From: BHauser121@aol.com 
Date: Wed, 18 Aug 1999 00:48:17 EDT 
Subject: Submission: "It's the thought that counts" (X-mas) 
To: FKarchiver@fkfanfic.com 


I was very impressed by your page and I wanted to submit this 
story to the archiver for consideration.  This story was written in 
late 1994 as a submission to the Dead of Winter II: The Night Is Alive 
"Forever Knight" fan convention (3-5 Feb `95) writing contest.  It won 
second place in the serious fiction category.  As always, due 
consideration is given to the creators of "Forever Knight" and its 
characters.  I intend no infringement of their intellectual or commercial 
property.



"It's the thought that counts"

by Brian Russell Hauser


    Rebecca tapped away as if she was giving the performance
of her life in front of an adoring audience.  The fourth movement
of Beethoven's "Ninth Symphony" pounded in her head as she fed
column after column of numbers into the computer at the reception
desk.  She had purchased this particular CD in the hopes that the
quality of the performance would be worth the price of the disc. 
She admitted that the sound quality was excellent, but was
disappointed to find she could hear the most minute mistakes of
certain members of the orchestra.  For instance, at the most heroic
points in the "Ode to Joy" one could clearly hear the triangle
tapping off a ludicrous note.  In fact, it seemed much too loud for
an orchestra's triangle.
    A huge black hand appeared in front of Rebecca's monitor,
snapping its leather-clad fingers.  She scooted her chair back in
surprise and ripped her headphones off.  A handsome blond
gentleman in a wool overcoat and rakish three-piece suit stood on
the other side of the desk with a bemused expression on his face. 
His left hand rested near the small silver bell on the counter.
    "I'm so sorry," she said frantically.  "Have you been
waiting there long?"
    "Three rings and one snap," he said through a broad smile. 
"Not so long."
    "Beethoven," she explained.
    "I have an appointment with Dr. Chalmers."
    "Your name, sir?"
    "Detective Nick Knight."  Rebecca perused his
identification and decided that any man who looked good even in a
photo ID must truly be handsome.
    "Yes, I see you down right here.  Little late in the evening
for a business meeting."  Her tone was unmistakably wry.
    "No rest for the wicked," replied Nick.
    Rebecca was not certain she followed the detective, but she
knew he was playing the same game.  She motioned for him to
make himself comfortable while she rang for the doctor.  Nick
gave her another warm smile before settling into a cozy
wingbacked chair next to an immense stone hearth.
    The fire helped to dry the light dusting of snowflakes Nick
had accumulated during the walk from his car to the door of the
Institute.  It was going to be another white Christmas, which
invariably caused him to suffer from rapid mood swings.  One
night he would be full of the holiday spirit and the next day (or the
next hour) he would fall into a state of deep depression.  Nick
would have preferred to simply forego the whole holiday
celebration, but every year mortals seemed to look forward to the
decorations, the eggnog, the carols, and of course, the gifts.
    "Detective Knight?"
    Nick looked up to see a woman in jeans and a thick, wool
sweater standing next to his chair.  Her eyes were bright and active
as they reflected the firelight.  He took her hand as he rose from
his seat.
    "You must be Dr. Chalmers."
    "Lisa, please.  If you were here to discuss a grant, I might
prefer Dr. Chalmers, but we're here to help you."
    "Lisa it is."  Nick noted her firm grip and that her eyes
never swerved from his.  "Call me Nick."
    "Great.  Would you like the tour?"
    "From what I saw of the outside of this place, I think I'd
love the tour.  But I'm on duty."
    "Of course.  Well, I'm sure Jonathan is ready to meet you."
    "What can you tell me about him?" asked Nick as they
began to walk out of the foyer and into the mansion.  "His message
was pretty cryptic."
    "Jonathan DeGrasse.  No family. No visitors--present
company excepted.  He either has a whole lot of money or friends
who are willing to help him because his bills are paid on time, in
full.  I probably don't have to tell you the McNaughton Institute is
not exactly bargain basement."
    "I've heard the fees can run upwards of ten thousand a
month."  Nick could not suppress a hint of disbelief.
    "That's correct."
    "How do you receive payment?"
    "Cashier's check," replied Lisa.  "We bill an accounting
firm in New York."  Nick was silent as he digested the
information.
    "Can I see the note he mailed you?"
    The detective raised an eyebrow.  "You haven't read it?  I
thought places like this screened their patients' mail."
    "Some do.  The Institute runs on a different philosophy. 
We respect our patients' privacy.  We give them the key to their
rooms and they are allowed to leave whenever they wish.  The
mansion is at their disposal for the length of their stay."
    Nick surveyed the magnificent furnishings and tastefully
decorated walls, many of which were paneled in highly polished
mahogany.
    "You sound like a very trusting person," said Nick as he
handed over the note.  "Some would say you're taking an awful
risk."
    "Maybe," shrugged Lisa, "but over seventy percent of our
patients commit themselves to the Institute.  We're very careful to
try to identify the potentially dangerous patients early in their
stay."
    Lisa unfolded the letter and read:

Det. Knight,

Our first meeting was exquisite.
"At length I reached oblivion."
I would appreciate a word with you.

        Cordially,
        Gabriel Fitz-Hugh

    "So," said Nick as he returned the note to his breast pocket. 
"Is Jonathan dangerous?"
    "No," she sighed, "not when he's Jonathan.  But when he's
Gabriel...well, Gabriel's frightened me on more than one
occasion."

*   *   *

    The thick hardwood door swung easily and with little noise
as Nick pushed it.  Beyond was a large room furnished as both a
living and sleeping area.  A full-size bed with rotund feather
pillows lay in one corner opposite a small, round chess table with
two chairs.  The chess pieces were arrayed in mid-game.  A sizable
oak dresser flanked the doorway and stacked atop it were dozens
of books.  The walls of the room were a soft shade of green which
accented the darker woodwork.  Prints of various works by Dali,
DuChamp, and Brauner occupied the spaces between windows and
corners, doors and chimney.  In front of the brick mantelpiece, two
wingbacked chairs, much like the one Nick sat in downstairs were
positioned to catch the cozy warmth of the small fireplace.  One of
the chairs was occupied.
    "Come in, Detective."  The voice was robust and
measured, with the slightest hint of a French accent.  "Make
yourself at home."
    Nick shed his overcoat, gloves, and scarf, laying them
down on a nearby chair.  He stepped in front of the empty chair
and lowered himself into it.  The other man had not looked at him
once.  Nick fished for words.
    "You look wel--"  The man held up a hand, signaling for
silence.
    "If you are to speak to me, you must wear this."  He
reached down beside his chair and handed Nick a hat.  A Santa
Claus hat.
    "You want me--"  Again, the signal.
    "Nick frowned and then slipped the cap onto his head.  It
fit well, but he felt silly.  He was rapidly undergoing one of his
characteristic holiday mood swings.
    "There," the man beamed, finally turning his gaze on the
vampire.  "Much better.  Now my holiday is complete.  I'm sitting
in my own room enjoying a nice conversation with Old Saint Nick
himself."
    Knight was less than amused by this tenuous attempt at
humor, but was also intrigued by the way this man seemed to
emphasize the word "old."
    "You seem to know me," said Nick, "but I don't believe
I've had the pleasure."
    The man's face turned serious and he shifted his legs
beneath his lap blanket.  The fire turned his expressions into oddly
orange lithographs of human reactions.  The scene struck Nick as
Rockwellian, but without the innocence.  Suddenly, the man
smiled again and looked back to the fire.
    "What did you ask for for Christmas this year, Saint Nick?"
    "World peace," said Nick flatly, "and some socks."
    "Still the charmer, Saint Nick, after all these years."
    Knight hated being in the dark.  There was enough familiar
about the man to keep him in his seat, but the detective was rapidly
running out of patience.  He fidgeted in his chair and the fuzzy
white ball of the Santa Claus hat fell across his nose.  Nick batted
it away.
    "At length I reached oblivion," said the man quietly. 
"Don't you remember?  Or are you becoming forgetful in your old
age?"
    The phrase had plagued Nick ever since he received the
note.  It sounded familiar, but he couldn't place it.  He thought it
might be a literary allusion because of the way it was set in
quotation marks in the letter.  He couldn't find the reference.  But
the word "exquisite" was also ringing some dusty bells in his
memory.
    "I'll give you a hint," said the man.  He swept his arm as if
presenting the room to Nick for the first time.  "We're amongst
some of the very same people now as we were then."
    Nick looked around warily but only reconfirmed they were
alone in the room except for the fire and the furnishings and...the
paintings.  Dali.  DuChamp.  Brauner.  Nick's gaze fell on a
disturbing painting of a faceless, horned figure holding a
disembodied eyeball between its thumb and forefinger.  Victor
Brauner's The Last Journey.
    Knight remembered them.  He had last seen them all at a
studio party in 1938.  It was one of the many parties held by the
enclave of artists and poets calling themselves surrealists.  They
were playing one of the surrealist games, "the exquisite corpse." 
The game involved each participant contributing randomly to the
formation of a sentence.  Yes, that was it, Nick thought.  At length
I reached oblivion.  The quotation in the note was the last
expression formed by the group.  The game ceased because
Brauner got up to stop an argument between two other guests and
in the ensuing struggle, Brauner lost his eye when a bottle struck
him in the face.
    Nick had wanted to stay and calm things down, but another
guest had threatened to make the party even more memorable.  A
young man had reacted violently to Brauner's injury.  No one else
recognized the signs, but Nick was all too familiar with the
vampire bloodlust.  He was feeling a bit of it himself at the time. 
It was all he could to repress his own hunger and pull the reckless
vampire out into the summer night.  He recalled chiding the
newborn for his lack of discretion and throwing him into the street
to find his repast elsewhere.  Now, as the pieces began to fall lazily
into place, Nick recognized the man in the other chair.
    "Why, Saint Nick," he exclaimed dramatically, "you seem
to have had yourself a thought."
    Indeed, Nick thought as he slipped off the Santa hat, and
an odd thought at that.  The vampire he had thrown out of that
studio party had been young, not only a vampire newborn, but also
a young man when he was turned.  His hair had been full and long,
but his beard was virtually non-existent.  His skin, though forever
dead, had appeared soft and fresh.  The man sitting across from
Nick was in his late thirties, sported an immaculately trimmed
mustache and goatee, and his hair was thinning noticeably.
    Yet, the eyes were the same.  Older, perhaps.  But that was
it, Nick decided; that was the crux of the issue.  He was older, and
he shouldn't have been.  Nick Knight had been a vampire for
centuries and he looked the same as when he was brought across. 
LaCroix looked the same and he had been made long before Nick. 
Yet Jonathan, or Gabriel, looked perhaps twenty years older than
when Nick had seen him last.  Vampires don't age.  Only
humans...
    "You're human."  Nick spoke softly, squinting his eyes.
    "Bravo, Detective."
    "How?"  Thousands of emotions swirled within Nick and
none of them had anything remotely to do with Christmas.
    The man took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
    "You found a cure."
    "I prefer `reborn' to `cure'.  I was reborn.  Dr. Chalmers is
trying to cure me.  Do you distinguish the difference?  It's all a
matter of identity."
    "Nick stared at him.  The tension began to slip away.  His
reason took over.  "You're not going to tell me, are you?"
    "No."
    Nick stood up and paced before locking his gaze on the
man's.
    "I could make you tell me."
    "Of course you could."  He set aside his lap blanket and
stood up to confront the vampire.  "Is that what you want?"
    Nick let his will press into the man's head, but quickly
withdrew and turned away.  He clenched his fists and stared at
Brauner's painting, trying to regain his composure.
    "Why did you ask me here," he growled.  "To taunt me?  Is
this amusing to you?"
    "Not in the least," he said.  "Nicholas, I asked you here
because I wanted you to know."
    "What?  That you're mortal and I'm not.  Thanks."
    "That it's possible.  That's what's important.  I know
you've searched for a long time.  It's worth it, I tell you.  You can
be human again.  You will, I'm sure.  And a better one than I."
    "And why's that?"
    "Because you're halfway there already.  When I was a
vampire, I played the part every minute of every night.  I was so
wrapped up in the unlife that I forgot what it meant to be human.  I
forgot about real beauty and real friends and just getting along. 
My life was darkness and intrigue and power.  I made alliances
with vampires and fed off of humans.  No friends and too many
foes."
    The man sat back down and looked up at Nick.
    "But you're different from me.  You live with them.  You
work with them.  Your job has dedicated you to serving and
protecting them.  You love them.  You only play the role of
vampire when you must and even then it repels you.  Oh, Nicholas,
you are even now more human than I will ever be."
    Nick leaned against the mantelpiece and stared into the
fire.  "What am I supposed to do?"
    "Search as you have.  I found my solution in the very script
of the problem.  I suspect it is the same with us all."
    Nick tried to think coherently, to discover the solution right
there, but his thoughts were a jumble.  A heavy sigh escaped his
lips.  He turned to grab his things before leaving and stopped as he
opened the door.
    "Is it worth it?" asked Nick.
    "Of course, Nicholas."  Gabriel smiled warmly.  "Never
doubt that."
    Nick smirked and nodded.  He stepped through the door,
but turned when Gabriel addressed him again.
    "Saint Nick."  The vampire snatched the hat from the air. 
"Merry Christmas."
    "Yeah.  Merry Christmas."