My Big Fat Supernatural Honeymoon (18 page)

Missing from the picture were Cooley and Becker. A different set of armed goons in imperfectly fitting tuxedos stood guard at a respectful distance. I asked after the missing lieutenants. Cooley was down the hall; no one knew where Becker was.

I was just guessing about a possibly lovesick Becker being the perpetrator. That would make things simpler, but any of the mob muscle working for Huffman could be behind it. This shenanigan might not be about removing a rival for Dorothy, but a diversion. For all I knew Siggy Schubert could have been slipped a ransom note on the side. He was damned rich.

No point questioning him just yet. I had to let this play out as expected and keep my eyes open.

Since Jerome had vanished from the reception hall, I went there first.

A couple questions got me the location of where he'd last been with the bride: at a table shaking hands and helping serve out wedding cake. The table was in front of double doors leading to a kitchen where a number of ladies were washing up and in deep discussion about current events. There was a collective pause when I walked in. I smiled and gave a "don't mind me" wave, checking for other doors. One led to the outside, another to a different hall. Either worked well for a fast exit.

It wouldn't take much for someone to sidle next to Jerome, jam a gun muzzle into his ribs, and tell him to come along quietly. Done right and it would seem as though he'd truly vanished. Take him into the kitchen, then where—outside to a car trunk or stash him in a quiet spot in the church to write a note to the bride?

"Excuse me—were any of you ladies here when the groom went missing?"

That netted me half a dozen replies at once. I finally got that they'd been away to see the cake-cutting and get a closer look at the wedding dress. Only one had remained in the kitchen, and she'd not noticed anybody ducking outside.

I thanked them and tried the hall. Dorothy's map got vague at this point. St. Mike's was pretty huge.

The lights were out, indicating the area was closed for the night, but there was enough glow from the windows to allow me to navigate. More doors lined the wall opposite, and I tried a few. Classrooms and meeting rooms. I made fast work of them, listening for heartbeats, sniffing for blood.

A broom closet stinking of floor polish, old rags, and dust came up trumps. On the floor was a cravat; its dark blue matched the color of the bridesmaids' dresses.

Bloodsmell. All over it.

A broad stain on the material made my corner teeth itch.

Still damp. If Jerome had bled that much… damn.

I backed out and checked the polished floor for blood spots. None visible, but two parallel drag marks such as might be made by shoe heels led farther into the building. I'm no trail scout, but they were as good as a neon arrow.

They ended at a stairway going down into profound blackness and silence. I looked for a light switch, but the walls were clean.

Dammit.

My eyes could make use of the least little shard of light—if it was present. An interior chamber like this put me back on a level with normal humans. Maybe this check had discouraged the ushers on their initial search for Jerome. Couldn't blame them; it sure as hell had me hesitating.

It's wholly irrational and no one knows of it because it is a source of great personal embarrassment to me, but I hate the dark. Forget an ordinary dim room, I'm talking about the kind of utter absence of light that makes you think you've gone blind. That's enough to freeze me. I always have to fight off a stab of panic.

Crazy enough for a grown man, but a vampire?

I've got reasons. Bad things have happened to me, and though much took place in well-lighted spots, enough occurred in pitch blackness to leave permanent scars.

Wincing, I pushed forward. I couldn't let it keep me from doing my job. If my partner had been along I'd have bulldozed ahead, bolstered by his moral support and dry humor. On my own I had time to imagine and remember past terrors.

I made it to the first landing before my nerve gave out and I stumbled back again, getting away from whatever creepy things lurked unseen below.

I couldn't kid myself out of it, either. It hadn't been so very long ago that I'd been trapped and helpless in another black cellar. The memory was only too ready to surface. I closed my hands on a banister rail to keep them from shaking.

Schubert didn't have time for this. Chances were good that he was down there in need of help. I took a deep cleansing breath to clear my head… and picked up a faint trace of blood-smell.

Damn. I had to force myself no matter what, but internal terrors aside, it was truly dangerous to go blundering around in unknown territory. I needed a flashlight or—

Oh. Big Catholic church. If anyone had candles by the gross…

A minute later, sheepish and annoyed, I took the stairs with considerably more confidence. I found candles and a box of matches in the broom closet. They made me sane again.

I see more by a single candle flame than other people can get from a lightbulb's glow, but a flame jiggles. Shadows dancing and leaping in the corners spook me the same as anyone else; I took it slow and listened.

The only noise was above and behind me. Someone came striding up the hall at a good clip, closing on the stairs. I didn't want to be caught, so I vanished.

Handy talent. Now
I
was one of the creepy things lurking unseen.

Pressing my amorphous presence against a wall, I floated gently downward until coming to a turn, then held myself out of the way in the corner. My hearing was muffled in this state; all I could tell about the newcomer was that he seemed to be alone. I waited until he was well past before going solid again.

Returned to reality as well, the candle burned cheerfully bright. Huh. I'd known that might be a possibility, but it's still interesting to see firsthand.

I eased down a little farther, then halted again and vanished as a
second
person followed the other guy. He had his shoes off, moving along swift and quiet.

The temptation to reappear behind him and lay a hand on his shoulder like Death's harbinger was very strong, but I resisted. When this one was well ahead I took form again and listened, but apparently he was the caboose of the train.

They must have had flashlights. Past the glow of my one flame I picked up the brighter radiance of modern invention playing against the walls of the bottom landing.

It faded, though. I hustled to catch up.

The basement was enormous and used for storage,
lots
of storage. All kinds of stuff, ecclesiastical and other, more worldly items, filled the place to the ceiling. Tables, stacks of chairs, candle stands of every shape and size, sporting equipment, folding beds, and a thousand dusty crates kept me from seeing very far into a maze of junk.

Deep into the jumble someone had left on a light. I moved toward it. My candle was a liability. I pinched it out.

Just a fraction too late I caught a surge of movement on my left.

Something cracked against my shins and down I dropped. In the background against that burst of pain I heard a woman gasp and let fly with a short scream. Almost at the same instant something far worse slammed into the back of my skull. I kept on dropping, but was unaware of hitting bottom.

It was cold there, though. Really cold.

IF I GET HURT BADLY ENOUGH VANISHING IS an involuntary thing. My body simply takes over and gets me away from whatever grief has inflicted itself—unless the injury involves wood. I don't know why, and I sure as hell try to avoid it, but wood hates me. It shorts out my disappearing act, leaving behind what others might mistake for a dead body. I go completely inert, no breathing or heartbeat, dilated and fixed pupils, the works.

Considering my circumstances as awareness trickled back, being dead was a pleasant alternative.

I lay on my back, limbs sprawled, and an unbearable pressure between my ears had the world spinning. Eyes open or shut, it made no difference. Muscles twitching, I wanted to vanish and thus heal, but wouldn't be able to until the shock wore off.

That would take a while. My head would have to be smashed flat by a steamroller to feel better. I took care to keep still and not groan.

When raising my eyelids seemed like something that could be done without too much agony, I gave it a try.

Not good. Pitch black all around, but the head pain was distracting and staved off the usual stutter of panic. When I'd recovered enough that the darkness bothered me I snarled at the monsters hiding there. In my present mood I'd strangle anything within reach… when I could move again. Getting what should have been a fatal bash to the brain had tossed my nebulous fears into the next county.

After a few minutes I figured out someone had thrown a tarp over me. That's what you do with the dead, cover 'em up because it could be catching. Entirely true: soon as I was able, I would kill someone for this.

Before long I thought sitting up wouldn't be too bad, and it wasn't—it was horrendous. I pushed off the tarp and let my body get used to being almost vertical. Whatever light had been on was gone now.

Sluggish memory reminded me I should still have matches and candles in my pockets. I made my unsteady fingers work and fired up a match.

That was bright. Ow.

I lit a candle and checked around. Someone had dragged me off the main path, stashing me by a battered old table. Record books and clipboards suggested that it served as a work desk for some fearless soul. A bare bulb with a frayed string pull dangled temptingly overhead.

Getting to my feet was hard, but once there it wasn't unbearable so long as I didn't move my head much. I yanked the light on, bathing the place in twenty-five watts of electric glory.

No one came charging from the remaining shadows. I was happy.

Having been through this before I knew better than to touch the sore spot on my head. Nothing good ever came of that. Bloodsmell hung in the still air, but wasn't mine. It was some lingering trace of the trail I'd followed, meaning the damage hadn't broken my skin, probably due to—

Where the hell was my hat?

I squinted around in the too-bright light. No hat. That made me mad. I liked that fedora.

No, I wasn't thinking straight, but after the whack I'd gotten I was doing pretty damned good.

Staggering down the maze, I found my now rumpled topper on a crate along with my first candle. Its wax was still soft, not more than five minutes had passed since the attack. Damn, I hurt worse than a lousy five minutes' worth of unconsciousness. Someone had blended the items into the general junk. Add a little dust and they'd stay lost in the background for years.

Was that the plan for the missing Jerome Schubert? I looked at the mountains of tarp-shrouded boxes with fresh unease, and listened hard, but no sound of a heartbeat came from any of them. Good if he was alive, really bad if he was not.

Off to the side on the bare cement floor lay a woman's shoes. They might have been my client's new mules, but female footwear all looks the same to me. I thought I'd recognized her tone in that gasp and brief scream. Perhaps she'd followed me. When I got clobbered, she sensibly ran. If she was anywhere near I'd have heard her.

Farther into the basement, then, where there was at least one bad guy who'd already decked me. No chance that he would get a second try.

I was still armed, my .38 Detective Special snug in its shoulder rig, but if Dorothy was down here I was reluctant to start slinging lead, however much someone deserved it. This place was full of alternative weapons, though, and in two seconds I had the reassuring weight of a genuine Louisville Slugger in one hand. For all I knew it could have been the same hunk of wood applied so effectively on my shins and skull.

Which still hurt. I limped along until the faint
lub-dub
of a heartbeat teased at my eardrums.

Not far ahead.

Loose-limbed and dazed, Cooley lay in the glare cast by another hanging bulb that had been left on. As I came within his field of view his eyelids flickered with awareness but no real conviction. He looked the way I felt, which was damned awful. Someone had lambasted him good, which was tough luck for the guy. At the same time I wondered what he was doing here. His heartbeat told me he wasn't a member of my particular union, so he couldn't have been following the scent of blood.

I set the bat and candle to one side, patted down his pockets, and found a flask. Plenty of people had gotten into the habit of carrying one during Prohibition. Back during my non-blood-drinking days I'd done the same. His was silver-plated with a cap that doubled as a shot glass. Nice. I dribbled half a finger's worth of hooch in and held it to his lips, careful not to move his head. He wouldn't thank me for that.

The smell of the stuff was about as appealing as gasoline, but I still felt an urge to take a sip as well. Fresh blood was my only poison now, but I could wait.

Cooley choked down his booze and grimaced.

"Who's the bad guy?" I asked. "Becker?"

He growled.

"Where is he?"

Another growl, accompanied by his right hand flapping once against the floor. I took that to mean Becker was not too far ahead.

"Is Dorothy with him?"

"Donno," he managed to say with some effort.

I gave him another shot of firewater, pulled a tarp from something, and covered him to the chin. Maybe I don't feel it much anymore, but it had to be cold down here. His eyes flickered again, puzzlement crossed with I wasn't sure what. Some of these tough guys don't know how to react to common decency.

Snagging up the bat and snuffing the candle, I moved on, trying to be quiet by going on the balls of my feet. In my own ears I sounded like a stampede. At least someone was leaving the lights on ahead.