Silent Kills Page 28

  “My cousin lives there. I know it well enough, and if someone wanted to disappear on foot, it’d be pretty easy.”

  “That’s where you come in,” said Krieger.

  “Why can’t I be that guy?” asked Butts. “Let Quinlan wear the damn costume.”

  Krieger gazed at him with disdain. “Really, Detective? Are you seriously suggesting we leave you outside to pursue the suspect on foot ?”

  Butts scowled at her and turned away.

  “Look,” Quinlan said. “If it makes you feel any better, I used to run track in school. I know I’ve lost a few steps, but I can still run.”

  Krieger smirked and crossed her arms. “Case closed.”

  If only, Lee thought.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

  Francois Nugent slipped on the thick leather vest, pulling it over his starched cotton shirt with the old-fashioned high neck, twisting it around so that the big brass buckles faced front. His hands trembled as he fastened them, pulling the leather straps tight before inserting the metal teeth into their holes.

  He had spent days finding just the right elements for this costume, haunting vintage and secondhand stores as well as upscale boutiques. It wasn’t easy—the Upper East Side clothing stores were anything but steampunk. He had better luck downtown, especially in the East Village, where the goth fashion scene was strong. He was tired of explaining to his parents and other fogies that goth and steampunk weren’t the same thing at all. They tended to dismiss anything he was into anyway, so he wasn’t sure why he even cared.

  But now Candy was dead, and it was his job to avenge her death. He was lucky his lawyer had been able to convince the D.A.’s office that a misdemeanor was an appropriate charge for such an upstanding young man. Upstanding—ha! That was a laugh. A quick guilty plea, a suspended sentence, a few months of community service, and he would be done. Now he was free to hunt and kill his sister’s attacker.

  He pulled on his knee-high calfskin boots (they were easy to find—he bought them at Manhattan Saddlery on East Twenty-fourth Street, and was pleased that they had set his parents back five hundred dollars—not that they would miss it). He placed the soft leather aviator’s cap on his head, complete with goggles, an absolute requirement for any steampunk costume. Over the vest went his “ammunition”—a wide leather shoulder strap, the kind worn by bandoleros in old movies—except that instead of bullets it held three carved wooden stakes. He figured three should do it—a really good vampire hunter could probably wrap the job up with one. He was a novice, though, so he would need all the help he could get. He might miss the first time, or even the second, but not the third time. Or so he hoped. He pulled on a pair of fingerless black leather gloves—by far the easiest item of his attire to find, available at any bike shop. He finished off the ensemble with a dark red scarf, which he twisted around his neck like a cravat.

  Trembling with excitement, he turned to look in his full-length bedroom mirror, and was a little shocked to see a scared-looking kid gazing back at him, rather than a fierce, fearless vampire hunter. He sucked in a deep breath and forced himself to exhale slowly. He had to move forward in spite of his fear.

  There was a knock on the bedroom door. He froze, still as a rabbit in the forest.

  “Yes?”

  “What are you doin’ in there, Frannie?”

  It was Flossie.

  “Getting dressed.”

  “I never seen a boy take this long to get dressed. What are you up to, then?”

  “Nothing. Go away.”

  “Don’t you sass back at me, Francois Nugent—I won’t stand for it, so I won’t.”

  “Please? I—I’m not feeling well.”

  “Is it your stomach?”

  “Uh, yeah.”

  “Well, if that’s the case, then let me bring you something.”

  “I don’t need anything.”

  “ ’Course you do. If you’re not well, you’ll be needing some of my homemade cock-a-leekie soup. I’ll go fetch some—I’ll be right back.”

  He listened for the sound of her footsteps on the stairs, and when he was certain she was gone, he slipped out of the room, down the back staircase, and out through the butler’s pantry before she even made it into the kitchen.

  He had a job to do. It was time to go kill a vampire.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

  Troy was a handsome city in Rensselaer County, perched on the eastern bank of the Hudson River just nine miles northeast of Albany. Lee had been there once before, years ago, and remembered being struck by the odd contrast between the beauty of the architecture and the depressed aura of the town. They left in the early afternoon to avoid rush-hour traffic, piling into Detective Butts’s roomy caravan of a Chevy. Quinlan had gone up early to stay the night with his cousin and would meet them there. Butts asked Lee to drive, and spent the entire trip in the backseat with his head buried in a guidebook. Lee noticed the stocky detective had a fondness for brochures and travel information.

  “Hey,” he called up from the backseat, “did you know that a century ago Troy was one of the country’s wealthiest cities?”

  “Fascinating,” Krieger remarked dryly. “Please tell us more.”

  “Okay,” he said cheerfully. Reading aloud, he continued. “ ‘Bursting into prominence during the Industrial Revolution, it was a prime transportation hub, lying at the confluence of the Erie Canal and the Hudson River.�� ”

  Lee could sense Krieger, sitting next to him, rolling her eyes.

  “ ‘With the advent of the railroad, Troy fell on hard times from which it has never really recovered. However, within that curse was a hidden blessing. Troy’s long economic depression had saved it from the circling sharks known as real estate developers. Forgotten and neglected, most of the glorious buildings of its heyday are still standing, in all their nineteenth-century splendor—’ ”

  “For God’s sake, stop!” Krieger begged.

  “Don’t you find this stuff interesting?” He sounded genuinely hurt.

  “No.”

  “Then what do you want to talk about?”

  It was like having a five-year-old in the backseat, Lee thought. What an odd family grouping they made—Butts as the whiny child, Krieger the stern mother, and himself as the unwilling peacemaker father.

  “Can’t we just have quiet time?” said Krieger.

  “Fine—whatever you want,” Butts snapped, but Lee felt the air thicken with his dissatisfaction. Butts could pout with the best of them, though it never lasted very long. He concentrated on driving, as the big car shot up the Thruway, belching thin plumes of smoke in its wake.

  “I think you need a tune-up on this thing,” Krieger remarked. She was greeted with stony silence.

  The drive took the entire three hours predicted by MapQuest. They crossed the bridge from Albany at about 4 P.M. The ball wasn’t to start until eight, but they had given themselves extra time to become familiar with the city.

  Lee took Washington Avenue to Route 4, driving north past Blooming Grove Cemetery. As they drove by, Lee saw a large monument with an angel perched on top, her wings extended behind her, a beatific expression on her face. The tombstone read Forever Beloved, Never Forgotten. Reading it, Lee was reminded of his fear that he would someday forget his sister, his memories of her gradually slipping into the mists of the past.

  “This town has a lot of cemeteries,” Butts remarked. “The most famous one is Oakwood. It has a crematorium.. . . That’s kinda gruesome. And guess who’s buried there?”

  “Please don’t keep us in suspense,” Krieger said.

  “Uncle Sam!”

  “He was a real person?” said Lee.

  “Yep,” said Butts. “And he lived in Troy. It says here in the guidebook—”

  “Sorry to interrupt, but where are we meeting Quinlan again?” Lee asked.

  “Uh, the public library just north of Ferry Street. Man, this place is somethin’,” Butts said, peering out the window as they drove north on Fourth S
treet.

  The city had the curiously untouched look of a place that has suffered through a long period of neglect. Impressive nineteenth-century brick townhouses with beautifully detailed doorways, stoops, and bay windows were interspersed with empty lots, wooden clapboard houses, and the occasional parking garage. Abandoned storefronts were nestled higgledy-piggledy next to what must have once been stately mansions. The whole town had a much lower skyline than neighboring Albany across the river. It looked like a small town that had grown into a city, which is exactly what it was. Troy had a touching downtrodden charm, as though it recognized how far it had fallen from its former glory. And yet in the purposeful strides of its citizens and cheery new businesses Lee sensed an air of hopefulness, as if it might someday regain its former stature.

  The public library was a stately white Romanesque building on Second Street, not far from the heart of town. Quinlan was waiting for them in the parking lot. He grinned when he saw Butts.

  “So, Percival, how’s it goin’?”

  Butts glared at him. They weren’t in costume yet, but everyone had been having some fun at his expense. Even Lee found the temptation hard to resist.

  “Detective Krieger was right—you do look like a Percival,” he said.

  “You think?” said Quinlan, studying him. “Or Rodney. He could definitely be a Rodney. Rodney Strange-fellow.”

  “That’s good too,” said Lee.

  “Hey!” Butts said. “Could we cut the crap and get this show on the road?”

  It was agreed that Quinlan would ride with the Troy patrol officer, whose name was Thadeus Jackson—a good nineteenth-century name if ever there was one. They would circle the block slowly rather than waiting in one spot. They hoped this would serve the dual purpose of not attracting attention while allowing them to keep an eye on possible escape routes in case the UNSUB should make a run for it.

  After driving around Troy, they changed clothes at Quinlan’s cousin’s place. His two young daughters watched, wide-eyed and silent, as they came and went. The older one clutched a stuffed giraffe, while the younger one held tightly on to her sister’s arm with one hand, the thumb of the other shoved into her mouth.

  The Herman Melville museum was a nineteenth-century clapboard house in the northern part of town. They arrived half an hour early, but the ball was already in progress, so they went in. The program at the door said the ball was being sponsored by the Lansingburgh Historical Society as a fund-raiser for the museum, and they had done quite a job with decorations. After passing through a small foyer where they paid an entrance fee of fifteen dollars, they came to the main room, probably originally the living room. The dimly lit room had been decorated to look like a cross between a nineteenth-century factor y interior and a Victorian parlor. Brass fixtures of all sorts lined the walls—piping, machine parts, what looked like an old water boiler. A brass railing was set up in front of a stage prepared for a band. Victorian tea tables loaded with various delicacies had been scattered around the room, which sizzled with electricity as a thin bolt of yellow lightning crackled across the ceiling, radiating out from the center.

  The steampunk fans had the same pasty skin and soft bodies Lee had seen at science fiction conventions—and the same curious mix of intelligence and innocence. Lee was afraid he and Butts would stick out in the rarified atmosphere, in spite of their costumes. But the attendees seemed only vaguely aware of other people—their interest seemed to lie more in the elaborate costumes and setting.

  He had never seen so many leather boots, belts, and brass buckles in one place. There were explorers and aviators, men of science and mad doctors, both male and female. There were more than a few vampire hunters, all with wooden stakes fastened onto their leather vests or slung on wide belts over their shoulder.

  Everywhere there were goggles. Big, small, elaborate, and simple—most made of leather, with old-fashioned, heavy lenses. Some even looked homemade. A few people wore them over their eyes, which made them look like Atom Ant, but most wore them as fashion accessories, wrapped around their caps or top hats—or just on top of their heads, like sunglasses.

  “How will you know if he’s here?” Butts asked as they shouldered through the crowd of mostly young white people.

  “Look for someone who fits the profile,” Lee said.

  “What about that guy?” Butts said, pointing to a sallow young man in a black morning coat and grey striped vest. He had evidently come as Edgar Allan Poe—the stuffed raven on his shoulder being the giveaway.

  “I don’t think so,” Lee said. “Too obvious. This guy wouldn’t call attention to himself so overtly.”

  He turned to avoid the gaze of a plump young woman stuffed into a wine-colored leather corset and floor-length black satin skirt. Her long black hair hung about her shoulders, and the skin of her ample bosom was the pale color he associated with death. Her eyes were rimmed with heavy kohl liner, and her lips were painted deep purple, outlined in black. She had given him the once-over, as had more than a few of the young ladies in attendance.

  “What is it with you?” Butts muttered, watching the young woman’s gaze continue to follow Lee as they passed her. “Goddamn chick magnet.”

  Lee shrugged and pressed on into the swarm of bodies, dappled with dancing daggers of light from the large silver disco ball hanging from the ceiling. It had been outfitted with tiny metal spikes, which shot thin rapiers of light swirling onto the floor of the ballroom. Standing amid spinning daggers of colored light, Lee watched the couples twirling and twisting on the dance floor. Why isn’t this enough? he wondered. Why did some people need to make one another twist and writhe in agony? What deep, dark impulse drove such a man as the one they sought?

  He had learned that horror begets horror. Sometimes it felt as if there was no end to the widening spiral of violence plaguing the human race. Was it hardwired into our brains, or would his job someday become outdated? He hoped for the latter, but feared the former.

  He continued to search the room, hoping to spot the killer before he found his next victim.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR

  Davey sniffed the air and wrinkled his nose in disgust. Gardenias. He hated gardenias. At times like this he wished he sense of smell wasn’t so acute, so finely tuned. He tried breathing through his mouth to avoid the despised aroma, forever associated in his mind with his sister’s funeral. It was the smell of death. Well, fine, he thought. He would show them death. He smiled grimly as he wove his way through the sea of bodies, snaking his thin form in between groups of people dancing, talking, laughing—pretending to be one of them, and yet apart from them. He was as aloof from the general merriment as an undertaker at a wedding, he thought with cold satisfaction as he surveyed the crowd. He noted many potential donors. That’s how he thought of them, as donors to his cause. They should be honored, really, ungrateful girls.... Ah, well, one can’t have everything, he thought as he circled slowly through the crowd, looking for his next victim.

  On the other side of the room, Francois Nugent stood still, studying the crowd. He didn’t know what he was looking for, but felt that once he saw it, he would know. His heart thumped against his rib cage, and he took deep breaths to calm his nerves. He deeply wanted a drink, but didn’t want to slow his reflexes in case he managed to corner his prey. It was important to stay alert and focused. A skinny girl in an explorer’s costume kept eying him, until she finally had the courage to brush past him and bat her false eyelashes up at him. His impassive stare caused her to blush and skitter away.

  Up on the stage, the band had started to play, and on the dance floor people were gyrating to the beat—some in couples and groups, a few bouncing along to the music by themselves. Normally Francois would be thrilled that the party organizers had managed to book the Calibrated Instruments, one of his favorite groups, but now he just found the music a distraction. He wasn’t even interested in ogling the keyboard player, sexy in her black lace bustier—he had bigger fish to fry. The rhythm of the bass gu
itar pounded in his ears, the lyrics distorted and scratchy on the inferior sound system:

  The youth that time destroyed can live in me again

  But I require blood—the time is coming when

  I’ll come to you at night, as the owl hoots at the moon

  I’ll be by your side to watch you as you swoon

  On the far side of the room, Davey listened and smiled. They’re playing my song. He licked his lips as he slunk through the press of bodies. His palms itched and his throat was dry—a sign it was time for another feeding. Be patient, he told himself. After all, as his Aunt Rosa had told him, all good things come to those who wait.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE

  Hugging the entryway to the main room, Detective Leonard Butts was miserable. He felt like a plump little sausage in his ridiculous costume, and being in a room with so many young people made him feel old. He had never realized before how much he relied on his profession to give him a sense of identity. He was the guy who turned up at the crime scene, notebook in hand, deferred to by the beat cops and civilians, the authority figure everyone looked up to, the one who was going to solve the crime and bring the criminal to justice.

  But here he felt useless and out of place. He wasn’t even sure this damn perp was going to show up—after all, Troy was a long way from New York. Hell, the damn UNSUB could be out killing someone in the city tonight, for all they knew, while they pranced around in these ludicrous outfits, trying to blend in with a bunch of nerdy young idiots. He glanced over at Campbell, elegant and dashing in his Victorian suit, his black curls shiny in the light reflecting from the disco ball. Sure, it was easy for him—he had the kind of lean build that looked great in anything. He liked Campbell, even admired him, but he was peeved at him for agreeing to this absurd field trip.

  He stood on tiptoe and peered through the wall of bodies at Elena Krieger. He had to admit, the woman looked good. That long neck and hourglass figure, and all that damn strawberry blond hair. Not his type at all, of course—he disliked her intensely—but he had to admit she was a damn fine-looking broad. He sighed and loosened the top button of his aviator coat so he could breathe better. More like a damn straitjacket, he thought. Wasn’t it just like Krieger to choose this costume for him? No doubt she enjoyed this opportunity to humiliate him.