Werewolf
I knew
that smoking would be the death of him, but I always thought it would take
longer than three minutes.
We had
moved to Portland from the Big Apple because the air was clean, the stress was
less, and I had gotten a job designing clothes for PuddleJumpers Boutique. Tony could get modeling jobs if we had moved
to Outer ToadStrangle Montana. He was always jetting off to Milan or Tokyo or
Paris for another shoot. And he was
always coming back to me.
We moved
into a condo in the Pearl District. The
building was so squeaky clean and green that we had to agree to bio-safe
cleaning products and we had to sign a non-smoking contract. But out of courtesy to guests, and out of
mercy to the addicts, there was a tiny pavilion on the roof next to the heat-exchangers
and solar panels where smoking was grudgingly allowed.
We came
home from a movie that night, wittily acerbic about the good intentions of
young directors, and the special effects necessary to get old actors through
the action roles. Tony headed to the
roof for his nightly smoke, while I curled up on the sofa with a sketch pad to
pin down a few inspirations.
And
then his phone rang. “Portia, it’s I.M.
I need Tonycakes to do a show
on Rodeo Drive next Friday and could he possibly, possibly squeeze it into his schedule because he is just perfect for the look that I just
realized I need.”
“Hey,
Issak, he’s up on the roof with his coffin nails. Talk to me and I’ll carry the phone up.”
“Portia,
you are a darling! Isn’t that man
just the blondest airhead? What model goes around without a phone? How do you put up with him?”
“There are compensations, Issak. After all, I would never have met you if it
weren’t for Tony.”
“Oh you
flatterer! Spare my blushes. You know what an evil
bastard I am.”
I laughed. Issak was brilliant, and a beast to his
enemies. Luckily, I could count myself
among his friends.
“Right,
“ I agreed. “That’s why I knit the
teddybear slippers for you. You goof.”
“Are
you breathing hard, darling? Am I that attractive to you?”
“I’m
climbing stairs,” I explained. “It’s only two flights from our place to the
roof, and I can use the exercise.”
“Be zaftig, dear girl. You’re too old to be bone thin. A little flesh fills out the wrinkles.”
“You are an evil bastard,” I laughed.
I opened
the door. I froze. I tried to understand what I saw. Tony, all
muscular six foot four of him, was pinned limply against the wall of the
pavilion by someone with his face against Tony’s neck. My lover rolled his head
in my direction, saw me, mouthed, “Run,” convulsed, and died.
As he
collapsed, I started screaming. I could hear Issak on the phone hollering,
“What? What? Portia, what is it?” but I couldn’t form a
coherent thought to save my soul.
The
murderer turned and looked at me, with eyes as flat and cold as a shark’s. The
monkey in my brainstem saved my life. I
slammed the door in the vampire’s face and barreled down the stairs, leaping,
three, four at a time and bouncing off walls on the corners. And screaming. Still clutching the phone to my head and
screaming.
I hit
the door to the lobby like a flaming bag of shit, skidded across the polished
bamboo floor, and grabbed the security guard on duty. He was already on his feet with hand reaching
for his gun by the time I got to him.
“Vampire.
Roof. Tony. Oh God, Tony.
Deaddeaddeaddead. Help meee!” The switchboard was lighting up like Las
Vegas. Michael and Patrick, a couple of
retired cops who lived on the second floor followed me through the stairwell
door with guns drawn. Evidently I had alerted
the entire building.
Police
came, and the ambulance. I was
interrogated briefly, then Michael and Patrick took me into safe-keeping in
their apartment and plied me with chamomile tea and oatmeal cookies. “Cookies?” I asked in dismay. “I just saw
-- I saw --” Hysteria rose in my
throat, and I ruthlessly shoved it down.
Patrick
coaxed me, “It’s me sainted mother’s
recipe, Darling. Baked them myself this
morning. You’ve had a shock. You need
the sugar. Just nibble on one to please
me. You’ll feel better.”
He and
Michael fussed over me like two hens with one chick.
Finally, there was a knock on
the door. Patrick checked the peep-hole,
then unlocked the deadbolt, and opened the door, crying, “Roddy!” and spreading
his arms in welcome.
A big beefy
guy stepped in and they shook hands, slapping one another on the back. Michael jumped up and joined the happy
reunion.
“Paddy,
Mike, you old dogs! How’s it going?” the
new guy pretended to try to punch them.
They laughed and scuffled a moment, then Michael turned to me, smiling
hugely.
“Portia,
this is Roddy Callahan, the best damn detective on the force. You tell him everything. He’ll take care of it.”
My Tony has just been horribly killed, and
for these guys, it’s all old home week. I thought resentfully. They
probably see this stuff all the time, but it’s my life in pieces, here.
Scowling,
I struggled to rise from the comfy embrace of the overstuffed armchair,
juggling tissue box, cup, and saucer. The
newcomer hurried over, saying, “Please don’t get up. I see Mike and Paddy are taking good care of
you. I’m Detective Roderick Callahan.” He
moved the plate of cookies and settled down on the hassock in front of me.
“Tony
--” I said.
“I’m
sorry,” the detective said, with what sounded like sincerity in his voice. “He’s on his way to the medical
examiner. Will you tell me what
happened?”
“I
think I must be nuts. I thought I saw a
vampire. How did Tony die?”
Detective
Callahan glanced up at Michael and Patrick, then nodded and looked me in the
eye.
“He
appears to have died from blood loss, though there is no blood at the crime
scene and no obvious major wounds.
Please, just tell me what you saw.”
“But --
a vampire?” I squeaked.
Patrick,
patting my shoulder and gently taking the tea cup from my shaking hand, told
me. “Just tell him what you saw,
Portia. Let Roddy figure it out,”
I did
my best, trying to report the details accurately. How the little guy had Tony held up so his
feet didn’t touch the floor. How that
killer’s eyes were so flat and empty.
How he scared me so bad that my grandkids would have nightmares. What was he wearing? Maybe a black hoodie? Or trench coat? A black cape?
The
detective left after midnight. Patrick
and Michael loaned me a pair of pajamas and made me spend the remainder of the
night in their guest room, with a shot of Irish whiskey in my tea for a
nightcap.
Life went on, as it does even though your world
is shattered. I still had to
go to work, do laundry, deal with people.
Patrick and Michael saw to it that I ate. A lot of people came to Tony’s memorial
service and said wonderful things. Issak
flew into town and took me out for dinner afterward.
“How
are you holding up, darling?” he asked, taking both my hands in his as we sat,
waiting for our gluten-free organic vegetable soup. “I can see that the outer shell is as
polished as ever, but how are you
doing in there?”
“Thank
God for waterproof makeup.” I said. “I
weep at the drop of a hat.” I freed a
hand and pulled a tissue out of my bag to dab at my overflowing eyes.
“Thought
your nose looked a bit rosy. Please don’t blow at the table,
dear. You know it appalls me. And you know,
you just literally scared me silly. Listening to your terror and not being able
to do anything was the worst thing
I’ve ever been through in my life. So now Issak’s here. What can I do to help?”
I
snuffled mightily and gave him a watery smile.
“Just be there, dear. I know how
busy you are. Ask your people to let me
know when you’ll be in the area so I can drop by for a hug. I’ve been a grownup for a few years now. I know how to cope. There’s nothing anyone can do to make it
easier.”
“Are
you all right living alone?”
“Tony
was always away on a shoot or a show somewhere.
I’m quite used to being alone.”
Our
soup arrived. It was hot and delicious and rich with interesting vegetables and
spices. The warmth in my belly was a
comfort. The rosemary, grits, and graham
bread served with it was filling and satisfying. Issak was caring and
kind. He gossiped cattily about our
mutual acquaintances until I had to laugh, and I realized that I could still
feel simple pleasure in spite of the gaping wound in my life. That made me cry again, of course.
We
parted at the restaurant door, he to jet off to Paris, I to walk back to the
condo, crying quietly in the rain.
There
were always panhandlers on the corner. Since I gave them only coupons for a
meal at the local burger joint, the junkies and winos have learned to leave me
alone. But a new guy made eye
contact. The suffering in his look was fresh,
raw and bewildered.
He’s hurting as much as I am, I
thought. But at least I’m full of good food and headed for a safe, dry bed.
We just
stared one another for a minute. He
dropped his gaze first, mumbling, “Sorry.”
“Can I
buy you dinner?” I heard myself asking.
“There’s a diner just around the corner.”
His
eyes met mine again. Gratitude, shame,
anger flashed before he lowered them.
“Just . . . just spare change if you have it,” he muttered.
“I
don’t carry cash, and I can hear your stomach grumble from here,” I
replied. “Come on.”
Head
down, reluctantly, he came.
Mary’s Diner
served plain food and lots of it. It was
warm and dry and bright inside. We
scored a booth and sat down. “I think
this man needs a big plate of Mary’s pot roast,” I told the waitress. “Put it on my tab. And I’d like some black
tea with honey, please.”
“You
don’t eat enough to keep a bird alive, Portia,” the waitress told me. “I’m bringing you got some hot blackberry
cobbler and you will clean the bowl.” She hurried off before I could say a
word.
My
guest made an effort. “Thank you,” he
said, again looking straight into my eyes.
“I’ve had a some misfortunes lately.
I just need to gather my feet under me.”
“Good. Glad to help.
I’ve had a rough time myself. We
just do the best we can, don’t we? I’m
Portia.”
“LeRoy,”
he said, reaching a hand to shake, then jerking it back as he realized how
filthy it was.
“The
restroom’s over there,” I gestured. “if
you want to wash up before dinner.”
His
eyes – brown, with a gold ring around the pupil – lighted with his smile. He rose and strode off, moving with a rangy
grace.
LeRoy I thought. Who are you?
At least he’s not on drugs –yet.
Maybe he’s a vet? PTSD probably. Tall, dark. If he wasn’t so hungry, dirty, and beat down,
he might even be good looking. What
brought a strong man to this sad place?
When he
returned to the table, he had scrubbed his hands and nails, washed his face and
combed his hair with his fingers. He
took my hand and said, “Thank you,” very formally before sitting down.
“Pass
it on when you can,” I said. “I think I
hear an accent. Where are you from?”
“British
Columbia, outside of Prince George. My
parents were Quebecoise and we spoke mostly French at home.”
“So you
were off the grid?” I asked. We talked
about his wild and isolated home until the food arrived. He looked at his platter of pot roast,
swimming in gravy and wreathed with carrots and potatoes, as if he had died and
gone to heaven. Bowing his head, he
crossed himself and clasped his hands in prayer for an instant.
French
Catholic, I surmised, nice,
old-fashioned manners.
My
cobbler was delicious, and for a while there was only the sounds of knife and
fork and contented sighs.
The
waitress brought him another basket of rolls. “It’s a pleasure to see someone
who likes to eat,” she smiled at him, then scowled at me since I hadn’t yet
cleaned my bowl.
When
she left, I pushed the other half of my dessert over to him. “Finish this for me?” I asked. “She’ll scold me if the bowl’s not empty when
I leave.”
Grinning,
he wolfed it down, then went back to mopping up the last bits of gravy with the
hot rolls. Finally he sat back with a
sigh.
“You
are an angel of mercy, and I am in your debt,” he said.
I waved
at the waitress as we rose to leave. She
tapped her order pad and nodded. Once a
month, I would stop by and write out a check for what I had eaten, adding a
friendly tip. Less cash for the junkies
to try to steal that way. A lot of the
locals had similar arrangements. The diner
never had more than a hundred dollars in the till after dark.
LeRoy stood straighter and moved with
more energy as we left.
I asked, “Do you have a place to stay?”
“There’s a cheap hotel nearby, and if you’re willing to scrub floors and wash sheets,
you could probably get a room --”
“You’ve done too much,” he protested.
“What, give you a meal and show you a
bed? You and your folks surely did as
much for chance-met travelers. Call it hospitality. Welcome to my city.”
The hotel was on the way to my condo. I had a word with Frank, the manager,
promising to be responsible for any charges that didn’t get handled. When I left, LeRoy had a full belly and a
safe, warm place to sleep, with a bathroom down the hall. When I got home, I realized that I no longer
felt bereft. I couldn’t share my story
with Tony, but maybe Patrick and Michael would enjoy my revelation that helping
someone else can make you feel less sorry for yourself.
A few
days later, as I was headed to the diner for breakfast, I passed the
hotel. Frank, the manager, spotted me
and hurried outside to say, “Hey, that new guy, LeRoy? Thanks for sending him
my way. He’s a hell of a worker. Never saw anyone scrub the lobby floor on his
knees before. You could eat off it when he’s done.”
“So he’s
earning his keep?” I asked.
“Hell,
yes. He even runs errands for me. I was gonna send him across the street to the
burger joint to bring me some dinner, and he said I could get a better meal at
Mary’s for the same price. He ran over
there and brought back a menu, and hell, I’ve been feeding both of us from
there for what it usta cost me to eat crap.”
“And so
Mary has another convert,” I said, smiling.
“I’m headed there right now. Can
I bring you anything?”
“Looks
like my breakfast is coming up the street.”
I
turned to see LeRoy striding toward us with a picnic basket slung over his arm
and a delighted grin on his face.
“My
friend Portia,” he exclaimed. “What a
pleasure to see you again.”
“LeRoy,
you’re looking good.” He was, too. The despair had ebbed from his face, and he
had color in his cheeks. His eyes, those
penetrating, eloquent eyes, showed hope and determination.
“And I
am doing good as well. Will you share
our breakfast?” He lifted the lid of the
basket and the mouthwatering aroma of sausages wafted temptingly out to me.
“No
thanks,” I told him regretfully.
“Oatmeal for me. I don’t work
hard enough to burn off those meaty calories.”
Frank
began to imitate a Jewish mother. “You should eat! You’re so thin -- your clothes will fall off
you. How will you find a husband, you’re so thin?”
“You
keep that up,” I warned him, “I’ll get you a black cardigan sweater with
pockets.”
Leroy
looked puzzled at our laughter, then regretful as I waved and walked away.
Months
passed. Work picked up for me and I threw myself into it. In order to get the fall line into the stores
by August, we had to have the whole line developed and ready for production in
time for the fashion shows in May, which meant I had to have my designs ready by
February, which also meant that I was practically living at the office by
mid-December.
By
then, I had pretty much convinced myself that Tony had been killed by some guy
high on ecstasy, and I had just mis-interpreted what I had seen. Because there’s no such thing as
vampires. Everyone knows that.
So it
was way too late on a Friday night when I wrapped my head and neck in a big
wool scarf and headed out into the wind and rain for the walk back to the
condo. I felt a bit uneasy in the dark,
but I told myself, It’s only a mile for heaven’s
sake. I may as well be walking, as
standing around, getting soaked, waiting for a bus.
I got
the feeling you get when someone is watching you. Am I being followed? No, of
course not. Quit being such a scaredy cat. All the winos, weirdos, hookers and pushers,
punks, drunks and junkies will be huddled in nice dry doorways by now. I hitched my bag more securely up on my
shoulder and walked a little faster.
The
city had turned out half the street lights to save money, and it was raining
fit to drown frogs. I sensed movement in
the shadows behind me.
Maybe
it’s Blanket Joanie turning a trick in the alley. Maybe it’s nothing and I’m just freaking
myself out. Maybe I should try a little jogging. After all, a moving target is harder to hit.
I was
across the street from the cheap hotel when someone grabbed me from behind by
the shoulders and threw me up against the building.
“NO!” I
bellowed, striking for the attacker’s throat. My fist was knocked aside, Then the
guy’s hand was between my breasts, pinning me to the wall with my feet
dangling. Just like Tony when I had last seen him alive.
I
shrieked with the air left in my lungs, and struck out with hands and feet,
aiming for groin, belly, eyes, any soft spot.
It looked like the same guy that had killed Tony. Same black hoodie. Same flat dead eyes. He shoved his face against my throat. His hair was greasy against my chin and
smelled like mildew.
There’s no such thing as vampires, I told
myself. This is some drugged up nutcase.
Fight back.
He
twisted his head away and I heard my scarf tearing, then I felt his cold sharp
teeth against my skin. Suddenly, his head was jerked back and he let go of me. I collapsed onto the sidewalk.
I
couldn’t really see what was happening. A
big guy had materialized between me and my assailant. They were both growling. Frank, the hotel manager across the street,
stepped through the door and began blowing one of those canned-air horns that
are impossible to ignore. In front of me, the little guy in the black hoodie
turned and sort of vanished. Panting, the big guy, took a step after him.
I
grabbed hold of his leg and hung on for all I was worth. “No,” I begged. “Let him go. Please.” I was not about to let my rescuer get himself
killed. Furthermore, I was not about to
be left alone on the street with that --
horror, that – whatever --running loose.
The big guy bent over, grabbed my hands to
pull himself free, then froze, and spoke to me. “Madamoiselle Portia?”
“Leroy?” I let go, and he turned. “Please, let’s get inside,” I begged.
Just
like Rhett Butler with Scarlett O’Hara, he swept me up in his arms and carried
me back to the hotel. Frank was holding the door for us and we barreled into
the light and warmth of the hotel lobby.
“The
police are coming,” Frank said, pushing my chin up to look at my throat. “Did he bite you?”
My
scarf was wrapped twice around my neck and tied in back. I unwound it.
It had some kind of stinky slime on it, and a couple holes torn in it, but
there were no holes in me. Frank threw
it on the floor like it was poisonous.
And still, Leroy held me cradled in his arms. His eyes were golden, with a brown ring
around the pupil.
Sirens
and lights, and the police arrived.
Detective Callahan was called. By
the time he arrived, LeRoy had put me down in the one plastic chair in the
lobby, and gone to get me a glass of water.
When he returned, Detective Callahan was leaning over me with one hand
on the back of the chair, looking at the bruises on my throat and saying, “What
can you tell me about this, Portia?”
LeRoy
dropped the plastic cup of water and snarled again, like he had when he knocked
the – the bad guy away from me.
Detective Callahan spun around and – snarled back. They both seemed to swell up around the neck
and shoulders like dogs bristling before a fight. Frank turned and ran into his office.
“Hey!”
I shouted, and they both looked at me. Then
I spoke politely and calmly, as if nothing were wrong, “LeRoy, this is
Detective Callahan. Detective Callahan,
LeRoy rescued me from the guy who tried to bite my neck. LeRoy lives right here,
and he’s my friend.”
They
eyed one another with considerable hostility and darn if they weren’t each
lifting the upper lip a bit.
“Loupgarou,”
Callahan muttered.
“Lapdog,”
LeRoy replied.
“What?”
I demanded. “Guys, we’re on the same
side here. There’s something awful out
there, and it’s probably gnawing some other poor soul’s neck right now. What are we going to do about it?”
This
got their attention. You could almost
see the wheels grinding as they shifted gears.
Then Callahan slowly, deliberately turned back to me. “So, Portia, what can you tell me?”
LeRoy
slunk up to my other side and dropped down on one knee, with his hand
protectively, (comfortingly? possessively?) on my back.
The
patrol police had other crises to respond to.
Frank was holed up in his office.
We were left alone in the little lobby.
I did my best to tell Callahan what had happened. Without using the word “vampire.” Because anyone who actually believes in
vampires is not a reliable witness, and I desperately wanted to be believed.
Then he
asked, “And you, Mr. . . . ?”
“Trudeau,”
LeRoy replied, reaching into a back pocket and pulling out a Canadian
passport. “Here is my identification.”
“Surprised
you have papers.” Detective Callahan mumbled, taking the passport and jotting
in his notebook.
“I have
a pedigree,” LeRoy said, “Have you?”
Callahan
snorted. “Irish purebred.”
“What is it with you guys?” I asked.
They
eyed each other questioningly. Then
LeRoy said, “You were attacked by a vampire.
You know this?”
“I
don’t know what else it could have been but if I admit it, I’m going to sound
soft in the head,” I said, slowly. “So vampires really are real and not just
some Halloween scary tale?”
LeRoy
nodded. Callahan nodded.
“And
this is a secret?” I asked.
“Who
would believe us?” Callahan asked. “If I
start talking about vampires as a real thing, I’ll be lucky to get stuck on
desk duty. We don’t talk about it
because we have to live in the world.”
I closed my eyes, took a slow, deep breath,
blew it out, and opened my eyes again. The world still looked the same. And I had, in fact, been attacked by a
vampire. reminded myself,
I had
learned that if you want to survive in the fashion industry, you have to
develop a flexible mind. I flexed. “Ok,”
I said, “I’ll accept that. So why are
you two guys being such jerks?”
“He’s a
werewolf,” Callahan said, thrusting the passport back.
“Puppy,”
LeRoy threw the insult at Callahan as he shoved the papers into his pocket. “He’s a domestic pet.”
“Irish
Wolfhound,” Callahan snapped. “My family
has been in law enforcement for centuries.”
They
were both snarling again, and again their necks and shoulders seemed to be
swelling.
“Hey!”
I shouted. Again, they backed down.
“Look,”
I said to Callahan, as calmly and patiently as I could manage, “LeRoy just
saved my life. I want you to be nice to
him.”
Then I
turned to LeRoy, “Detective Callahan is trying to catch the vampire that killed
my boyfriend. I want you to be nice to him.
I don’t expect you to shake hands and become each other’s wingman, but
for God’s sake, could you at least not rip out each other’s throats in front of
me?”
Callahan
said, “What’re you doing in Portland, wolf?”
“My
sister – she was living here when the vampire found her. I am seeking revenge.”
I sighed,
“Then we all have a common enemy. Let’s
work together till we nail the bastard to the wall, ok?”
“Actually,
we ought to cut off his head and drive a stake through his heart,” Callahan
said, “but I’ll take any help I can get.”
LeRoy
drawled, “I can work with the lapdog till the job is done. And then, I’ll be off home and out of his
joo-ris-dic-tion.”
I
sighed. “Ok, so we’re all pals for the
moment. Can I go home now?”
“I’ll
take you,” they said simultaneously.
I
rolled my eyes and stood up. “Let’s go.”
As we
walked, they projected so much aggression that I swear even the cockroaches
fled from us. And in that neighborhood,
the cockroaches carry switchblades.
Callahan
called Michael and Patrick, and they met us in the lobby, in bathrobes and
slippers, with a comforting shot of whiskey.
As soon as they saw LeRoy, they
began to snarl and bristle.
“Wolf,”
Patrick growled.
“Fetchers
of birds,” LeRoy snarled back at them.
I
blinked. Michael and Patrick were in on
this werewolf thing?
Callahan
said, with alpha male authority, “Mr. Trudeau will be helping us kill the
vampire.”
“And
then I will return to my home in Canada.
I do not invade your territory. I
am not hunting your people.” LeRoy was
stiff with tension. He didn’t relax when
Michael pulled me into a hug and gave me the whiskey. I knocked it back, welcoming the ball of fire
that moved down to my belly. Then I held
out my hand to LeRoy.
“You
saved my life. I owe you.”
Glancing
defiantly at the other men, he lifted my hand to his lips and kissed it,
saying, “There is no debt, Mademoiselle. You have done as much for me.” Then he spun and strode into the night.
“Get
some sleep,” Callahan said to me. “You
look like hell.” And he, too, left us.
Michael
and Patrick herded me into the elevator and checked my place for intruders
before they left.
My
subconscious is much smarter than my conscious mind. I resolved to go to sleep and let the
subconscious sort things out. Callahan
was right, I did look like hell. I took
a hot shower, crawled into bed, and let the whiskey pull its fuzzy blanket over
my head.
Wish I
could say my subconscious produced some brilliant insight. All I had when I
woke up was questions. But I also had a
good idea where I could get some answers.
I dragged on some clothes and went to pound on Michael and Patrick’s
door.
They
were up and dressed, and their place was full of the heavenly aroma of bacon
and hot biscuits. “Come in Portia dear,”
Patrick said, “We’re just getting breakfast on the table.”
Manners
warred with hunger in my head. Then
Michael called from the kitchen, “There’s more than enough, darling girl. We were
just about to invite you to join us.
Pour yourself a mug of tea and sit down.
We need to talk.”
There
were piles of scrambled eggs and thick, crispy strips of bacon. There were hot golden brown biscuits ready to
slather with soft butter. There was
home-made strawberry jam. There were
grilled tomatoes and beans. And the tea
was, “strong enough for a mouse to trot across,” as Michael told me. I took it with milk and sugar. To hell with the diet. I needed to keep my strength up.
Patrick
and Michael said grace. We dove in. “So,” I said, “Callahan is a wolfhound, LeRoy
is a wolf, and you guys are . . .?”
“Irish Setters,”
Patrick said. “Retreivers make great
beat cops.”
“Oh –
kaay,” I said, trying to see evidence of dogginess in them. “Do you – change shape at the full moon or .
. .”
“It’s
not like that,” Michael said, laying another pile of bacon on my plate. “You had a shock. You need to eat.”
“You
guys realize this breakfast is heart-attack on a plate, don’t you?” I replied, but I ate another slice.
“So you
want to give up bacon and live another thirty years – without bacon?” Patrick asked.
“What sort of life is that?
He
continued, “As for the animal nature thing, we don’t change shape at all, but
we are, inside, both human and Irish
setter. We’re faster than other humans,
we hear better, can scent better, and our instincts are much sharper.” They
both waggled their ears at me. “There
aren’t many of us purebreds around, but certain professions suit certain types,
so Michael and I met when we were assigned to patrol together.”
They
smiled at one another, and you could almost hear angels sing.
“Purebred?” I asked “So, you’re born like this? You didn’t get bitten one dark and stormy
night?”
Michael
laughed. “Those stories are all made
up. No, It’s genetic. Didn’t you ever hear, ‘blood will tell,’ from
the grannies when you were growing up? A
certain family has bad blood. Someone
else comes from good stock. You watch
the families and you can see what they mean.
It’s not just the way the kids are trained. It’s in their basic instincts.”
“But,
Irish Setters,” I asked. “How do you know.
. .?
“Look
at us,” Patrick said. “We’re long-boned,
red-haired Irishmen, just like everyone else in our families.”
Michael
stroked his bald pate and shrugged. Patrick continued, “Well, he was a redhead. And I’ve gone gray, but never mind. I had a lovely head of red waves in my youth. We have an acute sense of smell – that’s how
we recognized the wolf. In a sprint we
can outrun anyone we’ve ever met.”
“Except
that Cheetah that was dealing drugs,” Michael noted.
Patrick
agreed. “He was fast. And mean
--I’m glad neither of us had to go up against him alone.”
“You
and me both, boyo,” Michael exclaimed.
“But when you’re a purebred, Portia, you know who you are. Half-breeds and crossbreeds maybe don’t know,
but purebreds know who they are.”
“Halfbreeds?”
I asked. “Crossbreeds?”
“My
sister was runt of the litter,” Patrick said.
“She ran off and married a cocker spaniel. Their kids are beautiful, but if brains were
dynamite, the whole family together couldn’t blow their noses.”
“Brian’s
a fine lad,” Michael said.
“He’s a
faithful husband and a kind father but he couldn’t pour piss out of a boot if
the instructions were written on the heel and you know that’s the truth,”
Patrick sighed. “Life’s hard, but it’s
harder when you’re stupid.”
“Do their
kids know what they are?” I asked.
“Well,
yes and no,” Patrick told me. “They’ve been told and they don’t dis-believe but
it’s not as if it matters to them. The
blood’s diluted. And if a purebred has
children with a normal human, the blood’s thinned even worse. Like your friend, Issak, that we met at
Tony’s service. He’s at least half cat
but he doesn’t know it.”
I
thought about Issak. Yep, I could easily
see he was part cat – a big Russian Blue maybe.
I had
to ask. “Am I . . .”
“Completely
one hundred percent purebred human,” Michael said, smiling. “It’s kind of rare. Over the centuries, a trace of animal has
gotten into most family lines.”
“First
time I smelled you,” Patrick said, “The dog in me wanted to roll onto my back
and get my belly scratched. You smell so
… ” He turned to Michael, turning his palms up, asking for the word.
“I feel
the same way,” Michael said. “So does Callahan, and it pisses him off. Dogs and humans have this bond, and you are
completely human. The dog in me is so
happy to be with you.”
I shook my head, and said, “I don’t know if
this is metaphysical or metaphorical or what, but I’ll take your word for it. Some people are also animals. And LeRoy is a wolf and Detective Callahan is
a wolfhound, so that makes them natural enemies. Do you think they can work together?”
“They’re
also human,” Michael pointed out, “with a common enemy and a common goal. They’ll manage for as long as they have to.”
“And
the – vampire?” I asked. “Is he . . .”
“Near
as anyone can figure,” Patrick said, refilling my tea mug, “It’s a recessive
gene in normal humans. It’s not that
they have to drink blood to survive, but they’re born with the appetite.”
“Bet
they’re bottle babies from the start,” I suggested. “Let me help with the dishes.” I rose and
started stacking plates while I asked,
“Do we really need to cut off his head and drive a stake through his
heart?”
“Better
safe than sorry,” Michael said, running a sink full of biodegradable
low-phosphate bubbles. “I’ll wash, you
can dry, Paddy will put things away.”
Patrick
handed me a linen towel on which were printed the words, “I’m Blarney
Castle. You can kiss my stones.” I snorted. He winked and grinned.
I shook
my head and snapped the towel at him. “I’ve been alive in the world for a few
years now. How come this is the first
I’ve heard of all this?”
“Portia,
dear, if you had never had any experience with that vampire, and we had
mentioned to you one day that we were Irish Setters, what would you think?”
“I’d
think it was some New Age woowoo spirit animal thing and be amazed that you
guys had fallen for that malarkey.”
“The
only reason that malarkey sells is because it has a grain of truth in it,” Michael
said, handing me a plate.
I dried
and passed it to Patrick who continued, “We’re taught by our families not to
tell anyone. You know how some families are close and
happy but have their secrets? Well,
sometimes the secret is that they are more than they appear.”
Michael
handed me another plate. “If you start
insisting that you’re an Irish Setter, Human Services will put you in a place
with bars on the window and give you drugs till you feel better. So we keep our mouths closed. But things happen and stories get
started. You don’t hear about
were-setters because we’re cautious and friendly, and we want to live in the
world. But wolves--well, they don’t
really give a rip.”
“And
vampires?” I asked, handing over the dainty Belleek plate.
Michael
stacked it carefully in the cupboard.
The silence grew.
“Guys?”
I prompted.
At last
Patrick admitted, “You have more experience with vampires than we do.”
Michael
agreed. “Up until Tony – I always
thought vampires were – imaginary.”
I
looked from face to face. They were dead
serious. I drew in a deep breath and
assembled my brains.
“Ohhh-kayyy. So we’re dealing with a guy who may or may
not be able to fly, transform himself into a mist or a bat -- ”
“Or a
swarm of bats,” Patrick added.
“Or a
swarm of bats,” I amended. “Who might be
susceptible to silver, holy water, and sunshine, or not.”
“Inhuman
strength and speed,” Patrick added.
“Let’s not forget that.”
Michael
contributed, “He might not be able to enter a dwelling without an invitation.”
“Or
that might be a clever literary device to advance the plot.” Patrick suggested. “We probably shouldn’t count on it.”
“He
might be able to regenerate from crippling wounds, gunshots to the head, and
other injuries. Or not,” I said. “Does that about cover it?”
“We’re
screwed,” Michael proclaimed.
“Ok,” I said crisply. “Let’s list what we know for sure. I slammed the door in his face and he didn’t
tear it down and snatch me off the stairs.
And when he attacked me on the street, LeRoy was able to pull him
off. Then when Frank started blowing
that klaxon, the vampire disappeared.”
“Did he
transform into a mist or a bat?” Micheal asked.
“He was
wearing dark clothes. It was pitch black
and raining like mad, and I had just had the sense scared out of me.” I told
them. “He was there, and then he
wasn’t.”
Patrick
mused, “He hasn’t attacked anyone in daylight.”
“That
we know of,” Michael added.
“In the
words of victims everywhere,” I asked, “why me?”
Patrick
replied “As God said to Jonah, ‘Why not?’”
“Guys,”
I said, “I think my weird-shit capacity has maxed out. I’m going back to the office and choose
buttons for next fall’s coats. Thanks so
much for breakfast and for – everything.
I’ll probably have a million questions later when it all sinks in. This is all . . .” I trailed off.
Michael
said, “We understand, darling girl. Just
don’t go walking around in the dark anymore.”
Then
Patrick pulled a necklace out of his pocket.
“And I’m wondering if you would wear this rosary. The cross is silver, and you never know – it
might help.”
I
kissed his cheek and pulled the beads over my head. “Thank you.
Thank you both so much for --
well -- I know you didn’t have to trust me, and explain things to me,
and – everything. You are such good,
good friends.”
“You
have to be a friend to have a friend, dear.
You’ve always been the best of friends to us.” Michael gave me a hug, then turned me around
and opened the door. “Now be off with
you to work, and be sure you come home in the daylight.”
I meant
to be home by sunset, but the sun sets about 4:30 in December. I got involved and lost track of the clock. The next time I looked out a window, it was a
dark and stormy night again.
“Well,
crap!” I exclaimed. “Now what do I do? Spend
the night here? Call for a police
escort? Wish I had Patrick and Mike’s
phone numbers.” Finally I decided to just call a cab then wait in our brightly
lighted entry.
But a
rainy Saturday night is not a good time to get a cab. I was told, “It’ll be at least an hour, but
maybe someone can pick you up on the way to another call if you wait outside
the building.”
When I
stepped out the front door, a shadow detached itself from a darkened alley. I tried to jump back inside but the door had
closed and locked behind me. I couldn’t find my stinking key ring! “Oh
shitohshitoshit,” I wailed, pawing frantically through my bag.
“Mademoiselle
Portia? I am here to escort you home,”
LeRoy said.
He was
bundled up in a Navy peacoat, with a watch cap pulled down over his thick,
glossy brown hair. He was big and solid
and I was so very glad to see him that I nearly started to cry.
“How
did you know I needed you?” I asked, as we began our walk.
“And how did you know where I was?”
“I saw
you walking this way in the morning, and I followed you. And when the sun began to go down, and you
still had not returned, I came and waited for you. You should not be out after dark.”
“What
do you know about vampires?” I asked.
They
are born with appetites and urges, as are we all,” he said, “But they make no
effort to control themselves. They revel in wanton destruction. This one chasing you -- he saw my sister, and knew her for the
young wolf that she was. He pursued
her. I was coming here to bring her home
but he caught her before I arrived. Now
I pursue him.”
“And
you’ll kill him?” I asked.
“I will
try. Vampires heal quickly, but I am a
strong man and can do much damage.”
A car
pulled up to the curb beside us, and Detective Callahan rolled the window down
growling at me, “Portia, Pat and Mike told you to be in by dark. They’re worried sick. Get in the car and I’ll take you home.”
“I am
taking her home,” LeRoy said, shifting so he stood between me and the
detective.
Callahan
opened the door, jumped out, grabbed me by the arm and snarled, “I’ll take her
home.”
LeRoy
grabbed my other arm, jerking me his way and growling, “She is with me.”
“Stop!”
I yelled. “Let go of me, you
idiots.” I broke free from their grips
and rubbed my arms. “You’ve given me bruises.
Would you just knock it off?”
Callahan
shoved LeRoy. “Keep your hands off her, wolf.”
“Fireside
pet! Where were you when she needed
help?” LeRoy replied, shoving back.
I
backed away from them, not wanting to get hit with a stray punch. They were set on having a fight. Then someone slapped a hand over my mouth and
started to drag me away. I bit, struggled, fought back. It was like biting old leather, slamming my
elbow into an overstuffed chair, kicking at a table leg. I dug under my collar, pulled the silver
crucifix free, and slapped it against my captor’s hand.
There
was a whiff of grilled meat. Screaming,
he snatched his hand away. Silver crucifix on the rosary works, I
thought with satisfaction.
Like
magic, LeRoy and Callahan were there, punching to much better effect than I had
managed, wrenching the vampire’s hands away from me.
The
little vermin fought back though. He caught
Callahan in the face with an elbow, kicked at LeRoy’s knee. Callahan grabbed
the guy’s collarbone with one massive hand, sank his fingers in, and twisted. I heard a snap. But LeRoy crashed an elbow into the base of
the guy’s skull at the same time, so maybe that’s what I heard. They were making sounds like a couple of dogs
with a badger. I stood for a minute in
shock and awe, then ran, jumped into Callahan’s car, and locked the doors
behind me. The fight was going on in the
shadows and I couldn’t see what was happening all that well, but it was fast
and furious. Growls, howls, screams,
thuds, crashes and that porcelain crack of breaking bone battered the air.
Then
suddenly, it was over. Callahan had his
hands around the vampire’s neck. LeRoy roared, pulled, wrenched loose its head,
and fled, limping, into the night with it.
Callahan swung the body overhead and hurled it down onto the pavement,
then began to kick and stomp it, howling all the while. Suddenly he stopped and spun around, looking
toward the car.
Hesitantly,
I waved through the window.
He
shook himself all over, reached a hand up to touch his upper lip, looked at the
blood on his fingers, then pulled a radio out of his jacket and flipped it on,
calling in backup.
Again,
Patrick and Michael took me in and fed me tea and whiskey. The next day I went to the hotel, but Frank
told me “LeRoy moved out sometime last night. He left a note, for you.”
Mademoiselle Portia, My task is done and I
must return to my home and my people. I
will never forget your kindness. Le Roi
We
never saw or heard from him again. But
in the meantime, Patrick and Michael have virtually adopted me. They are the best friends a girl could have,
and we spend most of our free time together.
Callahan got some kind of award or promotion or something. Evidently
he’s not the only big dog on the police force, and there’s a lot more going on
than they tell us normal folks. Frank is
still managing the hotel. Turns out,
he’s half daschund.
Issak
wants me to come back to New York and work for him, but he really is a catty bitch to work for. And I’ve been offered a partnership at
Puddlejumpers because of my, “superb design flexibility.” So I’m going to stay
here in Portland.
As I
walk around my neighborhood, I look at people and ask myself Is
there a dog or a cat inside that one? Do
you suppose that guy is part garter snake? That woman has to be a hawk. Look how she moves. Portland is weird, but I have a flexible
mind. I fit right in
