alone."
"Very well. I see no reason to prolong our visit. But remember, Mr. Howard - you cannot shake hands with the Devil and not get sulfur on your sleeve." With that, she turned and disappeared into the reception area. A second later, Howard heard the door to the outer office shut.
He slumped forward, cradling his head in his good hand. He was shivering and sweating and stank of fear and urine. Part of him wanted to leap up and chase after the intruders, pistol blazing. But then he remembered the hissing, needle-toothed face thrust into his own slack, well-fed one, and his heart beat so fast it seemed to stand still.
He found himself glancing at his Rolex. Only fifteen minutes had elapsed since the moment he first saw the strangers in his reception room. Fifteen minutes. One quarter of an hour. That was all it had taken to ruin the last seven years of his life. Howard picked up the automatic by the grip this time, although it was sticky with his blood.
Morgan would find out. He had no doubt about that. Although Howard was without religion or faith, he knew there was a Devil. He knew it with a certainty rare among even the most devout ecclesiastics. And no matter how fearsome and cruel the creature that called itself Sonja Blue had been, he knew Morgan would be a thousand times worse.
"Don't you think we were a little hard on that guy?" Palmer asked as they waited for the elevator.
Sonja angled her head in his direction, but because of the glasses, Palmer was uncertain as to whether she was looking at him or down the hall.
She shrugged. "He is a bellwether. A traitor to the species."
"Yeah, but maybe he didn't really know what Morgan was."
"Oh, he knew. He knew all too well. Just as the president knows what's held in check within the walls of the Pentagon. He simply found it advantageous to pretend otherwise. He does not even have a renfield's excuse of having been twisted against his will."
The elevator arrived empty. As Palmer stepped into the car he heard a muffled report from the direction of Russell Howard's office. He looked at Sonja, who shrugged yet again.
"No matter how far up a sheep climbs, it will never get beyond the killing floor."