S. P. Somtow - Vanilla Blood

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Vanilla Blood

S. P. SOMTOW

IN A PROFESSION filled with colorful authors, S. P. Somtow is one of the most colorful. Born in

Bangkok and related to the royal family of Thailand, he has written many highly regarded

fantasies and works of science fiction, notably Vampire Junction, The Pavilion of Frozen Women,

Starship and Haiku, Mallworld, and Light on the Sound. He is also a musical prodigy who has

conducted several of the world's orchestras, and is an avant-garde composer whose music has

been performed in more than a dozen countries on four continents. Now if you've been keeping

count, it's been a close race in The Vampire Sextette between sympathetic and diabolical vampires.

"Vanilla Blood" closes the tally with some particularly nasty bloodsuckers!

WELL, THEN. WE might as well begin in the middle. Because the beginning has been done to death,

hasn't it? The discovery of the bodies, the cross-country chase, even the allegations of police brutality…

you've seen it on CNN. 60 Minutes. 20/20. Hard Copy. Graphic detail. You saw it all.

You saw her face. Pale as Ophelia in the bathtub of blood. The half-formed smile. The eyes, wide,

emerald green, the soggy blonde hair that wound about the corpse like a seaweed garnish; the skin,

luminescent, of a piece with the porcelain she lay in; naked, of course, but they didn't show that on TV. If

you were lucky, you caught the nudity when the camera lingered on the photos that first day on Court

TV, marking the exhibits one by one, starting with the crime-scene photographs.

You saw it; we can dispense with it.

You saw the perp on the cover of Newsweek. How young he looked! Anyone's kid, really—a nice

southern boy. Tried as an adult? You didn't really want to agree with the prosecutors—he seemed so

good-looking, so vulnerable, so… in need of a friendly social worker. Stared right through the camera

and Into your eyes… and into your heart.

Even the Pope sent a letter. As if that would have done much good here, right in the heart of

Catholic-hating Klan country.

And then there was the lawyer. Pro bono, of course. A man who had been on every dream team in every

high-profile trial in the last ten years. A talking head on Court TV. Once rendered Pat Buchanan

speechless on Crossfire. He, too, had made the cover of Newsweek. But that was the "Superlawyers"

cover story last year.

The prosecutor. An ice queen. Considered more robot than human… at least until Flynt released the

nude pics. You know this. You've spent whole watercooler breaks discussing her anatomy. Oh, yes, she

was a natural redhead all right. Unless, of course, she had taken the trouble to dye… down there.

What a bitch! But an appealing one.

And the judge. He fumbled his way through the last big one, an eighteen-month soap opera of celebrity

murder, money, and sex. Now he had learned his lesson, and he was breathing fire, not taking any shit.

You are familiar with all these figures, I'm sure—there aren't many people in America who aren't. The

Saturday Night Live parody alone said more than this brief memoir ever could.

So, instead, we'll start in the middle… just seconds after Judge Trepte kicked the cameras out of the

courtroom.

We'll even go so far as to begin in the middle of a sentence.

—gone yet? Good, good.

—Sir? Get that thing out of my courtroom. Thank you. All the way out. When I kick out the cameras, sir,

I kick out the cameras; I don't mean to have them lurking about in the anteroom. I mean, out, out, out.

—But, Your Honor, we've paid generously for the broadcast rights to—all right, Your Honor. Yes, sir.

Good-bye, sir. Thank you, sir.

—and now, Counselor, you will reveal to this court exactly why your next witness is arriving in so

remarkable a fashion.

—He always travels this way, Your Honor.

—Objection! The defense is attempting to offer a corpse as a defense witness!

—You must admit, Counselor, that the prosecution does have a point.

—He's not exactly dead, Your Honor. He just travels this way.

—In a coffin.

—Yes, Your Honor.

—Well, I'll be damned. Strike that. I think you will all agree that I made the right call in getting rid of the

press. We can all relax now and get to the bottom of this nonsense, without getting yet another lead

story on the CBS Evening News. Miss Anderson, strike all that—all of it. This is not going to be a trial

for the TV trial junkies. No. This is life and death… some would add even undeath. Don't expect me to

run this courtroom like Judge Itoh. More like Judge Dredd. Strike that, too, Miss Anderson, strike,

strike, strike, strike, strike. Now I'll stop pontificating and turn things over to you overpaid lawyers.

—The prosecution continues to object, Your Honor.

—Sustained.

—Your Honor, we cannot present this case without this witness's testimony.

—Then I will reconsider the objection when the witness deigns to get out of the coffin.

—He can't yet, Your Honor. But I believe he will be able to in about five minutes…

—Five minutes you may have. The court will recess for five minutes… no, let's say ten. Some of us still

smoke.

—Well, Counselor?

—I don't understand it, Your Honor, but the witness doesn't appear to have stirred.

—Does the defense counsel propose to attempt to resuscitate the witness? We do have paramedics on

call, do we not? Or will smelling salts do the trick?

—Your Honor, this has gone on far enough. Defense's sense of the theatrical is a little ill-timed, don't you

think? I mean, they defend a few big-name actors, they think they're Perry Mason. Can I continue to

state my objection?

—Your objection stands. Bring on your next witness, Counselor.

—We confess, Your Honor, we're sort of at a loss. In view of the apparent immobility of our star

witness, we'd like to… ah… may I look at my notes?… Jeremy Kindred. Yes. He's on the list.

—Very well.

—State your name for the record.

—Jeremy William Kindred.

—How old are you, Jeremy?

—I'm… I don't know exactly. Fifteen, sixteen.

—Are you a vampire?

—Yes.

—Are you a member of the group variously known as the Brotherhood of Blood, the Cult, the Vampire

Society?

—I was, sir.

—You were?

—I was for a while, sir, but it was just what you'd call peer pressure, and no sir, I didn't kill nobody,

didn't drink nobody's blood.

—Just answer the question, young man.

—Uh, sure, Your Honor.

—Tell us about it… in your own words, if you'd like.

—Objection! This is all irrelevant. The witness wasn't even at the killing. He's just wasting the jury's time.

—I think it's important to my case, Your Honor, that we clearly illustrate the circumstances under which

these kids could come to believe that these crimes were not only acceptable, but desirable.

—Listen. The cameras are off, Counselors. There's no more need for posturing. The jury is going to zone

out com-pletely unless you entertain them with a good story. So, kid, let's have it.

—Uh…

—You may proceed, Jeremy.

—Well, sir, I really joined it for the sex. I mean, there was a rumor that the Brotherhood had these orgies

in the old Hanson house.

—That's an abandoned house?

—Yes, sir, by the cemetery. I don't know why it ain't been tore down yet; it's kinda an eyesore. It's

condemned, though. I always used to walk past it on my way to school. It's a big old place, creaky

doors, peeling paint, scary statues of devils with leathery wings… and the big angel with the bronze

sword… not shiny anymore, green mostly… not since the ringleaders of the Brotherhood was all put in

jail. But that used to be the weirdest thing about that place. It was all crumbling and dirty except for that

sword. That tall angel stood next to them wrought-iron gates and it held its sword high in the air and the

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