Charlaine Harris - An Apple for the Creature

She wanted to ask just what he was waiting for, but didn’t.

Everything near the campus of the University of Iowa seems to be uphill. George announced that, due to his advancing years, they would walk more slowly than the students, who seemed to fly up the hills with little or no effort. As effortlessly as Louise, he noticed, whose long legs seemed to prefer a faster pace. As they went up, he asked her what she’d want to be when she grew up.

“Never really intend to,” she said, smiling. “Call me later.”

He smiled back. “But when and if you do?”

“Well, back in high school, I wanted to be Indiana Jones,” she said.

“Really?”

“Yep. Hat and whip and all. No S&M crap. Just wanted to be Indy.”

“Cool.”

“Majored in history, looking for a minor in archeology. Changed to English, because it was easier and, well you know. If you’re majoring in history, you only have two choices . . . make it or teach it.”

“So they say.” They were nearing the top of the hill. The stopped at the top, ostensibly to let George get his bearings, but really to let him catch his breath. “So you’re an English major, huh?”

“No. Got interested in people again, so I changed my major to sociology. That was crap. So I got back to history, and stayed there. Kind of hiding where classes were cool until I could graduate and get on with things.”

George was beginning to like her.

“How in hell did you get into cop work?”

“Paid better than being a high school teacher,” she said. “At least this way, somebody gives you some shit, they only do it once.”

“Got that right.” They had crossed Market Street to their left, and walked a short bit on Capitol Street when he stopped. “This is a place you should be aware of.”

“What?”

“It, or he, spends a bit of time here, late at night.”

“This is the chemistry building,” she announced patiently.

“Yep. Was called Chem Dent in my day. Dentistry was here then, too. But this is the place.”

“There’s just no freakin’ way. It’s classrooms and labs.”

“Oh, there’s a reason. There’s . . . okay, you gotta stop staring at it. Let’s walk a bit farther. He’s likely not in there now, anyway. Trust me, we don’t want to corner him in there without a TAC team.”

They began walking north.

“Okay, look,” she said. “You expect me to believe that he lures freshmen girls to the chemistry building in the middle of the night, seduces them, transfers venomlike stuff as an STD thing, and then makes them his, what? Slaves? In the fuckin’ chem building? You ever smell that place?”

It must have been the way she said it, because George found himself laughing.

“This isn’t funny!”

“No, no. I know.” He drew a deep breath. “It’s just I didn’t realize how screwy it sounded. Ah. Well, anyway, no, he also has a house. But he doesn’t, well, live there. We think he lives in a subbasement area beneath the chem building.”

“How . . . ?”

“We’ve done some surveillance. Not a lot, but enough to get baseline data.”

“So who on my department worked with you?”

That was a fair question, George thought. “Nobody on Iowa City PD. Your Johnson County sheriff gave us a hand.”

She didn’t seem too happy about that. Jealous of her jurisdiction, and wanted a piece of the action. George was beginning to like her a lot.

“Let’s head back to the car,” he said.

“So how does he get to students?” she asked. “Hang around in bars?”

“Nope. He’s an artist.” He watched her face for a reaction. There was none.

“He teach it?” she asked, as they walked.

“Not as far as we know. Not for the U of I anyway. He does art stuff. Specifically, drawing people.”

“Drawings from life, or something like that. Sketching people. That’d kind of figure,” she said. “No pun intended.”

“Think back,” said George. “What was the Claire girl’s major?”

“Art,” said Louise. “She was an art major.”

“He runs an art supply store,” said George. “Has a couple of art grad students working for him there. They’re the conduit to the students, and the store is where lots of the art majors get supplies. Cheaper than some of the other stores, they tell me.”

“He’s in retail?”

“Enterprising, too,” said George. “He’s gotta eat. Walk beside me, and make like we’re, oh, buddies of some sort. Head down like we’re discussing some really academic thing.” She did. He began to tell her about the intelligence workup on this creature, in a very conversational tone, and being very watchful for anybody passing too close. He explained how they’d been investigating leads for two years.

“When you get to watching him on a regular basis, you’ll notice he doesn’t drive. No DL. Walks or bicycles just about everywhere. We think he didn’t want to get a driver’s license because, one, it makes him give an ID. Two, you get stopped for some traffic stuff, that’s getting noticed. Ninety percent of all citizens’ only contact with law enforcement is through traffic incidents. That, and you get in a wreck, you might even get hurt. Not safe to go to an ER. Last thing it wants is to be rendered unconscious in a crash. Wake up in the ER and wonder just what tests they might have run.”

They walked on.

“Got him with four bank accounts, under four different identities, with four separate banks, two accounts a year, for two years. Then we lose the trail. None of the accounts are as large as we think his main account should be. You know how that goes. Launders stuff. I’m not into that, really, but that’s just what they tell me.”

“Right.”

“Most everything you hear about vampires isn’t true. They can go out in the light. They just don’t like to, because, apparently, when the natural end gets near, diseases start popping up, okay? And, like, with everything else they have to worry about then, skin cancer erupting like acne is something they’d rather not deal with.”

“Sure.”

“They can be killed just like anything else we’d get involved with. No stakes required. Nothing like that. Crucifixes don’t mean diddly. Holy water just gets ’em wet. Garlic has no effect whatsoever, except they can smell you a mile away. They don’t change into bats, and they can’t fly or anything like it. Although the one I shot jumped pretty good.”

They were back at the car. “Look down there, to the bottom of the chem building . . . see that steel door? Near the corner.”

She did.

“That’s where he gets in. That’s where he comes out. About all we know at this point. You might want to check further into that.”

She nodded. “Sure.”

He glanced at his watch. “What say we go look at the art supply store, and then I’ll show you the house.”

The store, in an old, one-story building that looked like a corner grocery that had lost its usefulness, had “Ernesto’s Art Supply” painted in the window.

“Ernesto?” she asked. “It’s Ernesto? Hell, I drive by this place every day.”

“Ernesto Miska. That’s it. Ah, him.”

“Well . . . shit. I’ve been in that store. A theft report, a couple of years back. Shit, I’ve met him.”

“Know where he lives?” asked George as they drove by the store.

“No. No reason to. I’m sure we’ve got his address. . . .”

“Over here,” he said, turning left. “Right here . . . the light gray one.”

He indicated a normal-looking, two-story, wood frame house, with a wide porch and a gabled roof indicating an attic space. There was a small one-car garage nestled on the side, with one of those old paved driveways that consisted of two narrow, parallel concrete tracks. There were old trees throughout the neighborhood. The house did not stand out at all.