John Steakley - Vampire$

The luggage carousel grumbled, began to turn, spouted out a single suitcase. It was Adam’s. He stared at it for a moment, then grabbed it up with a single jerk and began stalking away.

“Where are you going?” Carl wanted to know.

“To take off his collar,” replied Jack dryly.

Adam stopped, looked at Jack with surprise, then anger. “That’s right!” he snapped and continued on to the men’s room.

Cat lit a cigarette. “It’s just a guess, of course. But offhand, I’d say the Church policy on publicity hasn’t changed much.”

Everybody laughed.

Jack lit his own cigarette and spoke: “Oh, he’s not so bad. Poor kid’s had that stuff drilled into him by the Man. Afraid we’ll start some sort of panic and that’ll start a witch hunt and on and on…”

“And on and on and on,” Carl finished for him. “Stupid fools. This deal could use a little panic. The vampires are there, goddammit!”

Jack looked at him. “Are you trying to convince me? ”

Carl grinned about halfway. “Well… yeah. But that kid’s a stupid punk if he thinks we’re gonna do anything Rome says.”

The rest of the bags began to appear. Cat stepped forward to get Jack’s.

“Maybe so,” said Cat. “But unless that bag of his was empty, he’s strong as an ox. See the way he grabbed it up?”

Jack smiled. “Oh, he’s fit all right. I suspect he’s actually been working out. Training to join the Vampire Quest.”

Annabelle beamed. “I like him.”

Jack smiled at her. “I do, too.”

Carl frowned. “He still made an ass of himself.”

Cat smiled brightly. “So who’d notice that around here?”

Carl snarled at him.

“So what about this reporter?” Jack asked. “Any good?”

“Well, she’s gorgeous,” offered Cat.

“She’s young,” added Annabelle. “Couldn’t be over twenty-two.”

“Who does she work for?” asked Jack.

“Nobody,” said Carl.

“Oh, Carl,” sighed Annabelle. “She’s freelance. She thinks she can sell us to Texas Monthly. ”

“What’s she doing in California?”

Cat shrugged. “She came to see us. Heard about us back home. She knows Jim Atkinson on the magazine.”

“Does she know he couldn’t get his story about us printed?”

Cat smiled. “I told her. I don’t think she believed me.”

Jack sighed. “Oh, great.”

“Did I mention she’s beautiful?” asked Cat.

Jack looked at him seriously. “Gorgeous, I believe you said.”

“Oh, she’s that, too. And weird-looking.”

Annabelle frowned. “Cherry Cat, how could you say that?” She turned to Jack. “She’s a very nice-looking girl. Very polite. Very hard-working. I like her.”

“You like everybody,” growled Carl.

“I don’t like you,” she pointed out.

“That’s true.”

“What do you mean, weird-looking?” asked Jack.

Cat took a puff and thought a moment. “I don’t know. Strange. I mean, she doesn’t have a mohawk or anything. She just… Well, sometimes she looks like a princess, you know, all regal and pure.”

“And other times?”

“Other times she makes me think of a gang-bang victim waiting for the motorcycles to start.”

The men laughed. Annabelle said, “Oh, Cherry!” and gave him a playful slap on the shoulder.

Cat was feigning grievous injury when Father Adam returned wearing civvies and a grim look.

“Are we ready?” he asked.

“We are,” replied Jack with equal seriousness.

They found their way outside and climbed into the truck. Cat insisted Jack drive, saying he was so drunk Jack looked handsome to him. Jack drove without replying. On the way he tried talking to the still stiff young priest.

“Father Adam,” he began.

“Aha!” chirped Cat from the back seat. “Tact!”

“Shaddup, Cat!”

“Yes, bwana.”

Jack tried again. He was fairly gentle, the others thought, for him. He explained that the priest needn’t worry too much about this — or, for that matter, any other — reporter. Jack told him about all the reporters they had met and been interviewed by in the past. About all the stories that had been written. About all the editors who had killed the stories. Or their careers trying to push the stories on through.

Because nobody believed in vampires.

Or wanted to believe in vampires.

Or wanted to admit they believed.

Or wanted it known that they believed.

Or anything else.

Jack told him some more about it in their brief drive through Carmel and into the Del Monte Forest. He told about the big stack of apologetic letters from a long string of publications. Told about the one story they did get printed, for the “Inquiring Minds” people. About how that story, despite all the fuss and silliness it caused, actually led to their getting a legitimate call from a sheriff in Tennessee.

Jack ended with: “So I wouldn’t worry too much about this girl — what’s her name? Yvette?”

“ Davette ,” corrected Annabelle.

“Whatever. I wouldn’t worry about her. Her tale won’t get printed either. Even if it slams us. They don’t even publish those for some reason. But…” And he pulled up at a stop sign and turned in his seat and faced the younger man. “But I wish they would. This ain’t Rome, kid. This is the battleground. And if I could get on Good Morning, America tomorrow morning, I would. One of the biggest troubles we got is belief. Most people don’t or won’t believe until it’s too late. But if they knew about somebody to call without going through all the rigmarole of the feds or the Church or whatever — Well, most times their local priests don’t even buy their fears. But if they knew about somebody who did — and just one or two goddamned days quicker — we could save lots of lives. You get it?”

Adam coughed, cleared his throat. “Yes, well, it’s just that…”

Jack’s voice was iron. “Nope. Yes or no, son. There is no third way. Are you here with us or someone else? Yes or no.”

The young priest stared out the front window of the truck for a few moments. Then he glanced at Annabelle, who smiled at him warmly. Finally he looked at Jack.

“Yes, sir.”

Behind them another car at the stop sign honked for them to move. They did.

A few minutes later Jack pulled off the famous 17-Mile-Drive and onto a side road that climbed and curved up the side of a bill overlooking the Pebble Beach Golf Course and beyond, the glittering blue of Cannel Bay. Down below had been mostly cottages, but up here astride the ridge were the great estates, walled and spread-out and beautiful, with their towering pines and tennis courts and postcard courtyards and flower-eating deer. The home of Team Crow was one of the grandest atop the ridge, a huge multiwinged tudor mansion set back far from the road, with a five-car two-story garage, a Japanese garden in the rear surrounding a steamy heated pool, and eight acres left to play in.

A true palace, thought Jack as he negotiated around a parked car and started up the drive. And incredibly, it had felt too small.

But that was before.

Don’t think about the phone.

Cat and Annabelle were craning their heads to look behind them.

“Is that her?” she asked.

Cat nodded. “I think so. Looks like her car.”

“What are you talking about?” Jack asked.

“It’s Davette,” Annabelle replied. “I think she fell asleep out front waiting for us to pick you up from that late plane of yours.”

“Want me to run down and get her?” Cat asked.

“No!” blurted Annabelle firmly.

Jack glanced at her, surprised, as he pulled the truck to a stop in the empty carport. “I thought you liked her.”