A Cup Full of Midnight (11 page)

Fabulous Greg, who’d taken Dylan in for the short term but didn’t deal well with suffering, was tall and lean, with rugged, Marlboro Man features and narrow, bloodshot eyes. He met us halfway down the front sidewalk, a cigarette tucked between his fingers, Greta Garbo-style.

“Thank God you’re here,” he said. He ground the cigarette out on the heel of his shoe and curled the butt into his palm. “It’s not that I wouldn’t like to help him—”

“It’s okay,” Jay said. “We’ve got it.”

Greg gestured toward a pair of oversized suitcases. “His meds are in the front zipper pocket, along with an instruction sheet. You know, how many of what and when.”

I carried the suitcases out to the car and stowed them in the trunk. Then Greg led us down a Georgia O’Keeffe hallway and into a bedroom with starched white sheets and ivory walls accented by Andrew Wyeth prints in wooden frames.

I’d seen pictures of Dylan. Tanned. Bleached blond. Manufactured James Dean expression. The hollow-cheeked man who lifted his head from the pillow when we walked in bore little resemblance to those photographs.

Jay’s expression was neutral, but his eyes gave him away. I didn’t need words to know that he was seeing his own future in Dylan’s ravaged face.

“So, you’re Jay’s latest,” Dylan rasped. His voice was weak, but he still managed to make it sound smug. His thinning hair had reclaimed its natural shade of brown, and his smooth-shaven face was mottled with purple Kaposi’s sarcoma lesions. One ear was crusted with scabs.

“He’s not my latest,” Jay said, before I could answer. “He’s just a friend. A straight friend, at that. So be nice.”

Dylan’s laugh dissolved into a long, racking cough that made his eyes water. When he’d recovered, he asked, “When have I not been nice?”

Jay shook his head, a pained expression on his face, as if the question had rendered him speechless. I could have said enough for both of us, but it wasn’t my question to answer.

Dylan met my gaze, and his smile faded. “No, really, Jay. Thanks for coming.”

Jay leaned down and placed a dry kiss on Dylan’s lips. He smoothed an invisible wrinkle from the Appalachian quilt pulled up to Dylan’s neck, then paused and picked up a painted plastic model of Bela Lugosi as Dracula from the table beside Dylan’s bed.

“You still have this,” he said. He turned to me and said, “I made this for him. Before we split up.”

“It’s not a big deal,” Dylan said. “I happen to like Dracula.”

Jay looked down at his shoes.

“Don’t be a dick,” I said to Dylan, and he stretched his mouth into something that resembled a grin.

“Don’t get your panties in a wad,” he said. “Jay knows why I kept it.”

Jay and Fabulous Greg bundled Dylan into flannel pajamas and a down parka. Jay slid one arm around Dylan’s shoulders and another under his legs. Dylan was drawn and shrunken, but the strain of lifting him showed on Jay’s face.

“Wait,” I said. “I’ll do it.”

I carried Dylan out to the car and laid him gently across the backseat. Jay and Greg arranged pillows and an inflatable raft around him. As they jostled him, he pressed his lips together and clenched his fists.

“I’m sorry,” Jay said. His breath steamed out of his mouth and hovered between them like a ghost. “We’ll be home soon. Then you can rest.”

“Home?” gasped Dylan, between clenched teeth. “I don’t think so, Jay-o.”

Jay paused and laid a hand on Dylan’s cheek. “It’s my home, honey. That’s going to have to do.”

Greg shifted from one foot to the other. “There’s one more thing. Wait here.” He jogged into the house and returned a few moments later, a small bundle of white and sable fur tucked into the crook of his arm.

“Good God,” Jay said. “What is that?”

It was bigger than a squirrel and smaller than a rabbit, with a foxy face and a pair of oversized fringed ears that stood out from its head like wings. Greg held it out, and it licked his fingers and wagged a plumed tail.

“This is Luca,” Greg said, pressing the puppy into Jay’s arms. It nestled against Jay’s chest and licked his chin. “A very dear friend thought he’d be good company for Dylan. God knows what she was thinking. I’ve been keeping him in the laundry room; it’s tiled.”

Jay looked at me. I shrugged. There was hardly enough of the little guy to qualify as a dog, but he deserved better than a cramped life in a grudging owner’s laundry room.

Greg said, “He’s a papillon. You’ll love him. I thought he’d be a yappy thing, but I’ve never even heard him bark.”

“Well . . .” Jay said.

“Wonderful!” Greg gave Dylan a quick, careful hug and scurried back into the house, rubbing his arms against the cold.

Dylan held out his arms, and Jay tucked the puppy in beside him.

“You’re too good to me,” Dylan said dryly, and even though I knew he was being sarcastic, I silently agreed.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

W
hen I left the house on Friday afternoon, Jay was sitting at the dining room table reading the comics and eating strawberry Pop-Tarts. Beside his plate were a half-empty glass of soy milk and a fistful of vitamins and prescription drugs. The sound of Dylan’s rattling breath came from a baby monitor on the edge of the counter.

“Sleeping,” Jay whispered, gesturing toward the living room.

“Probably good for him. You going to be all right?”

“You’re the one who’s out chasing murderers.” He turned the page to the horoscopes. Pointed to mine. “The stars say it’s a bad time to take risks.”

“It always is.”

The forecast called for snow, and already the freezing wind cut through my fleece-lined jacket as if it were cotton. I pulled on a pair of gloves and a knit cap and drove to Josh’s high school. Found a parking spot near the front, where a wave of exuberant teens poured through the double doors and spewed out into the parking lot.

In the front hall, I found Josh chatting with his English teacher, Elisha Casale. An attractive woman. Caramel skin. Hair the color of molasses in sunlight. We’d met the summer before, and I wondered if maybe the chance of seeing her was what had made me come inside instead of waiting for Josh in the truck.

I said, “Hello, Elisha.”

She smiled, but not before I saw the hurt on her face. “Jared. You look well.”

“You too.”

She tilted her head, searched my face with her eyes. “I thought you might call.”

“I meant to. I’ve been—”

She held up a hand. “I know. Busy.”

“Confused.”

“How about now?”

“Getting there.”

She scribbled something on a scrap of paper and pressed it into my palm. “I’ll wait,” she said, and smiled. “But not forever.” With another flash of teeth, she turned and was swallowed by the human flood.

I folded the paper and stuffed it into my wallet.

Josh nudged me with an elbow. “Her number?”

I nodded.

“If you don’t call her,” he said, “you really are insane.”

I didn’t disagree.

We crunched across the gravel parking lot and he settled into the truck, pulling the seat belt across his chest and waist.

“Tell me about this game,” I said. “What are the rules?”

“You’ve gotta be kidding. It’s not Monopoly. You can’t just read the rules off a box top.”

“Just hit the high points. Is this the game you guys used to play in?”

“We went a couple of times—me and Razor and the rest of us. Guy named Chuck runs it. He asked Razor not to come anymore.”

“How come?”

He shrugged. “Razor thought he was jealous, but I don’t know. This group is pretty straight. Maybe they just got weirded out.” He plucked at his seat belt. “Thing is, Razor didn’t even like the game that much. It just pissed him off that Chuck said he couldn’t play.”

I slowed for the speed trap in Lakewood, and Josh chatted about the game for the next few miles. I made the several convolutions Map-Quest assured me would take me to the community center. Then Josh leaned forward and pointed.

“That’s it.”

There was nothing remarkable about it. No gothic spires or make-believe cobwebs. It was a plain rectangular building with a small gravel parking lot, as ordinary as peanut butter.

There were already a dozen or so vehicles in the lot, many of which sported bumper stickers.
I Believe in Whirled Peas
,
My Other Car Is a Horse
,
My Other Car Is a Broom
,
Cthulhu Saves
.

In front of the building, half a dozen women in brightly colored parkas huddled beside the door, holding up signs that said,
Beware the Appearance of Evil
and
This Game is the Devil’s Work
. One said simply,
Vampires Suck
.

As Josh and I passed, I recognized a curl of dark hair and the strong, sorrowful features of Marta Savales. Alan Keating’s number one fan.

I stopped in front of her and said, “Mrs. Savales, isn’t it? Jared McKean. We met at Razor’s funeral.”

She blinked as if trying to place me, then gave a cautious nod and hugged herself for warmth. “Is this your son?”

“Nephew.”

“If you love that boy at all, put him back in your car and drive him home.”

“It’s just a game,” Josh said. “It can’t hurt anybody.”

“Is that what you think?” Her eyes glittered in the street light. “I wonder if your friend Razor would agree.”

Josh blanched. Before he could speak, I laid a hand on his shoulder and nudged him toward the door.
Forget about it.

Inside, people whose costumes ranged from jeans to formal wear milled about or clustered around a cafeteria table draped in black and piled with cupcakes, chips, and soft drinks.

Two men in suits flanked the door. They pretended to scan us for weapons, using flashlights as ersatz metal detectors, and waved us inside. I pretended I didn’t have the Glock in a small-of-back holster under my sweater.

Josh and I tossed our jackets onto a table piled high with winter coats. Then Josh tugged me toward a stocky guy with shaggy ginger hair and a beard in need of a trim. He looked like a lumberjack.

Josh said, “Uncle Jared, this is Chuck Weaver. He runs the game.”

Chuck gave me a cockeyed grin and extended a hand. “Good to have you, man. Josh says you’re a virgin.”

“Hardly.”

“I mean it’s your first time to the role-playing world. Looking for a regular game?”

“Just checking it out for Josh’s mom and dad. And I’m investigating Sebastian Parker’s death.”

“That freak,” he said, nose wrinkling. “He wasn’t a player. He was a psycho.”

Josh opened his mouth and I gave his shoulder a firm squeeze.

“Care to elaborate?” I asked Chuck.

“No time.” He gestured toward the milling crowd. “I don’t think I’d be much help, anyway. He didn’t play with us that long.”

“Josh told me. Why was that?”

“Look around. You’ll see mostly regular folks in regular clothes. Some people dress up.” He nodded toward a woman in a low-cut red ball gown that looked like it had probably had a previous life as a prom dress. “But so what? It’s all just acting. The problem is when you get somebody who isn’t acting.”

“Like Razor.”

“He wasn’t playing a vampire game. He was playing at being a vampire.” He glanced at his watch. “Look, I gotta get things rolling. Josh can show you the ropes.”

I dug out a business card and handed it to him. “Mind jotting down your number? I have a couple of questions.”

He gave the card a perfunctory glance and scribbled a number on the back before handing it back. Then he pressed past me and raised his hands for attention. Gradually, the hubbub died down.

“Hey, everybody,” he said. “Good to see you all braved the inclement weather. Hope everybody stocked up.”

There was a ripple of good-natured laughter. Here in the South, the merest whisper of the S-word sends people scurrying to the grocery stores for milk, bread, and jumbo packs of toilet paper. In some circles, the list has been expanded to include beer and porn.

Chuck held up his hands for silence and went on. “Okay, quick review. First, this is a community building, so let’s leave it in as good a shape as we found it. Second, keep the game inside. If you want to step out for a smoke or a quiet chat, that’s fine, but the last thing we need is for the locals to get all freaked out and call the cops because the vampires are acting up outside their community center.”

There was another spate of laughter. Chuck waved toward the snack tables. “No rowdiness, no alcohol, no non-prescription drugs. There are soft drinks and munchies over there for anyone who wants them. There’s a basket on the table for contributions, if you want to help with next month’s goodies. Any questions?”

There were none.

He gave the group an overview I found hard to follow, probably because it came in the middle of an ongoing story line. There’d been an attempt on the life of the vampire prince of Nashville. Before his execution, the assassin admitted he’d been hired by someone in the city—one of the prince’s own subjects.

I whispered to Josh, “The Vampire Prince of Nashville. That’s what you guys called Razor.”

Josh hunched a shoulder. “That’s what he called himself. It didn’t have anything to do with this game.” He put a finger to his lips and nodded toward Chuck.

“The traitor must be ferreted out and dealt with,” Chuck said. “The vampires are coming together to discuss this crisis and the best way to deal with it. Some are meeting at a local art gallery.” He pointed to the center of the room, where tables had been arranged to form the boundaries of an open rectangle. A white poster-board sign on one table said
Rogue’s Gallery.
He went on, “The Wall Street types are meeting in their boardroom, and the rest of you are either at Court or the biker bar, although the lower elements may be skulking in the sewer tunnels.” He indicated the designated areas and raised his arms like an orchestra conductor. “Let the games begin!”

“Come on,” Josh said. “I’ll give you a tour.” He tugged me toward the boardroom, where three men and a woman in tailored suits were discussing the nefarious plot to kill their prince. We listened for awhile. Then Josh said, “Hey, look. There’s about to be a fight in the biker bar.”

I must have looked alarmed, because he rolled his eyes and said, “It’s rock, paper, scissors.”