Her Loving Husband's Curse (18 page)

“No comment.”

The sheriff nodded and walked away.

Cut to the reporter by the yellow tape outside Hempel’s office. “From inside Kenneth Hempel’s home in Danvers, this is Kara Kennington for WCVB Channel 5.”

The nice-looking gray-haired anchorman nodded at the camera. “Kara, since you’re in Kenneth Hempel’s home, can you tell us how his wife and children are doing?”

“They’re heartbroken, as you would imagine, Bill. Mrs. Hempel declined to be interviewed on camera, but she told me before we went on the air that she didn’t know why anyone would want to kill her husband. When I asked if she thought his controversial statements about vampires had anything to do with his murder, she said she wasn’t sure. She said she never took his vampire talk seriously, and she didn’t think others did either.”

“Very sad. Thank you Kara.”

James sat at his desk unmoving for the longest time. It might have been an hour or a minute. A century or a year. The physical time didn’t matter. It only mattered that it had begun. He thought of Jocelyn and Timothy. He thought of Chandresh. Oh my God, Chandresh. Now will you think of me differently? Now will you think I hurt you instead of helped you? James remembered the night the mean-mouthed soldier stood outside Chandresh’s home, ignoring the Cherokee man as though he were less than the mud that scuffed his officer’s boots, and he wondered if this experience with the police would be more of the same.

James worried for his friends, but he worried for himself too. Someone had access to the files the police salvaged from Hempel’s office, and James guessed that his name was somewhere in those files. It had to be. Hempel had pursued him with such narrow-minded purpose for seven long months, taking notes on that damned yellow legal pad, researching, asking questions, spying. James saw it in his mind, his name on a list somewhere in Hempel’s office spelled out in mismatched magazine clippings like a ransom note from a madman.

“This is absurd,” he said aloud. “You heard those reporters laugh. Timothy, Jocelyn, and Chandresh will be fine. We’ll all be fine.” He unlatched his window and pushed it open, letting the sharp March night air into his office. This too shall pass, he thought. By next week everyone will have forgotten about Kenneth Hempel. I already have.

James heard the lighting-quick flash and Timothy stood by the open door. “Did I hear my name?” Timothy looked around the office. “Why are you talking to yourself? Don’t you know only crazy people talk to themselves?”

“They’re only crazy if they answer,” James said.

Timothy sat in the empty chair near the bookshelf while James closed the door. “What were you saying?” Timothy asked.

“I was just hoping that everyone was going to be all right after the police interrogation.”

“I wouldn’t call it much of an interrogation. They stopped by last night and asked where I was the night Hempel was murdered. It was easy enough to answer since I was here in calculus class. The professor takes roll so they can verify it if they need to. They didn’t seem too concerned. They said thank you and left.”

“Do you think that’s it?” James asked.

“I do, and so does Dad.”

James nodded. Perhaps this would blow over even more quickly than he hoped.

Timothy didn’t look pleased. His face was puckered as if he had just eaten a bagful of sour gummy worms. He crossed his arms over his chest and his legs at the ankles. “Aren’t you going to ask me what’s wrong?” he asked.

“Is something wrong? You always look that way.”

Timothy pulled a three-folded business letter from his backpack and waved it in the air. “All those half-assed vampire books out there and they turn
me
down! It’s bullshit!”

“What are you talking about, Timothy?”

“I finished my memoir and sent queries to some editors saying it was a vampire novel. They all turned me down!” Timothy shoved the letter in James’s face. “This one editor said I wrote the most unbelievable vampire story he ever read, so I called him and told him I’m really a vampire and it’s all true.”

“Timothy!” James yelled so loudly the window rattled in its frame. “How could you do that after everything that’s happened? Don’t you have any sense in your head?”

“Relax, James. The editor didn’t believe me. He laughed and said writers are all alike. Whenever someone criticizes our work we claim it really happened.”

James slumped into his chair and turned toward the open window. He leaned his head outside, allowing the night bay breeze to cool him. “It’s for the best,” he said finally. “We need to stay as far away from the word vampire as we can right now.”

“I just wanted to share my story,” Timothy said. “I don’t understand a lot about the world, James, especially now, and writing helps me make sense of things, you know?”

James nodded. “I know, Timothy. But there’s no rush. This madness will blow over, all madness does, and then you can try again. And you still learned about yourself from your experience writing the book. You don’t lose that wisdom.”

As Timothy left, James looked at the time on his cell phone and saw it was library closing time. He went to turn down his computer and saw a new link from Howard. What now, he wondered? When he saw the comment on the
New York Times
blog he blinked once, twice. But it was still there. Even if he sent the screen crashing through his office window to smash on the pavement outside the words would still be etched into his brain, tattooed, leaving their imprints. Forever.

I’ve read the posts from the haters bashing Kenneth Hempel saying he was a loser who deserved to die for the stupid stuff he said. Here’s my two cents. My sister is an orderly at Salem Hospital and she says she’s been providing blood for a real vampire for over a year now. When she first told me that I freaked, but then she said how she got him donated blood from the blood bank and he never hurt her, not even a bit. Never tried to sneak a bite, I asked? Not once, she said. She was very casual about it, like it was no big deal, he was no big deal, yeah he’s a vampire, whatever, and that’s that. My sister is smart (she goes to college and everything) and if she says vampires are no big deal then I believe her. Suck on that haters!

After they arrived home and put Grace to bed, James showed Sarah the clip about Hempel’s murder and the comment on the
New York Times
blog. She watched and read, nodding at nothing in particular, trying to absorb it all. James kissed her forehead and watched her with all his intensity.

“Perhaps I shouldn’t have told you,” he said.

“Yes, you should have. Everyone everywhere is talking about vampires. In the grocery store. In the doctor’s office. Every book on vampires has been checked out of the library, and there’s a waiting list two months long. Every computer I walk past someone is on a vampire website. Every conversation I hear in the halls is about vampires.”

James stroked her face from her temple to her chin. “Let them talk. The police questioned Timothy for ten minutes and left. No one is taking this seriously.”

Sarah nodded. She wanted to be convinced, but then she felt the slithering iron chains lurking behind her as though ready to snap at her like a King Cobra. She hadn’t seen the chains since the past-life regression, but for a moment they were there again, mocking her, ready to drag her away. James lifted her chin with his hand and kissed her frown away. She closed her eyes, straightening the words out in her mind. Finally, she said, “You can’t get blood from Salem Hospital anymore.”

“No.”

“And you won’t drink from me.”

“No.”

“Where will you go?”

“Jennifer knows someone at the General Hospital.”

“She’s also the one who found Amy.”

“Amy’s sister didn’t mean any harm. She was trying to say vampires were all right.”

“She was a little too specific.”

“Perhaps. But there’s no reason to connect her comment to me.”

“I know.”

James shook his head. “You don’t believe me.”

“I do…I want to…I just…”

“I know, honey. I know.”

Grace cried from her crib and James carried her into the great room, sitting with her on the sofa, rocking her, soothing her. The baby waved her hands in the air, her jewel-like eyes wide and beckoning her mother. When Sarah joined them, Grace smiled, yawned, and patted her father’s shoulder. James held her close and kissed her cheek. Sarah put her arms around them both, struggling to control the shaking that rattled her bones from her marrow to her joints. A whisper, an incoherent mumble, words of caution she couldn’t quite make out—what were they saying? She thought she was being warned, about what she didn’t know, but she guessed from the way James avoided her gaze he felt it too.

* * * * *

It’s midnight. Do you know where your favorite celebs are?

Tom Hardison, star of the movie
Every Damn Way
, has been spotted at night, every night, and only at night. One of our reporters cornered him outside his favorite club at three a.m. this morning.

“Out late again, huh, Tom?”

“Yeah. Whatever.”

“You’ve been looking kind of thin and pale lately. When’s the last time you’ve eaten? And you’re only out at night.”

“What?”

“We never see you during the day. Do you sleep during the day?”

“Yeah, dude, I’m a vampire like everyone says.”

Hardison is just one more name in the new trend to “out” certain celebrities as vampires. According to sources close to his latest film, when Hardison wasn’t on the closed set of the soundstage he demanded all exterior windows be covered with heavy curtains during the day, claiming it was hard on his eyes. Others stated that Hardison was never seen with the cast at lunch, always choosing to stay in his darkened trailer, alone.

“He was always so pale, and when I touched his hand he was so cold,” said one source. “I don’t know. Maybe with all the talk about vampires these days people are expecting them to be real. He might be a vampire for all I know.”

What do we know for sure about the guy? Based on what we’ve seen, he’s either a vampire—or stoned. Maybe it’s hard to tell the difference.

CHAPTER 15

Marissa Tillis.

Manny Santiago.

James Wentworth.

Ned Zuckerman.

Rachael Morgan.

There it was. His black-word name on the white-paper list released by who-knows-who, someone with access to the yellow legal pads in Hempel’s closet. The reports did state that Hempel had no plans to go forth with these names. For whatever reason, Hempel was less convinced about these individuals than the ones he made public. When James saw the look on Sarah’s face as she scanned the newspaper and saw his name, he realized he didn’t know what to say to soothe her. He had been so careful for those long three centuries, moving on whenever he had an inkling anyone found him odd. He had become mistrustful after he was turned, taking great pains to hide his preternatural truth from nearly everyone. But now wherever he went he felt eyes on him, that neon arrow he imagined hovering a foot above his head, pointing him out in flashing lights. Bloodsucker. Monster. Villain. Evil.

Vampire.

When word started getting around the university, others stepped around the topic. They didn’t believe it the way they didn’t believe the accusations against anyone else, and James realized they felt sorry for him.

“But Professor Wentworth is a nice family man,” neighbors said to inquisitive reporters. “He’s married to a lovely young woman, a librarian, and they have a new baby. He’s been at the college about two years now. I hear he’s well respected there.”

One neighbor, a retired man, went on the local news standing in front of the wooden gabled house. “I used to think this place was haunted because it’s so old,” the neighbor said, “but now I know Mr. Wentworth is just a regular guy with a family and a job at the college.”

On campus, James made a conscious effort to remove the bulls-eye he felt nailed to his forehead. He had to put the flashing neon sign aside. If a student on campus yelled, “Hey Doctor Wentworth, someone called you a vampire. Isn’t that crazy?” he’d nod and agree. If another professor said, “Look out, Professor Wentworth’s going to bite your neck!” he’d laugh.

But as the nights passed he felt the shift. When he walked the corridors of Meier Hall, he’d hear students whisper, “They say Professor Wentworth is a vampire.” When they saw him they’d stop talking.

Two weeks after his name was printed in the paper his Shakespeare seminar was half-empty. He brushed it off as midterm blues and taught as usual. As he walked back to the library, he looked at the students, many rushing past to their next class, deep in their conversations or solitary and absorbed in the music blasting from their earbuds. He thought they wouldn’t look him in the eye, but he dismissed that too. Not everything is about you, James, he thought. They’re too busy living their lives to worry about you. In the library he passed a few professors, and where normally they’d exchange pleasantries, the usual ‘How are you? I’m fine. How are you? I’m struggling along, you know,’ that night they hurried past, their eyes focused on the other end of the hall.