It
took me two days to drive back to L.A. from the Seattle area. It would
have been quicker if I’d flown, of course.
But traveling by air is not ideal for someone like me. I don’t like being
around large numbers of people in the first place, and ever since the World
Trade Center it’s been increasingly difficult for me to smuggle my switchblade
past security. Plus the airlines keep cutting back on the leg room—I honestly
don’t know how the average human can stand to fly coach anymore.
I’d
rather take a bullet to the chest or a knife to the lung than spend hours
sandwiched, cheek-to-cheek, between a computer analyst and an insurance
adjuster. Besides, it’s not like I punch
a time clock for Vampires-B-Gone. If I want to take a nice, leisurely drive
down the Pacific Coast Highway, that’s nobody’s business but my own.
I
pulled the metal garage door shut against the coming dawn, pausing only long enough
to glance at the graffiti mural covering the wall across the alleyway. I
inherited Indigo Imports from my friend and mentor, Erich Ghilardi, over thirty
years ago. I relocated the home office to West Hollywood in 2004, just around the
corner from Pink’s. Save for the blacked-out front windows and a sign that
reads: “By Appointment Only”, it doesn't look that different from similar boutiques along Melrose.
I
wound my way through the maze of antiques, shrouded under their drop cloths.The ground floor was taken up by the bulkier pieces, while the second floor served double duty as my living space and storage for the more valuable items that have found their way into my possession. As I stooped to pick up the bills and circulars piled below the mail-slot set into the triple-locked front door, I spotted an envelope with a red wax seal that bore the initial
‘H’ embossed into its center. You can always tell those accustomed to wealth
and power simply by the quality of their stationery.
I
cracked open the seal and removed a single piece of tri-folded paper.
Attached to one corner by a paperclip was a color photograph of an ornamental
dagger. I frowned and looked at the letter, which was written in a masculine,
yet tremulous hand, suggesting that the correspondent was either elderly or
infirm, if not both.
Dear Ms. Blue: Please forgive me contacting
you in such a manner, but I have it on good authority from a close mutual acquaintance
that you are a dealer in certain macabre items. I have in my possession one
such piece—the so-called Bluebeard Knife, used by the notorious Gilles de Rais. Should you be interested in this item, you can reach me via the phone
number written on the reverse of the enclosed photograph. I await your call. Sincerely,
Senator Miles Holden
I
studied the photo as I climbed the stairs to the second floor. If the dagger
belonging to Holden was a fake, someone had gone to a lot of trouble to
replicate an item only a handful of antiquaries had heard of, and even fewer would be interested in.
You see, Indigo Imports does not merely
serve as a front to cover for my vampire hunting around the globe, but also
provides me with the raw materials I need
in order to conduct business deals with
certain… consultants.
The Bard did not lie when he wrote ‘the evil that men do lives after
them’. All of the things that find their way to me possess a malign physic
residue--evil, if you will. It’s like catnip to demons—they can’t get enough of it. For example, there’s this one demon down in New Orleans, who is an information broker. I use the
pieces I find to barter with the bastard for his services. Normally he requires a human soul in
exchange for his help, but, like most infernals manifested on the material
plane, he has a serious jones for evil—the more depraved the better.
That’s
why I’m always in the market for personal items associated with notorious
serial killers, mass-murderers, and other such wastes of skin. I’m not talking bad clown paintings by John
Wayne Gacy, cranked out from behind prison bars for morbid hipsters, but the
real deal—things like Jack the Ripper’s valise, Countess Bathory’s bathtub, and
Mengele’s scalpel. Hell, I’ve even got the guillotine that stood in the Place
de la Revolution during the Reign of Terror sitting on the shop floor.
The Bluebeard
Knife would, indeed, be a major score, but only if it proved to be the real
thing. And the only way to know for sure if something is genuinely evil or not is
if I handle it. Authenticating items is never a pleasant task, but there is no
getting around it in my line of work.
I
flipped the photo over and punched the number into one of the burner phones
I keep for such occasions. Despite the earliness of the hour, it only rang a couple times before someone picked up.
“Hello, Ms. Blue.” The gravelly voice on the
other end was that of an elderly man. “I’ve been awaiting your call.”
“I
assume I am speaking to Senator Holden then?”
“Indeed
you are.”
“Please forgive my calling so early in the morning, but I’ve been away on business,” I
explained. “I’ve only just returned to the city, and I called as soon as I read
your letter. Do you still have the knife?”
“At
my age, sleep is more accident than activity,” Holden replied with a dry
chuckle. “And, yes, I still have it. I take it you are interested?”
“Yes, I am. But I must personally verify its authenticity before I can make
an offer.”
“Of course,” he agreed. “However, I do not keep the knife at my home. I will
have my assistant retrieve it from my safety deposit box once my bank opens. I
can have it available for inspection early this evening—How does seven o’clock
sound?”
“Perfect.”
“Very good. I
live in Calabasas. The address is 24520 Rancho Peligro Drive. Just give your
name at the gate.”
“May
I ask exactly who it was that told you about me, Senator?”
“That
will have to wait until we meet face-to-face, Ms. Blue,” the Senator replied. “Goodbye
until then.”
***
Come sundown, I was back in my car, headed toward the 101
and the Santa Monica Mountains. Located in the hills of the southwestern San
Fernando Valley, Calabasas is one of several enclaves of super-wealth that ring
the outskirts of the city. It is a place of lush, rolling hills overlooking scenic
canyons, perfect for multi-million dollar faux-Tuscan villas and sprawling
horse-ranches. I heaved a sigh of relief as I spotted my exit. Even with
superhuman reflexes, driving on the Ventura Freeway within two hours of either
side of rush hour is nerve-wracking.
Holden’s
estate was located high in the foothills, on a tight road with hairpin curves, far
removed from the television producers and Hollywood celebrities who call the
suburb their home. As I piloted my way
up the twisting road, I suddenly found an all-too-familiar voice murmuring in
my ear: How do you know it’s not a trap?
“I
checked out Holden,” I replied to the empty air. “He’s legit. He was a California
state senator for over twenty years until he fell off a horse. Since then he’s been
paralyzed from the waist down. He’s known for collecting fine antiques, so it
makes sense he might come into possession of something like the Bluebeard
Knife.”
Who put him onto you in the first
place?
“I’m rather curious about that, myself,” I admitted.
What does he want?
“He wants to sell me an antique dagger.”
No, what does he really want? There has to be another
reason for him luring you out here.
“You’re
paranoid, you know that?” I sighed. “You always
suspect everyone of hidden agendas.
You have a really low opinion of humanity, you know that?”
Because I’m not one of them, The Other replied. And
neither are you. You would do well to remember that.
“Shut up and leave me alone,” I growled, digging my
fingernails into the flesh of my upper thigh. My invisible passenger fell
silent, but I could still feel it in the back of my head, watching me like a
cat standing guard outside a mouse hole.
A couple minutes later the car came to halt in front of a
high stone wall and a pair of imposing metal gates. A man dressed like a farm hand with an Uzi
slung over his shoulder, emerged from a small hut on the other side. I stuck my head out of the driver’s side
window and saw the guard frown as he realized I was wearing mirrored sunglasses
after dark.
“My name is Sonja Blue,” I said. “The Senator is
expecting me.”
The guard nodded and stepped back inside the building. There
was a buzzing noise as the gates swung open, allowing me to continue my
journey. A mile later, after passing several paddocks and a sizable stable, I
finally reached the main house. It was a Spanish Colonial Revival-style mansion
that gleamed white as a tomb in the glow from the security lights.
A tall, muscular man in his early thirties
stood waiting for me in the front court yard. He was dressed in a nicely
tailored suit that did its best to try and hide the bulge from his
shoulder-holster. As I got out of the car, I caught a tiny flicker of concern
as he took in my leather biker’s jacket, steel-toed boots and sunglasses.
“Good evening, Ms. Blue,” the bodyguard said with a practiced
smile. “My name is Vickers. I am the Senator’s personal assistant. He sent me
to formally welcome you to Rancho Peligro, as he is unable to do so himself.”
“How considerate,” I grunted.
“The Senator does not get many visitors nowadays,”
Vickers explained, gesturing for me to follow him into the mansion. “He is most
eager to meet with you.”
The foyer of the house was vast, with decorated tile
flooring and a huge wrought-iron chandelier hanging suspended from the exposed
ceiling timbers like a medieval piñata.
Just beyond the entry were twin stairways, each with elaborately
scrolled metal balustrades, which branched off to separate wings of the mansion.
Looking
down from the left-hand landing was a blonde woman in a designer cocktail
dress, holding a martini glass in one finely manicured hand. It was hard to
tell her exact age, as her face possessed the waxy, wrinkle-free sheen of the
perpetually Botoxed, but she appeared to be in her early forties.
“Is that the Blue woman?” she asked in an
over-loud, slightly slurred voice.
“Yes it is, Mrs. Holden,” Vickers replied, speaking in a
tone usually reserved for small children and pets. “I’m taking her to see the
Senator.”
“About time she showed up,” the blonde said as she
drained what remained of her drink.
“Is that the Senator’s wife?” I asked as Vickers led me
through an archway off the main foyer that opened onto a loggia decorated with
Renaissance bronze and marble statues.
“The Senator is a widower,” the assistant explained
matter-of-factly. “The woman you saw is his daughter-in-law, Estelle.”
Upon reaching the end of the gallery, Vickers opened an oaken
door with hand-forged fittings with a key that looked like it belonged to a
pirate’s treasure chest. I stepped into a large rotunda-like room, the walls of
which were hung with original El Greco and Velázquez canvasses. At its center was a mahogany desk big enough
to play ping pong on, behind which was Miles Holden, seated in what could best he described as a motorized executive’s chair.
“Good
evening, Ms. Blue,” the Senator smiled. From the shoulders up he looked no
different than he had in his campaign posters, save that his salt-and-pepper
hair had finally turned silver. From the
waist down, however, his body was as gnarled as a cypress stump. He reminded me of a living, breathing Pez dispenser. “I trust Vickers has officially welcomed you
to my humble abode?”
“That
he has,” I replied. “Nice place for horses you’ve got here.”
“Yes,
it was,” he agreed, a hint of sadness in his voice. “I had them all put down after the accident. I
didn’t see any point in having them if I couldn’t ride them.” He motioned to
one of the club chairs opposite him. “Please have a seat, Ms. Blue.”
“Senator
Holden—you mentioned that we shared a mutual acquaintance in your letter. Who
exactly was it who recommended me to you?”
“All
in good time, Ms. Blue,” he assured me. “But first allow me to show you the
knife.” He nodded to Vickers, who opened one of the desk drawers and removed a
black leather clam shell case. The bodyguard walked over to where I was seated
and flipped open the box, holding it so I could examine its contents.
The
dagger lay on a bed of black velvet like a piece of fine jewelry. From its blue
lapis lazuli pommel to its sterling silver knife point, it measured eight inches
in length, and had an eighteen-carat white gold hilt studded with diamonds and
sapphires.
“Beautiful,
isn’t it?” Holden said. “Hard to believe something so lovely was used to slit
the throats of over a hundred young boys while observing black Sabbath rituals.”
“It
is stunning,” I agreed. “Of course, I need to handle it in order to verify
whether or not it is the genuine article.”
“Be
my guest.”
I
took a deep breath, steeling myself against what might come next, and carefully
lifted the jeweled dagger from its velvet-lined resting place. As my fingers
wrapped about the handle, I experienced a slight electric shock, as if I had
brushed against an ungrounded wire, followed by the sound of a small child
wailing in fear and pain. Within the space of a heartbeat the single voice doubled,
tripled, quadrupled—until it was a children’s choir of terrified screams. I quickly
let the knife drop back into the case.
“It is authentic,” I said, wiping my hands against my
leather jacket. “I have no doubt that this was used by Giles de
Rais. How much do you want?”
“I’m not looking to sell it,” the Senator replied.
“If that’s the case, why did you bother contacting me in
the first place?” I snapped. “Did you simply drag me out here just to
authenticate it?”
“Hold on—there’s no need to become angry. Let me
explains. While I’m not interested in selling the Bluebeard Knife, I am willing to make a trade…”
“Trade? For what?” I frowned.
“Your services as a vampire hunter.”
The pit of my stomach dropped away, and for a single,
paralyzing second I felt as vulnerable and exposed as I had that night in
London, decades ago, when I found myself trapped in the backseat of a car with a
lord of the undead.
“I’m sorry, Senator,” I said, quickly regaining my
composure. “Everyone knows there are no such things as vampires!”
“Just
like everyone used to know the world was flat and the moon made of green
cheese, eh?” the statesman said with a humorless laugh. “I didn’t believe
in them, either, until a week ago—when one of the bastards stole my
granddaughter. But now I know they’re real—just like I know you’re the only one
who can get her back.”
“If
this is a joke, it is in very poor
taste,” I said, getting to my feet. “I may not be as rich and famous as other
people you’re accustomed to dealing with, Senator, but my time is valuable to me, and I don’t appreciate having it
wasted in such a manner!” With that, I turned my back on Holden and headed for
the door.
“You wanted to know who it was that told me about you?”
he called out after me. “Very well, I’ll tell you his name: Jacob
Thorne.”
I froze in my tracks and then slowly turned back to stare at
Holden, who sat there watching me with a confident smile on his face.
“How do you know my father?” I asked.
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