Читать книгу Dark of the Moon - Susan Krinard - Страница 13

“YOU WERE RIGHT, Mr. Hogan,” Pete Wilkins said, patting the Leica thirty-five millimeter camera hanging by his side. “Miss Murphy brought some fella back to her apartment. I think he was sick…he didn’t walk too well.”

Mitch kept his face a blank. Wilkins had been glad enough to help him; the boy had ambitions to be a photographer for the Sentinel, and he would have done just about anything to obtain Mitch’s good word. But under no circumstances would Mitch allow the kid to see his true feelings, especially when they were caused by a woman.

“Did you get photographs?” he asked.

“Sure.” Wilkins hesitated. “I don’t know how well they came out, though. The guy had his head down most of the time.”

“I see.”

“I can go back, Mr. Hogan. The man didn’t leave the building. He’s probably still there, and—”

“I may need you again, Pete. That’s all for now.”

“Sure. Anytime.” He backed away and walked out of the city room.

Mitch turned and bent over his desk, shuffling papers with numb fingers. He finally had an idea of what had been making Gwen behave so oddly for the past two weeks, working like a demon during the day and vanishing every night. He still couldn’t wrap his mind around the fact that she’d been seeing another man; she could have no earthly reason for looking elsewhere when she had a devoted suitor—personable, respectable and comfortably situated—ready to marry her at a moment’s notice. And it wasn’t like her to sneak around. If she had fallen in love with someone else, she would have told him outright.

Would she? She hasn’t given you a straight answer to your proposal. You knew she was hiding something. Why should she tell the truth about this?

He crumpled a blank sheet of paper between his hands. Why had Gwen taken a sick man to her apartment? It certainly didn’t seem like a standard assignation. And for all his doubts, Mitch found it impossible to believe that she would casually share a bed with someone she couldn’t have known for very long.

It’s only recently that she’s been so distant. This is something new.

Something new, but surely not serious. And that meant that he still had an excellent chance of nipping the relationship, whatever it might be, in the bud. But he wouldn’t confront Gwen. Not yet. He would use Pete a little longer and see what else he could learn.

Everyone has something to hide, Guinevere…even your new friend. And when I find out who he is and what he’s afraid of, I’ll make sure he disappears from your life. And mine.

DORIAN LISTENED TO THE door close and opened his eyes.

Gwen had believed he was asleep, as he’d pretended to be for most of the previous day and night. They had hardly spoken since he’d caught her touching him, the memory of her bold actions suspended between them like a hangman’s noose.

Blushing and self-conscious, Gwen had made him a simple dinner and let him eat it alone. She’d retired to the living room to sleep on the sofa, as if that small distance would protect them both from a serious breach of propriety.

Not that he’d given her any reason to fear that he would return her advances. Quite the contrary. He had deliberately maintained his distance, pretending an indifference he didn’t feel while his body raged with need. His senses were stretched thin, attentive to her every movement. The slightest scent of her body made him harden, and all he could think of was taking her in this very bed.

Now she was gone, if only for the day, and the relief was overwhelming. He sat up, propped against the pillows, and flexed his arms. It had taken only twenty-four hours for him to recover, though he was still a little weak. Gwen’s blood had worked a miracle.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, noting the clothing she had laid out for him on the room’s single chair: a sandcolored fisherman’s sweater, a pair of flannel trousers, stockings and plain brown oxfords. It was the uniform of an ordinary man, no doubt purchased by Gwen at some local shop. Dorian hadn’t worn apparel even remotely like it since his youth, not in all the years since he’d started working for Raoul.

Slowly he pulled the sweater over his head and stepped into the trousers. Leaving the oxfords and stockings at the foot of the chair, he went into the living room. A pile of blankets lay heaped on the sofa. Against his will, Dorian walked to the couch and lifted one of the blankets, pressing it to his face. His cock came to instant attention.

He inhaled deeply, rubbing his cheek against the blanket. For months he’d lived rudderless, with no one to command him and no duty to consume his thoughts. Death had seemed better than such emptiness. But then Gwen had come into his life, and suddenly the hollow in his heart was filled.

He had never been as afraid as he was at this moment.

With another ragged breath, Dorian tossed the blanket back on the sofa. A folded piece of paper fell to the carpet. He picked it up and opened it. The lines were written in a strong cursive, as eloquent of Gwen as the scent of her hair.

Good morning, Dorian.

If you’re reading this, you’re up and about. Don’t push yourself. There’s more food in the kitchen. Take as much as you like. I’ll pick up more on my way back from the office.

Something I forgot to mention, and since you may be wondering: Walter is fine. I’ve set him up in a little boardinghouse where he’ll be around other people and the doctor can visit him occasionally. Considering his age, he’s in pretty good shape. I’ll take you to see him once you’re up to it.

Rest. I’ll be back by seven.

Gwen’s signature was a broad flourish, a confident sweep of the pen that belied her earlier unease. Dorian refolded the note and laid it on the sofa. He’d hardly thought of Walter once he’d committed himself to suicide, convinced that Gwen would see to the old man’s welfare. And she had. Even if Dorian feared what she’d done in saving his own life, he owed her greatly for saving Walter’s.

His thoughts in turmoil, Dorian wandered about the small apartment. The furniture was modest both in price and design, suitable for a woman who spent little time at home. There were only four rooms, including the bathroom, every one neat and well organized. The one exception was the secretary near the single window in the corner of the living room. It was scattered with manila folders and blotched with ink stains, though there were indications that Gwen had recently attempted to clean it. An antique typewriter took up the center space in front of the battered steno chair.

Also on the desk was a photograph of an older man holding a certificate, which on closer inspection proved to be a Pulitzer Prize in journalism. Dorian picked up the photograph. The man had graying auburn hair and lively eyes that forcefully reminded Dorian of Gwen. The name on the certificate was Eamon Murphy.

Dorian set down the photo and opened one of the folders. In it were several obituaries for Eamon Murphy and a number of newspaper articles written by him; the sheer volume of the stories and their prominence among the front pages suggested that he’d been a senior reporter at the Sentinel.

His interest fully aroused, Dorian continued to study the notes and clippings. At the bottom of the stack he found a torn sheet of newsprint, a page out of the Sentinel dated eight months previous. The page number indicated that the Murphy article, circled in red pencil, had held a lowly position at the back of the newspaper. But when Dorian began to read the headline, all the fine hairs at the base of his neck came erect.

Is Blood Cult Responsible for Recent Deaths?

He quickly scanned the columns. Murphy advanced the seemingly bizarre theory that several murders committed in the months before the paper’s date, attributed by police to mobs fighting over territory, had actually been perpetrated by a secret cult operating out of Manhattan, a cult that engaged in the unique practice of draining all the blood from the corpses of its victims. The story was no more than a few paragraphs, unaccompanied by pictures. Clearly the Sentinel’s editors had not found Murphy’s conjecture plausible enough to warrant a more prominent place in the newspaper.

At the bottom of the page was a barely legible scrawl in a feminine hand: Waterfront murders?

Dorian dropped the paper. He’d foolishly assumed that Gwen’s interest in the triple murders on the docks had been nothing more than that of any reporter doggedly pursuing yet another story about gangland assassinations.

None of the remaining papers shed further light on Murphy’s conjecture or Gwen’s query. The drawer at the front of the desk was locked. Dorian forced it open and found a folder bulging with lined notepaper and more clippings. The label read Dad’s Notes. Dorian laid the folder on the table and spread the clippings on the desktop.

About half of the articles were stories covering homicides that had occurred over the past two years, ranging from presumed mob hits to unsolved murders. Notations written in a masculine hand decorated the browned margins, most unintelligible.

A single torn sheet of white paper, neatly typed, revealed Murphy’s thoughts.

They exist. I don’t know who they are yet, but I do know that I’m on the verge of uncovering something important, something that will expose the killers and vindicate me.

It is increasingly clear that this organization bears no loyalty toward any of the various gangs in Manhattan, but has a very specific agenda of its own. Today a man came to see me, calling himself by the name of Aadon and claiming that he possessed invaluable details of several past murders that would open my eyes to a world hidden from all but a privileged few. He brought with him a book, which I have only just begun to read. I now have reason to believe

And there the note ended. In the bottom margin Gwen had written: Pages missing. Why? What book? Who is Aadon?

The last three words were heavily underscored. Dorian rubbed his chin and stared at the closed, dusty curtains behind the desk. Aadon. He had never heard the name, nor did he have any idea to which book Eamon had referred. The reporter’s ideas would certainly seem the ravings of a lunatic to most humans. But it appeared as if he had unwittingly come close to exposing a truth mankind had only suspected throughout its history: the existence of the nonhuman races.

Dorian set the typed page aside. Beneath it, clipped to a sheet of thin cardboard, was a photograph. It showed a youngish man with a narrow face and intense eyes, and underneath someone had written: Aadon. On the reverse side of the cardboard was glued yet another clipping, this one about a corpse, badly burned, dredged from the river on the afternoon of February 4, 1926. That had been only a few weeks before Eamon Murphy died.

Murphy’s theory should have died with him. But he had a daughter who had kept his notes and clippings, a reporter in her own right. Her father couldn’t have known about the most recent murders, but Gwen did. She knew the corpses had been drained of blood, and she had clearly decided that there was some merit in her father’s ideas, or at least that she had an obligation to continue his investigation.

And what did she have to build on? Blood cults. Human corpses bled white. A mysterious man who had turned up in the river—perhaps after he’d promised Eamon information that would prove his theories.

It all added up to a very dangerous equation. And Gwen was in the middle of it.

The apartment door rattled. Dorian shoved the papers back into the folder and was just putting them in the drawer when Gwen walked in.

“You’re up!” she said, her eyes sparkling with pleasure. “Are you sure you should be—” She saw what he had in his hands and stopped. Her gaze flew accusingly to his.

Dorian backed away from the desk and lifted his hands as if she were holding a Tommy gun pointed at his head. She charged forward, slammed the drawer shut and spun to confront him.

“You broke into my desk,” she said. “Why?”

No ready answer came to Dorian’s mind. “I was curious about your profession,” he said.

Her shoulders relaxed. “If you’d wanted to know,” she said, “all you had to do was ask.”

“I apologize.” He retreated to the sofa and sat down, hoping to allay her distress. “I was unaware that there were aspects of your work you preferred to keep secret.”

“A locked drawer usually means—” She took a deep breath and blew it out. “Okay. There’s no reason why you shouldn’t know, as long as you don’t tell anyone at the Sentinel.”

“About your father’s ideas?”

She nodded, swivelled the steno chair to face him and sat down. “I only came back to the apartment because I forgot my notebook,” she said, “but a few more minutes won’t matter.” She pulled her skirt over her knees. “How much did you read?”

“Enough to know that your father’s theory of a murderous cult did not meet with the approval of his employers at the Sentinel.”

“That’s right.” She slumped in the chair. “It was almost all Dad thought about during the year before he died. Everyone saw how much he’d changed. When he approached the city editor with the cult story…” She knotted her hands in her lap. “They thought he’d gone crazy.”

“Had he?”

“No! He…” She sighed. “The odd thing is that he seemed to become very quiet in the last weeks, as if he’d given up. It wasn’t like him. He wouldn’t talk to me about it. And all these notes…” She made a helpless gesture. “I didn’t know anything about them until he was gone.”

“He was a gifted reporter, was he not?”

She smiled wistfully. “He was the best there was.”

“Then you accept his theories.”

“At first all I could think of was proving he was right. But in spite of all the work Dad had done, all this stuff he’d locked away in his files, he’d left too many questions unanswered. Until the cops found the bodies on the waterfront, it didn’t seem I had much to work with.”

Dorian was careful to keep his expression one of restrained interest. “But the state of those bodies led you to believe that your father might have been correct.”

“It’s crazy, I know. But I’ve never heard of regular mobsters who did that kind of thing.”

“Indeed.” Dorian settled more deeply into the sofa’s sprung cushions. “So you’ve continued to pursue the story on your father’s behalf?”

“Strictly on the Q.T. Officially the triple murder case belongs to Randolph Hewitt. He’s one of the senior reporters in the city room. He never liked my dad, and he already suspects I’m poaching on his territory.”

“You don’t think he’ll support your father’s conclusions?”

“Even reporters are human. Sometimes they see only what they want to see.”

Dorian curled his fingers around the arm of the sofa. “Do you have any specific information that would confirm the cult theory?”

“Not so far. But I’m getting close. Remember how I told you that I was supposed to meet a witness on the waterfront the day those hooligans introduced me to the fishes? That lead hasn’t panned out, but there was this man, Aadon…” She smoothed an imaginary wrinkle in her skirt. “After I read through Dad’s notes and saw the photograph, I realized that the same guy was found in the river not long after he met with Dad.” She shook her head. “I hit a dead end with that lead, too, but I’m sure I missed something important. This time I’ll push on until I find the truth.”

“And what of this book?”

“That’s the biggest puzzle of all. There wasn’t any sort of unusual book among Dad’s things. And he didn’t mention it again in his notes. It’s as if he wanted to keep it hidden.”

Dorian leaned forward, unable to contain his disquiet. “Have you considered what you’ll do if you discover that your father was wrong?”

“He wasn’t. If I can expose the presence of a genuine murderous cult in Manhattan, I’ll not only redeem my father but also prove that I can handle the big stories. They won’t be able to shuffle me off to the back pages anymore.”

Briefly Dorian closed his eyes. It was every bit as bad as he’d feared. “I advise you in the strongest terms not to continue,” he said.

Her silence was as sharp as a knife. “Why?” she asked. “Do you know something I don’t, Dorian? Something you’ve been keeping from me?”

“I know the waterfront. I know the city. I know how far certain elements will go to eliminate their rivals. Gwen…” He raised his hands and let them fall again. “The evil that men do needs no arcane explanation.”

Gwen got up, shoving the chair against the desk. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t take your advice.” She checked her watch. “I have to get back to work. There’s some sandwich meat in the icebox and a loaf of bread on the table.” She snatched a notebook from the desk, took her father’s folder out of the drawer and hurried to the door. Then she was gone, the smell of her lingering just inside the doorway.

Dorian sprang up and paced the length of the room and back. He still wasn’t sure how completely Gwen believed the cult story, but she obviously wasn’t going to rest until she’d found an answer that satisfied her.

Either Raoul hadn’t known of the senior Murphy’s quest, or he hadn’t considered it a threat. All throughout history, strigoi—whenever they organized in families, colonies or clans, as they periodically did—had worked to silence those who might expose their hidden presence in society. Though he had never been involved in such a task, Dorian knew that past clan leaders, and quite possibly Raoul himself, had ordered hits on humans who showed a little too much curiosity.

Most reporters pursuing stories about mob assassinations or related crimes naturally assumed that they were committed by the high-profile human bosses in the city. They never suspected that Raoul’s gang was different from any other, and that usually protected them.

If Raoul had known of Gwen’s father, his would-be heirs, Kyril and Christof, might possess that same knowledge. They might or might not realize that Gwen and Hewitt had continued Eamon’s investigation. And whether or not they found out and took action to hinder Gwen’s work depended entirely on how close her persistence took her to the truth of vampire existence.

Dorian slammed his fist against the nearest wall. He never should have gotten involved with a human. He never should have given in to instinct and taken Gwen’s blood just to keep himself alive.

But the damage was done. He’d fed from her only once, in the most basic sense—there had been no danger of inadvertently Converting her. Yet now that he had tasted her blood—now that he had allowed her to influence the course of his existence—he couldn’t permit her to throw her life away.

So what was to be done? Arguing with her would only make her suspicious of his motives. He must find a way to keep careful watch on Gwen’s progress and eventually derail her investigation. To do so, he would have to remain close to her. But human morality would scarcely sanction his continuing to share living quarters with a young, unmarried woman.

For the rest of the afternoon he read through the notes Gwen had left and considered his best course of action. He made several sandwiches and ate them quickly, tasting nothing. He scarcely noticed when the light from the window faded and the street lamps began to shine feeble defiance against the night.

Gwen burst into the apartment at a quarter after seven. “Good news!” she cried, throwing her pocketbook on the sofa. “I’ve got you a job.”

Her words hardly made sense to him. He stood awkwardly, hands folded behind his back. “A job?”

She looked at him more carefully. “You haven’t been resting, have you?”

The ease of Gwen’s speech suggested she had overcome her self-consciousness about her behavior of the previous day. Dorian had received no such benefit from their hours of separation. Her nearness triggered an almost unbearable hunger that tightened every muscle in readiness for the hunt.

“I am quite well,” he said stiffly.

“You do look a lot better. I’ve never seen anyone recover so quickly. It’s downright spooky.” She unbuttoned her coat. “Did you eat?”

“Yes.” He turned from the sight of the blood pulsing beneath her fair skin. “Was your day pleasant?”

She laughed. “Where did you learn to small talk, Dorian? Oh, never mind. I’m no good at it, either.” She sprawled on the sofa, kicking off her pumps with a groan of appreciation. “I’ve been thinking about how to get you back into the world of the living. Today I found out that our night janitor is leaving for another job. I told Mrs. Frost—she’s the woman in charge of hiring support staff—that I knew of a perfect candidate to replace him. You.”

“I don’t understand.”

“What’s to understand? A job will get you off the streets. Unless you think that kind of work is beneath you.”

Dorian circled the room, his thoughts fogged with need. “No,” he said. “I…why should you trust me with a post at your newspaper?”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“How much do you really know of me, Gwen?”

She sighed and pushed her hand through her hair, all the laughter gone from her eyes. “Okay. Let’s have it out here and now. What happened at the warehouse, Dorian? Whose blood did I find?”

So it comes, Dorian thought grimly. The chance to drive her away once and for all, or to commit myself to saving her from herself.

But the decision was already made. “The blood was mine,” he said. “I had an…altercation with several hooligans.”

“The warehouse looked as if an explosion had hit it.”

“Yes.”

“You obviously survived. Why did you try to kill yourself, Dorian?”

The time had come for a small part of the truth. “I am prone to regular intervals in which I find myself…drawn back to another time and place. During such intervals it is inadvisable for anyone to approach me with less than friendly intent.”

“Walter mentioned something about that. He called it a ‘mood.’”

“I fear he is too mild in his description.”

“How?”

“I am not rational at such times, Gwen. That is why I warned you away when we first met.”

“I remember.” The look in her eyes told him that she had no trouble recalling how he’d behaved after he’d saved her from the river. “You didn’t hurt me, and you never hurt Walter, either.”

“But I did injure the men who attacked me.”

She went a little pale. “Did you kill them?”

“They are not likely to attempt to harm anyone again in the near future.”

“And that’s why you tried to commit suicide? Because you dared to defend yourself against a pack of wharf rats?”

Dorian looked away. “Losing oneself…is not a pleasant prospect. I had no desire to risk harming anyone else.”

“And that proves you’re not as lost as you think you are. Once you have a steady job, we can find a way to help you. There are plenty of other men who suffered from the War in the same way you have.”

The War. Once again she assumed that he’d fought in Europe, when he’d never set foot outside the state of New York.

“Are you certain you still wish me for the janitorial position?” he asked.

Gwen caught his gaze. “You can’t solve your problems by hiding for the rest of your life. Maybe a little regular work is exactly what you need.”

“And if I prove unsuitable?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. And if one of these moods comes over you, you’ll have a place to go. I’ve gotten you the room next to Walter’s at the boardinghouse.”

“That was unnecessary.”

“You can’t stay here, you know. And I won’t let you go back to that horrid warehouse.”

He inclined his head, conceding defeat. If Gwen was not discouraged by his partial confession, he could not refuse her offer. Though he couldn’t stay by her side every moment, he would have access to any research she conducted from the newspaper office. And he would have an excuse to continue their relationship, should she begin to lose her crusading determination to reform him.

An excuse, indeed. An excuse to continue taking her blood. An excuse to go on feeling the strange mingling of frustration and exhilaration he experienced whenever she was within his reach.

“Sit down, will you?” Gwen complained. “I get the heebiejeebies when you loom over me like that.”

Dorian retreated to the far wall. “You were generous to do this on my behalf,” he said.

“I told you I wasn’t going to give up on you. I meant it.” She stretched her arms over her head. “You can move to the boardinghouse tomorrow morning.”

“And I will begin to repay you when I receive my first compensation.”

“There’s no hurry. I know you’re good for it.” She stretched again and rose, padding toward the kitchen in her stockinged feet. “I’m starved. Do you want some soup?”

Dorian hesitated, dreading the thought of sharing even closer quarters with her.

Tonight, he told himself. Tonight, while she sleeps.

He followed her into the kitchen.

“WHO IS HE?”

Mitch stood over Gwen’s desk, his face flushed with anger. She’d hardly ever seen him so emotional; he’d always prided himself on being in complete control of his feelings. Only lately had he begun to reveal open frustration and annoyance with her. She didn’t like the results.

“I’ve told you all I know,” she said, drawing on the rags of her patience. “I found him on the streets. He reminded me of Barry, so I decided to help him.”

“You just ‘found him on the streets.’”

“That’s right. It was obvious that he was a doughboy who’d suffered since the War. Was helping him so wrong?”

“A doughboy? He can’t be much older than you are.”

“Some of them served at fifteen and sixteen.”

“But you don’t know anything about his past.”

She shrugged. “If he can’t do the job, we’ll find out soon enough.”

Mitch lowered his head like a bull about to charge. “What else is going on, Gwen?”

“Don’t tell me you’re jealous of some poor guy who doesn’t have a dime to his name?”

He stared at the far wall. “Of course I’m not jealous.”

“Then give him a chance. You’ll hardly have to see him, anyway.”

Fury boiling behind his eyes, Mitch stalked away. Gwen leaned on her elbows and rubbed at her forehead. Dorian had only been at the Sentinel for a few days, and Mitch had been brooding the whole time. The first night, when he’d been finishing up a story and Gwen had introduced him to Dorian, there had been a palpable hostility on his part. It was as if he’d guessed that Dorian had spent several nights at her apartment. As if he knew she’d behaved in a way that would have shocked him.

Whatever had been going through his mind, then and now, she had to admit that his instincts weren’t entirely wrong. There was something else going on. Something that had possessed her from the moment she’d held Dorian’s dying body in her arms. Something she had done her best to deny, entirely without success.

She’d felt some measure of relief when Dorian had moved out of her apartment and taken up residence with Walter, but she found herself thinking of him when she should have been concentrating on her assignments. Looking forward to the hour when he showed up for work, quiet and contained, less and less like the disturbed and antagonistic recluse she’d met at the waterfront or the man who’d so recently wanted to end his own life.

But Dorian was still dangerous, for all his willingness to carry out his humble duties. She often worked late; when he came into the office with mop and broom and dustpan, she couldn’t stop watching him, the working of muscle under his corduroy trousers, the flex of his arms and shoulders. Sometimes he looked up and met her gaze, and she almost let herself believe she saw hunger in his eyes before he turned away.