Michael Romkey's Weblog

Friday, May 28th

David Parker’s Journal: 18

I headed south on a deserted Highway 61. Driving conditions were bad enough that it took me more than an hour to travel thirty miles. At the rate I was going it would take me all night to get to St. Louis. I gave up and spent the night in a Holiday Inn.

The rising sun woke me. The sky was clear, and by the time I’d finished my indifferent breakfast, the ice on the roads had turned to water. I backtracked part of the way I had come, turned off onto a state road that took me to Interstate 80, where I headed west. I was in Des Moines before lunch.

If there is a town in the United States without a single vampire, it has to be Des Moines. Creatures of my type are drawn to great culture or great evil. Des Moines doesn’t have either. Iowa’s capital is a Middle America town populated with insurance agents and CPAs. The city has its share of lawyers, politicians, lobbyists, journalists and other parasites, but no vampires.

The bank attendant led me into the vault, took my key and turned toward the rows of gleaming metal safety deposit boxes. The room was as bright, chill and antiseptic as a hospital operating theater. The attendant put the deep rectangular box on the marble-topped table, returned my key and retreated, muttering blandishments about how improved weather the was.

The lid hinged along the top so that it swung away from me when I pushed it up. Inside were three things: A bundle of money held together with thick, putty-colored rubber band, a man’s leather billfold, and a slightly larger wallet embossed with the gold seal of the United States of America.

I picked up the cash and flipped through it with my thumb, which is invariably what one does with a fat stack of money. I already knew how much was there: $10,000 in various denominations. I stuffed the bundle into a jacket pocket.

The billfold contained a driver’s license with my picture, issued in the name of “Ryan Thomas.” There was an American Express and VISA card, an insurance card, a Social Security card, and a few other elements of falsified documentary ephemera. I exchanged the billfold in my pocket for the one in the box and took out the passport before closing the box up and calling for the attendant.

Rasputin had trained me to maintain such caches against the event of needing to make a hasty disappearance. I had others here and there – in Vienna, Sao Paulo, Pretoria, Singapore…

I stopped at a mall and bought wheeled Samsonite carry-on bag and some clothes. Except for what I wore, all my clothes were back at the house, but mainly I didn’t want to appear conspicuous. These days airport security takes a close look at passengers who show up without luggage.

I left the Audi in long-term parking, locking the keys inside, bought a ticket and slept all the way to Vegas.

Las Vegas used to be a good place to vanish, between the tourists and the transients. I’d used it before years earlier, when I was learning to be a vampire. This time, however, I didn’t plan to even leave the airport.

I sat in the lounge, nursing a cold Amstel, thinking about the strange warning William Benton had left for me to find in his coffin the better part of a century after his supposed death: “Vampires whose names do not appear on the Napoleon List are marked for extermination.”

What, I wondered for the thousandth time, was the “Napoleon List”?

Whatever it was, I was pretty sure my name wasn’t on it, just like I was sure there were vampires who wanted to kill me because of that fact. I needed time to sort it all out, but I wouldn’t have time unless I could lose the murders sent to bring back my head.

I finished the beer, grabbed my suitcase and queued up in the line at the United ticket counter. I had no idea where I would go, but it needed to be some place where I wouldn’t be noticed. It needed to be a place where I would have a lot of options.

The woman ahead of me in line bought a ticket to Florida.

The ticket clerk, a tired-looking woman, gave me an insincere smile when it was my turn and asked how she could help me.

I wanted to tell her she could let me drink some of her blood, because it had been nearly two weeks and the Hunger was beginning to whisper darkly within me.

“I’d like a first-class ticket to Palm Beach, please. And make it one-way.”

Posted by Michael on 05.28.04 @ 02:55 PM CST [link] [1 Comment]

Friday, May 14th

David Parker’s Journal: 17

They were waiting when I came home from the student violin recital.

A late-winter storm was moving through the area, dragging ragged gray clouds across the rooftops. A mixture of rain and snow had fallen from the sky all afternoon, making driving especially treacherous once night came and the temperature dropped.

I was going up the hill toward my house, keeping a slow, steady pressure on the gas to keep from spinning the tires. I sensed the other vampires immediately. They did not bother to conceal their presence. There were two of them sitting in an idling car mostly concealed behind the neighbor’s carriage house.

My fingers tightened on the leather steering wheel. There were no other vampires in town. Whoever they were, they’d come to find me. What did they want?

The unmistakable vibration of old blood filled my head. The vampires were not mere fledglings but ancients, like my old friend Mozart. If they meant me harm – and why else would they turn up like this, unannounced on a winter’s night? – it was unlikely I could deal with the two of them. The older the vampire, the greater the strength.

Without making a conscious decision I drove past my driveway instead of turning. I would have more of a chance – slight though it would be – if I were not alone in my house for the confrontation.

The black Mercedes sedan pulled slowly onto the street, the headlight beams flashing in my rearview mirror.

I topped the crest of a hill, switched off my lights and turned into an alley. I pushed the gearshift lever to the right so that I could use the sport-wagon’s clutchless manual shifting. Another right onto the next street and I pushed hard on the accelerator. The wheels grabbed the wet pavement. The speedometer read 60 mph when I switched the lights back on.

I prayed silently I wouldn’t skid when I touched the brakes, slowing enough to downshift and get around the next corner. I was flying past Sacred Heart Cathedral when the Mercedes reappeared in my mirror, three blocks behind me. I wasn’t naive enough to think I’d lost them, but I was been hoping to put a little more distance between us.

I turned right onto a one-way and jammed the gas pedal to the floor. I don’t know what was holding the Audi to the pavement. The headlights reflected brightly off the wet ice.

The Audi was quick, but the big motor in the heavy German touring sedan was quicker. The Mercedes was gaining. My only advantage was that the smaller vehicle cornered better.

I took a quick left. The tires broke free, and I slid sideways down a narrow residential street with cars parked bumper to bumper along the east side of the street. The car came back around for me, and when I exhaled sharply I realized I hadn’t been breathing for the past few blocks.

I turned onto a boulevard running through a neighborhood of houses built at the end of the 1800s. The road curved back and forth, leading through several twisting drops as it wound its way down the bluffs and back around to the river. There was broad grass median between the two lanes, sections of which were paved in the original brick. The streets were deserted on a cold, wet Sunday night.

The Mercedes was behind me, but I regained some of the space I’d lost.

Where could I run? There were no crowds to hide in. I might make it into the police station, but what would I tell them? And if they were serious about killing me – and my gut told me they were – they would hardly shrink from the necessity of murdering whatever skeleton crew manned the stationhouse on a Sunday night.

The road straightened for a few blocks. The Mercedes shot forward, suddenly gaining.

I blew through the stop sign at Bridge Street, the Audi briefly airborne, coming down in a slide that fortunately followed the boulevard’s curve to the left. Maybe it was getting colder, or maybe it was just that we were going faster, but it was almost impossible to keep the car under control.

I knew that just beyond the next curve to the right there was a trestle where railroad tracks crossed above the street. The tracks were low, so low that trucks and panel vans cutting through the neighborhood frequently had their tops peeled back.

Holding my breath, I pushed the Audi even faster, hoping against hope.

The trestle flew past so quickly I barely saw it. The headlights in my mirror wavered back and forth and slowly rotated from horizontal to vertical. Then, the loud smash of speeding metal colliding with something dense and immovable.

I took my foot off the gas, still barely breathing until the Audi slowed to 20 mph, a manageable speed for such treacherous driving conditions.

I did not go back to see if the vampires in the Mercedes survived the crash. Chances are they did. Either way, I knew I could not go back to my house. The time had come for me to disappear.

As a vampire, disappearing was something I knew how to do.

Posted by Michael on 05.14.04 @ 04:18 PM CST [link]

Friday, May 7th

David Parker's Journal: 16

MISSING PERSONS REPORT

Date: March 5, 2004
Incident No. 80506-03-05-04
Investigating officer: Detective Jim Adams
Badge: 625

First name: David
Middle Name: Unknown
Last Name: Parker
Nickname: None
Sex: Male
Race: White
Hair: Brown
Eye color: Blue
Height: 6 ft.
Weight: Approximately 160 lbs.
Date of Birth: Unknown
Age Range (Current Age): 30 to 35
County: U.S.
Dental X-rays Available: No
Date missing: Sometime after Feb. 1
Reporting agency: Benton Police Department
Dental X-rays Available: No
Report type: Suspicious circumstances
Suspect Name: Unknown

Narrative: David Parker was last seen on or about Feb. 1 at St. Alban’s College in Benton.

Parker is a concert pianist who was working on a composition for the St. Alban’s Orchestra. According to Dr. Janice Nelson, the chair of the St. Alban’s Music Department, Parker dropped of the score Feb. 1 and promised to contact Dr. Nelson by mid-February to schedule rehearsals. After repeated attempts to reach Parker, Dr. Nelson went to his home at 812 River Drive March 2. She looked through a window when no one answered the door, saw the house in disarray, and telephoned police. (See supplemental patrol and forensics reports.)

Parker was alone when he last visited the college, Dr. Benton said. The departmental secretary, Laura Peterson, confirmed the account. Dr. Benton is unaware of any close friends or acquaintances of Parker’s. She described him as “reclusive.” She volunteered that Parker “did not seem especially happy.”

Parker, who briefly practiced law before embarking on a career in music, is Chicago native. He is divorced; his wife is deceased. He has no known living family members. Parker has traveled extensively in his career and maintained a succession of residences around the U.S. and abroad, according to Arthur Eckstein, Parker’s booking agent in New York. Parker has no immediate bookings and has been on a sabbatical for the past year, Eckstein said. Eckstein said he has not talked to Parker in six months and is unaware of his whereabouts.

Given the broken furniture and general evidence of violence at Parker’s residence, foul play may have been involved in his disappearance. The tile foyer had been wiped with bleach, indicating that person or persons unknown took steps to remove blood and other evidence.

Anyone with information about David Parker should contact Detective Adams at the Benton Police Department.
Posted by Michael on 05.07.04 @ 02:09 PM CST [link]

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