P. N. Elrod - Vampire Files 07 - A Chill In The Blood

A Chill in the Blood by P.N. Elrod

Chapter One

Chicago, February 1937

Tired to the bone, I slumped in the front seat of Shoe Coldfield's big Nash, wedged between him and

my partner, Charles Escott. The car's heater was going full blast, but I still shivered like a malaria victim.

I'd never been this cold before in my whole life, but that's what happens when you take a dive off a boat

into Lake Michigan in early February.

Coldfield, a large, grim-looking black man in his middle thirties, glared down at me with a combination of

relief and exasperation, then shifted the glare in Escort's direction. "Charles, he's half-dead. I'm taking him

to a hospital."

Escott bent forward so his pale, sharp-featured face was more or less in my field of view. The effort

made him grunt. One of his eyes had a bad shiner, the other was swollen shut, and he held his left arm

protectively close to his lean frame. He'd been through the wars tonight himself, I dimly recalled. "My

dear fellow," he said, addressing Coldfield, not me, "that really wouldn't be a good idea for any of us, and

you're well aware of it."

In response, Coldfield snarled a ripe curse as he hauled at the steering wheel. He made a smart U-turn

along the beach road and got us pointed back toward Chicago.

"Jack's a little shell-shocked, but he only needs a warm place to thaw out and rest." Escott went on,

peering at my no-doubt-glazed eyes.

"No shit. Then what? We wait for pneumonia to set in?"

I got annoyed at their talking over me. " 'M a'right," I managed to puff out through chattering teeth. Bad

idea. It made me cough. Escott thoughtfully shoved a handkerchief in my face before I dribbled more

lake water onto the overcoat he'd loaned me.

"Like hell you are," said Coldfield. He glared briefly at me again, like all this was my fault—and he was

right—then focused on the road and the rearview mirror. I was glad I was low enough in the seat so he

wouldn't notice anything odd about the reflection.

"Anyone following?" asked Escott.

"Not yet."

"Let's keep it that way. No hospitals, Shoe, as a favor to all of us. We must assume that Kyler's gang or

Miss Paco could have informants anywhere in the city and—"

"Yeah, yeah, well, they won't have any in my neck of the woods. I'm bringing in Doc Clarson to look at

you both."

"I can manage without."

"Oh sure, I've seen how well you've managed with those busted ribs."

"They're only just cracked a little."

"Charles…" Rising impatience in Coldfield's tone. Couldn't blame him.

But Escott's attention was centered on me. "Jack? Are you up to seeing Dr. Clarson?"

I shook my head. A doctor meant an examination, which meant that the first time he tried to take my

pulse he'd find out I was a bit more than just half-dead. In fact, I'm Undead, which was why I'd had such

a tough time with the free-flowing water of the lake. Right now I didn't want to bother dealing with

anything beyond getting out of my freezing wet clothes and maybe crawling into a nice hot oven for a few

hours.

"What are you asking him for?" Coldfield demanded.

"I thought I'd give him a choice in the matter."

"Huh. Shape he's in he couldn't think straight if you gave him a ruler. Same for you."

"I'm also trying to keep the number of people involved in this mess to a minimum."

"Clarson's family, he won't talk."

"I know, but I'd rather not put him to any unnecessary risk."

"It's inmy territory, I'll be the judge of what's a risk for my people."

"But—"

"Charles, just shut the hell up and let me drive."

Escott subsided. As far as I could tell through my fog of nausea and disorientation, he seemed perfectly

unoffended by Coldfield's manner. They were old friends from back in the twenties when they'd both

been actors in some touring company in Canada. A decade and then some goes by and now Escott's

calling himself a private agent—I suppose it's got more class than "keyhole peeper"—and Coldfield's

heading one of the larger criminal gangs in Chicago's Bronze Belt. How they ended up in two such

opposite fields and remained friends I was still trying to figure out.

Coldfield drove fast and the car got pretty warm—for them. I was only just starting to feel a little less

like an iceberg, but my bouts of shivering gradually shortened, and the teeth-chattering business finally

ceased. I could still taste the sour metallic flavor of the lake in the back of my throat, but that would go

away if I could make a quick visit to the Stockyards to feed before dawn. Not much chance of doing that

with Shoe Coldfield along; he didn't know about me being a vampire.

I'm not like what you saw a few years back in the Lugosi movie. There're some similarities between me

and old Count Dracula, but I don't turn into animals or quake at crosses or silver bullets, flop in a coffin

or stuff like that. I do drink blood to keep body and soul together—still have one of those as far as I

know—and it's usually animal blood, butthat little detail can still hit people the wrong way. Because of it

I hadn't made up my mind whether to let Coldfield in on the news yet.

Escott knew all about it, of course, and could more easily break it to his friend, but once told me it was

really my decision and my job. It would save a lot of trouble right now, but dammit, I was just too tired

to open that can of worms tonight. You can't just tell people that you're a vampire and have them accept

it, you have to prove it to them and then give out the whole history of how you got to be that way. In my

case, I fell in love with a beautiful, but unusual woman, and we exchanged blood. Last summer I was

killed by a mobster, but much to his surprise I didn't stay dead. How I got back at him for my murder is

another story.

Half an hour or more passed with no one saying a thing. I liked their silent company. It was nice, so

very, very nice to be with people who didn't want to kill me. That and the warm air helped me relax until

I was as near as I could get to dozing. I don't sleep, not like I used to when I still breathed regularly; at

night I'm always solidly awake for the duration. When dawn comes, I'm so close to being dead it ain't

even remotely funny. I've no control over it, and lately it's been damned inconvenient, if not downright

dangerous. I miss a lot.

I opened my eyes when the car came to a halt, but it was only for a street signal. Coldfield was in the

thick of the city now and began driving sedately, easing into the start and stop of the wee hours' traffic,

signals with care. Maybe he didn't want to jar us more than necessary, but you could also figure that he

didn't want to attract cops. Too many of them were still on the take despite attempts to clean things up

since the Feds whisked Capone away on that tax rap, and as Escott said, people like Miss Angela Paco

could have eyes and ears anywhere in the town. It was because of her I ended up in the lake tonight,

another casualty in her gang war.

"Where we going?" I asked, blinking against a barrage of neon from an all night drugstore's sign.

Coldfield seemed surprised I'd spoken. "Someplace safe and warm."

" 'M all for it. Where's Isham?" He was one of Coldfield's men and had been with them earlier. He'd

tried his best to pull me to safety when all hell broke loose at Angela's place earlier this evening.

Escott—bad ribs, shiner, and all—had been her unwilling guest, and I'd snuck into her house to try

getting him away, but we tripped a burglar alarm on the way out. Her thugs started shooting at us; Isham

started shooting at them, and there was a lot of yelling and noise as Coldfield tore across the grounds in

his armored Nash trying to get to us. Isham and "Escott managed to reach the car, and I'd almost gotten

aboard, but little Angela started throwing hand grenades, which screwed everything up. They'd quite

sensibly hightailed it out of there with me weakly waving them on. Coldfield's Nash was tough, but not

that tough.

"I told him to get scarce after Charles made his call to arrange to get you back from Angela Paco," said

Coldfield.

"She was going to do a double-cross. Try to kill him."

"I'd figured that much by now. You wanta tell us what happened?"

I shrugged, staring straight ahead at the dashboard. "Tried to walk home from a boat ride. It didn't work

so good."

"The hell you say."

"Would you care to expand a bit on the subject?" Escott asked. "We rather lost track of you when Miss

Paco lobbed that last grenade."

And what a sight she had been with her throwing the thing as far as her tiny form could manage, then

running flat out in the other direction to hit the dirt a half second before the whole night went up. She'd

been laughing the whole time.

"Yeah, Fleming," said Coldfield. "We wanted to come back for you. Sorry."

"I'm not. None of you needed to be there. Angela's her father's daughter and then some when it comes

to being crazy."

"So what happened? How'd you get away?"

It would be much easier if I could give him the truth of it, of how I'd nearly checked out four times over

this night. First by getting shot up by a wiseguy named Chaven, which weakened me; I can survive

bullets, but can't tolerate blood loss too damn well. Then later, while trying to get away from Angela

Paco, I caught a load of grenade shrapnel. The stuff had gone right through me, of course, but it hurt like

blazes and weakened me more. The third time, while I was locked up and alone, one of Angela's mugs

came to work off a grudge by trying to beat my brains out. I was only just able to stop him, and in the

aftermath, I'd fed from him to stay alive. It saved me, until the morphine in his blood kicked in and laid

me out flat. That's when Angela, figuring me to be dead, decided to drop my body into Lake Michigan.

The only reason I was moving at all was that with my condition I'm a lot tougher than I used to

be—though at the moment I was feeling pretty damned fragile.

A real hell night for yours truly, Jack Fleming, and there was still more of it left.

"Kyler had Frank Paco prisoner," I said, trying to sort what to say and what to leave out. "Was going to

use him to get full control of the old Paco gang away from Angela. When Kyler pegged out, that

lieutenant of his, Chaven, cozied up with her to get her to trade me for her father." And one other

hostage, a walking adding machine named Opal who knew how to work the gang's books.

"The hell you say. Why did Chaven want you?"

"He needed a patsy to blame for Kyler's death. Probably pretty embarrassed, what with aiming at me

and getting his boss instead when I ducked too fast. After he gave back Paco, he hauled me, Kyler's

body, and what was left of a guy called Vic who was playing both sides, aboard theElvira and was

going to dump us all in the lake for fish food. I waited until I had a chance, then jumped Chaven. He's

dead now. Charles, it was with your gun."

Escott offered me a thin, glacial smile, his face alight for a second. "I'm delighted to hear it was put to

such good use, though there might be trouble should the police trace it to me. I suppose I'd best report

the gun has been stolen."

"They won't trace anything even if they do find the body. The bullet went right through him."

"How fortunate."

He might not have thought so had he been the one pulling the trigger.

"What's become of it? My Webley?"

"Still aboard the yacht, I think."

He merely nodded. "Who knows, perhaps I can recover it some day."

Escort's got a dark streak in him and it's icy like the lake. Once in a while I run into it. The encounters

don't always leave me in a cheerful mood, and I was feeling rotten enough already.

"Are you really all right?" he asked, looking at me as closely as his good eye allowed.

What was making me sick was remembering thefeel of Chaven's death, not the sound, though that must

have been loud enough when the Webley I'd turned on him went off and shot out the artery in his throat. I

remembered his hot blood bursting forth, striking me, coating me, the weightless, screaming instant as we

both fell into the water and the sudden hellish silence that followed when freezing death closed over my

head.

"Jack?"

I huffed out something that was meant to be a laugh but failed. "I guess so," I said, lying. I looked down

at my clothes, but the lake must have washed them clean. Too bad it couldn't have done as much with my

memory. Turning someone alive into someone dead, even scum like Chaven, made for a black ache

inside that no doctor could ever fix. This nightmare would be living with me for a while yet.

"Then what?' asked Coldfield, wanting me back on the subject.

"Then I jumped ship and swam for my life."

"You outta your mind, kid."

"I didn't have a lot of choice. There was another guy there, Deiter, he was all ready to ace me. Between

him and the lake I figured I had a better chance in the water." That was total falsehood. Deiter had been

too shit scared to even think of shooting, and my ending up in the drink had been a mix of accident and

bad luck. Never mind the cold, that's the least of it; because of my supernatural condition free-flowing

water and I just don't mix. It's bigger than me and infinitely stronger. If I'd not been able to vanish and

float up over the surface soon after going under, it would have been fatal. And that's vanish, not turn into

a mist. Another handy talent of mine, but exhausting.

"Deiter, you said?"

"That's what they called him. One of Kyler's boys. His job was to bump off Gordy so Kyler could take

over his part of the town, then cut a deal with the New York bosses. With Gordy's rackets in hand he

could up their take by five percent and keep the rest. Of course, that was before he got dead. Chaven's

not here to pick up the reins, and now I don't know what they're going to do."

"Holy shit." He glanced at Escott, who was shaking his head. "This town's gonna blow wide open once

word gets out. Without Kyler to take over Paco's territory—"

"Hey, don't forget Angela," I added.

"What can she do? There ain't a wiseguy in the town who'd let himself be bossed by a woman."

"She's more of a girl, but don't underestimate her. She's using her father as a front man, that's why she

wanted him back so bad." Well, to be fair to Angela, she wanted Frank Paco back because he was her

father, period, but she still had more ambition than Napoleon and twice the nerve.

"You think she'll be able to take over?"

"I'd make book on it. She's smart, moves fast, and if things work her way she'll have the whole

operation's coded account books sometime tomorrow. She sweet-talked little Opal into working for

her."

"What?"

"She traded Opal back to Chaven to get Paco out, but Opal's not staying long."

"My God," said Escott, his tone full of admiration rather than dismay. "Between the two of them they

could have the city in hand by the end of next week."

I was going to say he was probably overstating things on that point, but shut up. Opal, Kyler's former

accountant, was the best soldier in Angela's small army. Never mind all the gun-packing goons, brute

force was nothing compared to a balanced ledger sheet showing all the profits, and Opal could do

numbers the way the rest of the world breathes—without even thinking about it.

"Let's continue to assume that despite these distractions Miss Paco is still in a murderous frame of mind

toward us," said Escott after a minute.

"Toward you," I put in. "She thinks I'm dead, courtesy of Chaven."

"Unless Deiter talks with her."

"He might think I'm dead, too. A swim at this time of year…"

"Yes, yes. And we know for certain that it was an obvious trap Shoe and I were driving into."

"Told you so," Coldfield muttered. "If Fleming hadn't been weaving on the road like a New Year's drunk

we'd be in the lake by now, too."

"Angela will still have a hit out on you, Charles," I said. "She thinks you're a loose end."

"So I am."

"You're pretty cool about it."

"Part of the job," he said with a shrug of his eyebrows. "Right, I've not shown up for my meeting with

her, she'll assume I'm onto her game and expect me to go to ground or to the police, or both, which

means she will likely also drop from sight for a bit until things settle. All we need to do is discover where

she might go."

"Good luck," said Coldfield with a snort. "What do you do when you find her?"

Escott looked at me. One eyebrow twitched a question.

I sighed. "I'll think of something."

Our drive finally ended somewhere in the middle of Chicago's Bronze Belt, and I was wondering if this

was such a good idea. If Coldfield wanted to keep a low profile he was doing it with the wrong people

what with our white skins— well, Escort's was gone fairly gray by now. I hoped he wasn't buying trouble

for himself taking us in.

The entry to sanctuary was in a trash can-lined alley between some drab structures that must have been

built right after the O'Learys' cow changed all the real-estate values. Coldfield stopped, cut the engine,

and got out, telling us to wait. As he went up a couple steps to the rear of an old brick building I checked

my watch, but the water had screwed the works. Damn. I wanted to know how long until dawn. He

came back a minute later, opened the passenger side, and tried to help Escott out.

"I'm fine," Escott insisted. "Just let me take it slow." But the wind was cruel, and I still had his coat. He

hissed when the cold hit him and started to double over against it, then hissed again as his ribs protested.

"Slow is the only way you can take it, you fool."

"Hah," agreed Escott, and allowed himself to be steadied on the steps. The screen door popped open to

receive him. By then I'd climbed out and shut up the car. The shift from slouching comfortably in the

warmth to standing tall in the winter air the took me by surprise. Something unpleasant suddenly burbled

deep in my belly. I hurriedly staggered to one side, stopping short at a frozen puddle, and threw up.

Nasty, but mercifully brief. I'd swallowed some of the lake and my inside works hate that kind of thing.

Pain lanced behind my eyes as I spat out the last of it and wondered how far we were from the

Stockyards. I needed a drink. The right kind of drink.

"Fleming?" Coldfield waited at the door for me, peering at what to him would be thick shadows.

I raised a feeble wave. "Coming."

"That bad stomach of yours?" he asked when I joined him.

"Yeah." It was as good a story as any to explain peculiarities in my behavior.

"Ulcers?"

"Don't know, don't care."

We pressed ahead and the screen banged behind me. I shut the inner door and was buffeted by a wall

of moist warmth, bright light, and the smell of fish and grease. We were in a kitchen, a pretty big one:

three stoves with oversized cooking pots on them were going at full steam and made the air like August

again. Some kind of eatery, then, that was either still open from the night before or getting ready for

breakfast, or maybe it just never closed at all. Several black people wearing stained white aprons were

gathered by one of the stoves, their watchful faces displaying a variety of expressions ranging from alarm

to annoyance.

"Sal," said Coldfield, addressing one of the men, "I need you to—"

"The hell you do!"

This came not from Sal, but from a slim black woman in her thirties who suddenly burst in on us like a

cavalry charge. She wore a sober, dark blue dress and a no-nonsense, God-help-you expression as she

halted in the front of the group, hands on her hips and disgruntlement in every line of her well-shaped

body. She treated the whole room to a piercing once-over, then came forward to stand nose to nose

with Coldfield. She wasn't nearly his match in height, but made up for it with force of temper.

"Clarence, just what the hell do you think you're doing here?" she snapped.

Clarence? I thought. I caught Escott's eye. He made a small, hasty cutting motion with one hand.

Coldfield offered her a winning smile, holding his palms up. "Just bringing you a couple of strays. It's only

for a day or so until we—"

"You know I don't want anything to do with your crap— no offense," she said in an aside to Escott.

Brows high, he pursed his lips and gave a minute shake of his head. "You damn well know I run a clean

place here and I'm not about to—"

"Please, Tru, this is serious. I wouldn't have come if it wasn't."

She crossed her arms and glared. "Uh-huh. I'm sure you'll have a good sob story all ready for me."

"And you know you'll do what I ask if I ask nice enough, so how 'bout we pretend you've heard it all

and I go straight to the please-pretty-please-with-sugar-on-top part?"

My eyes were ready to pop.This was Shoe Coldfield?

Tru saw and slapped his arm. "Oh, stop embarrassing yourself in front of the bum. No offense," she

added, nodding at me.

"None taken," I whispered.

"He's no bum, he's just had a hard time tonight, and Charles, too. You remember Charles Escott, don't

you?"

She rounded on him. "I remember, but he's sure changed. Is that really you under those bruises?"

"Indeed it is, Miss Coldfield. I do apologize for not being in a more presentable state, but as your

brother was about to say, this is a rather serious occasion and—"

"It's you all right. Still using ten words when one will do, huh? Well, don't stop, I like that English accent.

Come on and sit by the stove. Sal, got any stew ready? Okay, then pour him a cup and get it into him."

Sal, a very large man, topping even Coldfield's size by a few inches, instantly stepped forward to carry

out this order. "Now, who are you?" She looked at me again. I'd heard a little about her from Escott, and

by a roundabout way she'd once sent a case in our direction. Don't know what I expected her to be like,

but whatever it was fell short of the reality.

"My name's Fleming, I work with Charles—"

Coldfield interrupted. "Tru, this can wait, the man took a dive in the lake and he's half froze to death."

Her dark eyes flashed fire on him. "You and your—your whatever the hell it is! I don't want to know."

"But—"

"Oh, don't worry, I'll take care of them, but you get out of my way until I stop being mad at you for it."

"How about I go get Doc Clarson?"

Her brows came down and she scowled first at me, then Escott, giving us each a thorough looking over.

"Let the poor man get his rest, I can manage these two. They don't seem ready to die just yet."

"But Charles has broken ribs—"

"Only cracked," put in Escott helpfully.

"Shut up, Charles—and Fleming's probably got frostbite by now."

"No I don't," I put in, also helpfully.

"Shut up, Fleming—"

"Clarence!" Her eyes narrowed and she jerked a thumb in the direction she wanted him to go. "Out of

the way."

"But, Tru—"

"You run everything else,I run this place,I call the shots. Those are the rules. Move."

Coldfield put a lid on it and, throwing a quick glare at each of us, found an unused corner and hunched

there, shoving his hands in his coat pockets. I had the strong feeling Escott and I would owe him big time

for this favor.

Escott, now seated on a stool by one of the stoves and hugging a mug of hot stew to his chest,

apparently decided he was at the Vanderbilt mansion for a debutante ball. He cleared his throat. "Please

allow me to make proper introductions: Miss Trudence Coldfield, this is Mr. Jack Fleming, my friend and

business associate. Jack, Miss Coldfield."

"Pleased to meet you, ma'am," I said humbly.

She rounded on me again, along with another piercing look. She wasn't beautiful in the Hollywood way,

but her manner alone was the kind to stop traffic. Maybe not Hollywood beauty, but they didn't know

everything. Fine bones, fine smooth skin, really good legs from what I could see of them—she had all the

right equipment and then some. Like her brother, she projected an arresting sense of power and energy,

but hers was more overt and in motion. Her eyes— well, they were the kind that could look right into

you, and when they did you better make sure everything inside was up to snuff or she'd know the reason

why. That's how she struck me, anyway, after only ten seconds of her hard scrutiny. What she made of

me I couldn't tell.

"Likewise," she said. "Now what happened to you?"

"Fell in the lake. I only need to dry out and warm up. But Charles is the one to—"

She raised one hand. "I'll deal with it, Mr. Fleming. You just come along." She moved past me,

motioning toward a door. I followed her through a hall, up some narrow stairs to another hall. The

sagging wood floors creaked, but were polished and the paint on the walls was fresh.

"What is this place?" I asked.

She glanced back at me. "Miss Tru's," she answered, as though that was explanation enough.

"What do you do here?"

"Help people who need it."

"Like a soup kitchen?"

"More'n that. Here." She opened the door to a frighteningly clean bath, went straight to the huge,

claw-footed tub and twisted the hot-water tap. "Get your clothes off an' we'll dry 'em. You want some

stew, something hot to drink?"

"Thanks, but I'm not hungry."

She frowned at me. "All right, I'm going to be rude and ask you—you got any problems being in a

colored place?"

"No, ma'am."

"I didn't think so since Clarence brought you, but I had to be sure. Now strip." She went to a cabinet

and rummaged in it. I hesitated and she noticed right away. "Don't be bashful, I'm a nurse, and I've seen

more naked bodies than most army doctors. You're not going to surprise me."

"A nurse?" I asked in a prompting tone. I slowly shrugged out of Escott's overcoat and took my time on

the rest. Nurse or not, she was still female, very female, and I was reluctant to bare all.

"I got a hospital job, sometimes help Doc Clarson and a few others, and I run this place. I don't know

what Clarence was thinking bringing you here; I'm just trusting that he had a good reason."

"You don't like his work?"

"His rackets," she corrected with a sniff. "Says he only provides what people want to have, but I know

better. You and Charles will have to leave as soon as you can. Sorry I can't be more gracious, but I

won't have Clarence bringing me his broken toys to fix all the time. Next thing I know, this place

becomes just another flop for the riffraff, and the people who really need help will be too afraid to come

in for it."

"You think your brother's riffraff?"

"Yes, and he should be ashamed of himself. Aren't you out of that wet stuff yet?"

"I'm waiting on the tub water."

She gathered up an armful of bandaging and other medical junk and went to the door. "Men," she said,

shaking her head. Her heels made a determined clacking sound in the hall and on the stairs. I carefully

eased the door shut and breathed a sigh of relief.

P. N. Elrod - Vampire Files 07 - A Chill In The Blood

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