Vampire "Unleashed" (Vampire "Untitled" Trilogy Book 3) (15 page)

She was looking away.

She was always looking away.

“I love you, Ildico,” he whispered. “I do love you.”

His snow had melted to hot water. He added a teabag and spent a few minutes checking his sleeping bag and preparing his escape pack. Take nothing for granted. Get paranoid, stay paranoid and be ready to run at a moment’s notice.

He thought of Ildico again. He pictured reaching out to touch her hair, lifting it in his fingers to his face that he could bathe in her goodness. She was beautiful.

----- X -----

He had chores today that began with an inventory of food stocks and a list for replacements. He unfolded a map of the local area. There were marks on the paper, black X’s through some of the villages. The only behavioural pattern he would be guilty of creating was never visiting the same place twice. He picked a tiny burg called Sinca Veche and went through the laborious task of manually entering the coordinates onto a GPS keyring. The GPS was barely more than an orange disc hanging on a keychain but once set with location data the navigation was a breeze. It wasn’t so much for finding his way to the town, it was for finding his way home to this little patch of nowhere.

He stepped out into sunshine and went behind the hovel for the motorbike. He had a car also that was almost hidden under the drifting snow. It was junk and coming to the end of its life. He hadn’t started the engine for two months and wondered if it would even run again. He pulled off the tarp. Trusty as always, the bike started first time and he headed out onto roads that could barely be seen. He rode for forty minutes to Sinca Veche.

The first stop was to a supermarket where he loaded as much in tinned goods and pasta as his backpack could take. He would come back before leaving town to buy a small sack of rice and tie it above the bike’s fuel tank. The town was peaceful. Sleepy. A quiet place of stucco buildings in pastel colours. It reminded him of Noua in the layout but with an obviously better economy. There were smart looking hotels and a few pedestrians in colourful ski suits.

“Are you open for food?” he asked at a hotel.

“Yes, hello, come in please. Are you English?” The woman was about forty with a comfortable layer of fat about the middle.

“I’m Canadian,” Paul lied as he stepped into a traditionally styled restaurant of white plaster walls and dark wooden tables. He was the only customer and his hostess spent her time looking after him. He ate a chicken kiev with mashed potatoes that was simply delicious. He drank freshly made coffee from a porcelain cup with real cream rather than a plastic mug and powdered milk. Compared to living in a stone shed the restaurant was pure luxury.

There was a computer in the hotel lobby. “Excuse me, is it possible to use the internet, or is there an internet cafe in town?”

“You can use this one,” the hostess said.

He sat at the PC and waited for the hostess to busy herself behind reception then used a prepaid credit card to register with a Virtual Private Network provider in Ukraine, then used their portal to access the internet through a proxy and from there typed his name into a search engine. As usual, the lurid details of his crimes appeared in a list of relevance. He filtered the search result to list from newest first. There were always a few new entries, normally from blogs copying details from other websites. The newest was a listing on a sex-killer database. “Bastards,” he whispered. The other killers were sadists and sex-criminals. He’d committed sadistic and sexual crimes but he couldn’t mentally connect himself to those perverts.

He logged into the online banking to check Ildico’s monthly payments. There was plenty of money in there and the transfers had gone through. She spent a lot less than was transferred every month. He checked Alina’s trust fund and noticed a surprise gain of almost six percent since the last time he’d looked. Burkhalter’s investment recommendations had proven sound so far. His final check was to his lockmail account to see if the Swiss lawyer had anything for him.

There was no email from Burkhalter.

There was some spam.

There was…

Paul felt his body lock rigid. There was an email with the title, ‘Paul McGovern We Need to Talk About Ildico Popescu’

Nobody knew that name. Nobody knew the name of Paul McGovern. He was Alan Jay. Yet there it was. In plain sight was an email to him, sent to Alan Jay but using his real name.

Dare he open the mail?

Ordinarily he would have walked away… but it said, Ildico.

What if they tracked him when he opened it… what if they were tracking already just from accessing lockmail?

His heart beat faster, his skin began burning, sweat forming on his face. Assume everything. Assume a police capture team were assembled and waiting for him to login. They had to break the proxy, then the VPN, then locate him in the middle of nowhere Romania… But if the police were looking why would they send an email that tipped him off?

This was different.

He opened the mail.

‘Paul McGovern. I know you are using the alias Alan Jay. I know you are giving Ildico Popescu money that you stole. If you return the money you have in Switzerland we will draw a line under this and that will be the end of it. If you do not return the money, Ildico and your daughter Alina will be harmed. We have already started harming Ildico. You can stop us harming her by returning the money you have remaining in Switzerland. Do Not Make Us Force You!!! Ildico can keep her home, but you must return the money you have stored in trust for Alina. We can be contacted in Romania on the telephone number below. Take a good look at the photographs. You can stop this. Only you can stop this.’

He scrolled down.

Pictures.

A man in a ski mask held Ildico’s arms behind her back. Her face soaked in blood, her eyes white and bright through the visage of red. Her mouth was open in a scream with rivulets of blood cascading from her lips and between her breasts.

Another picture. Ildico was against the floor, less visibly injured but more strained. Were they raping her?

Another image, a tall thin man held her arms, her body was leaning forward as she tried to pull away, her head tilted back as she screamed, her breasts exposed, her whole body covered in bright red blood.

What were they doing to her?

Who the fuck are these people?

How had they identified him?

How had they linked Alan Jay to Paul McGovern.?

Paul wrote down the telephone number then decided to copy the message verbatim. He struggled to concentrate. His hands trembled and his handwriting was like a child’s. He logged out and shut the computer off. He stood up feeling uneasy.

“Can I get you anything?” the hotel lady asked.

Paul tried to say ‘no’ but no sound came out. His hands suddenly shook until his left hand clasped into an iron locked fist. His eyes began juddering in his head, rocking left to right, pushing him into a headache.

He passed some money on to the hotel lady, more than enough and waved her off before she gave change. He almost ran out through the front door. His arms were shaking, his eyes were shaking, his teeth began chattering. He was carrying his backpack in his right hand and wanted to loop it over his shoulders but couldn’t manage the action.

As he stepped out into the street he felt his legs giving way and he stumbled forward onto his knees dropping the pack of food.

“Jesus… Jesus… Jesus…” He managed to fight back to his feet and slid his shoes through loose snow to a wall. His breathing was rapid. He leaned against the wall and focussed on his shoes. He tried again with the backpack.

Jesus Christ… Ildico… What have they done to you?

What did they do?

Oh, fuck…

He lifted his right hand to his face and pressed it over his eyes, his body collapsed further against the wall, his left hand had locked so tightly it began to throb with pain. “I need to get away,” he whispered. “I need to get away… Get on the bike. Return to the hovel. Vanish.” That was the plan, but his body wouldn’t move. Everything had to be done in deliberate steps. The first step was to remove his right hand from covering his eyes but his body didn’t want to respond. He fought it, moving his limbs slowly, trying to get onto two feet and off the wall…

And that was when he saw it.

For the first time in a long time, he saw it.

Standing in the middle of a crossroads, was a naked man with shiny marble-like skin. The moment they made eye contact Paul’s whole being shifted. The loss of control was replaced by certainty of action. The muscle spasms were replaced by controlled strength. The rapid eye movements switched to laser stillness.

There was a naked man with pure white skin standing in the middle of a road. He began walking to Paul. He was flawless, his muscle tone perfect, his face, his cheekbones, his chin, all carved from stone. With every step, Paul felt his diffidence evaporate. With closeness he saw the ruby red glass of its eyes. With extreme closeness the man raised a hand and Paul saw the tiny silver crucifix tied around his wrist. That hand came to rest on Paul’s shoulder and like a Catholic feeling the hand of God at a moment of crisis Paul felt the hand of the Strigoi on him.

“I’m going to find these people,” he said. “I don’t know how... but I will... And I’m going to slaughter them.”

He took a moment to recompose then took the note he had written and read it again. ‘If you return the money you have in Switzerland’... Burkhalter. The lawyer. That bastard was the only one who could know. He went back into the hotel.

“Is everything alright?” the lady asked.

Paul floundered for a moment knowing he must look like he’d been punched in the face. “I’m sorry… I checked my email and saw an unexpected death in the family. Could I use your phone for an international call?”

“Yes, of course. You can use this phone. Are you calling Canada?” She pointed to a perspex bubble hanging from the wall by the edge of reception. He found Burkhalter’s card in his wallet, his hands trembling as he dialled. Don’t scare him… information, get the information.

A receptionist answered.

“This is Alan Jay,” he said in English. “I need to speak with Herr Burkhalter please. It is very urgent.”

He waited at least two minutes. “Mr. Jay?” The voice was Burkhalter, he sounded subdued. Something was wrong.

“What has happened? Are you able to talk?”

“Yes, I can talk… Mr Jay. I was attacked by people who claim you stole money from them.”

“Who are they?” Paul growled.

“I don’t know who they are. They said you stole money from them?”

“And what did you tell them?”

There was a pause. “Mr. Jay. I was kidnapped. I suffered a heart attack... I am informing you... that I am not going to represent you.”

“You were kidnapped? By who? Tell me who did this?”

“I don’t know who they are, Mr. Jay. But they are looking for you.”

Paul looked at his handwritten copy of the email. “Did you tell them about Ildico and Alina Popescu?”

“They wanted to know what financial products I had arranged for you… Mr. Jay. They put a gun in my mouth. I am not going to have any more dealings with you. Goodbye.”

The phone went dead.

Paul read and reread the email. After a few minutes he called Burkhalter again and spoke to the receptionist. “Hi, this is Alan Jay. Can I leave a message for Herr Burkhalter, please.”

“Yes, what is your message.”

“Tell him… tell him, thank you for his time and service. Tell him I am sorry he has suffered… Tell him… that I understand.”

He hung up.

He looked at the slip of paper. He looked at the telephone number. He thought about calling, he thought about listening to the voice on the other end of the line. He decided against it. He needed to think this through.

----- X -----

Paul made it back to the hovel, glad he hadn’t called the number from the email. He was too emotional to think. Emotional men are irrational men. They are the men who make mistakes.

He made tea just to go through the motions of doing something but ended up pacing from one end of the hovel to the other, continually telling himself to calm and rest his head. Think, don’t feel.

Think…

But how could he think when he considered how those photographs had been taken? Those men had their hands on Ildico. They had removed her clothes. They had made her bleed. They had subjected her to terror. Had she fought back as they undressed her, or did she cry and allow them? Did they make her believe she was going to die?

Did she think of him… and hate him when they mentioned his name?

Had they turned him into a hate figure for Ildico?

He opened the door, stepped into the snow field and screamed as hard and loud as his lungs and larynx could manage. Then he sucked in air and screamed again, roaring to the wilderness to purge and flush out the hostility.

“Be calm, Paul,” he said to himself. “Calm… calm… calm… Fuck calm. Fuck these people. Who in Christ’s name do they think they are?” He roared again feeling his lungs work better than ever and almost sensing that his ribcage had expanded permanently, his chest enlarging and puffing outwards. He wanted to run and run. He wanted to punch something. He slipped his hand into his coat and pulled the karambit from its holster to begin shadow murders, imagining opponents in his midst to slaughter with the hooked blade.

It took the best part of an hour.

He read and reread the copied email.

It could only be one person. The Albanian brother who had somehow survived his assault. Paul looked at the email again.

‘I know you are giving Ildico Popescu money that you stole. If you return the money you have in Switzerland we will draw a line under this and that will be the end. If you do not return the money, Ildico and your daughter will be harmed.’

When he’d first learned there was a survivor, he assumed it was Erjon, the gunman he’d run through with the sword and left in the road. It was a surprise when he discovered it was the driver of the car, the one he’d left with his sword embedded through his chest. Paralysed, it said on the internet. In need of constant care.