T. Wright - The Devouring

When he awoke thirty minutes later, he had a scant three minutes to live.

They were the most pleasurable three minutes of his life.

The trick that Joan Mott Evans used to rouse herself from sleep when the dream began was a simple one. When she saw that she was approaching the spot where Lila was buried-and she always approached it from the east, through a field of horsetail and clover, at night, under a full moon-she bit her lip very hard, hard enough, in fact, that when she awoke, she found that she was bleeding. But that was okay-the blood was okay. Because the dream was hell.

It's what she did the night that Ryerson Biergarten was doing his clumsy dance for Captain Jack Lucas. She came up over the rise in the field of horsetail and clover-it had the creamy sheen of a full moon on it. She saw the wire fence to her left, used to keep the horses that once roamed these fields from wandering into the roadway. She saw, at the bottom of the slope, the place where Lila Curtis was buried. And she knew that the nightmare was about to begin again.

So she bit her lip. And started the blood. And awoke screaming, "Lila, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry!" Then, because it was a scene that had been repeated countless times in the past four months, the panic, the fear, and the enormous sense of pleading and apology wore away almost at once, and she was left to get out of bed and take a long, hot shower to wash the sweat off.

~ * ~

The first words Gail Newman said when her eyes fluttered open and she saw Guy Mallory's face above her were, "How is she? How's Laurie?"

Mallory, who wanted very much to be tough about it, who wanted to growl at her, "She's locked up, thank -God," saw that Gail was genuinely concerned, so he answered simply, "She's going to be okay. They got the bullet out and she's going to be okay."

Gail's eyes closed. "Thank God," she whispered. She could feel the starched sheets beneath her, could smell the faint sting of antiseptic, could hear someone being paged once, then again, over the hospital intercom. She whispered, "I had to do it, Guy. I had no choice. She came after me." She opened her eyes again. "I really had to do it!" she insisted, her voice high and hard and tense because she'd mistaken the look of concern on Guy's face for one of skepticism.

He nodded once. "Yes, I know."

Gail became aware of the bandage around her neck, and of the IV letting blood into her arm. She asked confusedly, "What'd she do to me, Guy?"

Guy answered, a small nervous smile flitting across his mouth, "She bit you. As close as we can tell, she bit you, Gail." He hesitated, as if uncertain how to continue.

"And?" Gail coaxed.

He shrugged. "I don't know, sweet cheeks. They tell me you lost a lot of blood." He inhaled deeply, was clearly finding it hard to continue.

Gail coaxed again, "C'mon, Guy, be straight with me, okay?"

She saw another nervous smile appear on his mouth, saw him glance around. "Oh, hi," he said.

Another male face appeared next to his-the face of a man in his sturdy sixties who had a full head of bright white hair, piercing hazel eyes, and an air of quiet but intense authority about him. "Hello, Miss Newman," he said. "I'm Dr. Chandler; I'd like to ask you a question or two if you feel up to it."

"What the hell is going on here?!" Gail said aloud, and felt a sudden wave of nausea and dizziness wash over her.

Guy began, "She bit you, Gail, like I said-"

And Dr. Chandler broke in. "Sergeant Mallory, if you could please leave me alone with Miss Newman for a few minutes."

Guy shrugged, said, "Sure okay, I'll be right out here," and left the room.

Chandler began, summoning up a kind of stiff and uneasy bedside manner, "So tell me how you're feeling, Miss Newman; you gave us all a bit of a scare."

Gail said, "What did she do to me, Doctor?"

Dr. Chandler appeared to be considering her question for a moment. Then he nodded. "As the sergeant said, Miss Newman, you were bitten-"

"For Christ's sake, how many times do I have to be told that?" She stopped, again felt nauseous, closed her eyes against it.

"Dizzy?" Chandler asked.

She nodded.

"You lost a good bit of blood, I'm afraid," he added.

Gail whispered tightly, "She bit me, I know that, Doctor. But for God's sake, what else did she do?"

"Yes," he said, clearly to gain time. After a moment he went on. "Actually, we think she … withdrew some of your blood-"

"Oh my God!"

"A small amount-"

"She sucked my blood?!" Gail cut in. "My God, what does she think she is, some kind of vampire?" Again, dizziness pushed through her. She closed her eyes.

And Chandler said, "Yes. I'm afraid that's precisely what she thinks."

~ * ~

"Wait a minute," Irene in the Records Division said to her coworker, Glen Coffman, " I remember someone named Curtis."

Glen growled at her, his fingers poised over his keyboard, gaze fixed on his computer monitor. "In a moment, Irene; I've got Darth Vader cornered here!"

She looked at him, astonished. "Glen, this is not a video arcade!"

"We all need a diversion, Irene." He punched three keys in rapid succession, then threw himself back angrily in his gray metal secretarial chair. "Dammit, goddammit!" he hissed. "I almost had him!"

"Can you forget about Darth Vader for a moment, Glen? I'm trying to talk to you about this file I've been trying to open for the last five days."

He sighed, got up, went over, studied her screen. It read, as before:

FILE DIRECTORY

CURTIS L.BAK

JME.BAK

HAWKINS.LET

LET.BAK

FORMAT.CMD

STAT.CMD

OPER.CMD

JME.OPE

USER NUMBER?

He shrugged. "I see you still haven't opened it." A pause. "You want my advice, Irene? Give it up. If there are no hard copies available anywhere, it's clearly something of no interest to the Buffalo Police Department."

She sighed. "We won't know that until we get a look at it, will we, Glen?"

Another shrug. "Okay, so don't take my advice."

"Gladly. I only wanted you to know that I think I remember someone named Curtis."

"So do I," Glen offered. "She was my kindergarten teacher. Miss Curtis. Great big fat woman; she had a mustache and smelled like sour cream."

Irene sighed again. "Can you be serious for just half a minute, Glen?"

"Sure." He checked his watch. "Starting now."

“Thanks."

"So?" he coaxed.

"So, I was only saying that I remember someone named Curtis. I remember it was a case from outside Buffalo, outside New York, in fact, if I'm not mistaken." She paused.

"And?"

"And that's about it. It was a murder case, I think. A murder/suicide-"

Glen was nodding.

"Why are you nodding?" Irene asked.

"I remember it, too. Her name was Lilian or Lily-something. But her last name was Curtis, and you're right, it was a murder/ suicide; I remember reading about it in the Evening News, maybe four, five months ago. It was a story out of Pennsylvania, I think."

Irene stood. "I'll be back in a while."

"Where you going?"

"To the Evening News. I'm going to check their morgue."

Glen looked at his watch again. "Irene, it's ten-thirty; their morgue's not open now."

She started for the door. "It is for people whose boyfriends are city editors."

"Oh," he nodded. "Yes, I see."

~ * ~

Detective Spurling and Captain Lucas booked Ryerson as a material witness in a case of attempted murder. It landed him in the Buffalo jail for the night, sans Creosote, who was given over to a police matron. "I hate these snotty little dogs," she explained, but agreed to keep him until morning when, Ryerson presumed, he'd be able to post bail.