Date: Tue, 22 Feb 2000 13:57:54 -0700 From: delggren@ES.COM Subject: Out of the Silence 01/07 To: FKFIC-L@LISTS.PSU.EDU This story has been a long time in the making--and a long time in the re-writing . I didn't know I was going to write it, but apparently it has been in the back of my mind germinating for about 2-1/2 years. In fact I can blame this on a comment Jules (hi there ) made in response to Shadows and Ghosts. So, many thanks to Jules for making me think about this, and huge thanks to Jeanne for grammar, Kayleen Woolf and Cindy Ingram for thoughtful input on keeping the characters in character. I couldn't have done it without them. And, of course, special thanks to Liza for wanting to know if she came and stood there behind me in my cube, I would just start typing and get it finished so she wouldn't go crazy . This story is a sequel to Silent Echoes (and of course, All the Rest is Silence). I never expected to make it a trilogy, but it was the right thing to do. If you haven't read them, you might want to. While I suspect you can read this story without the background, it makes more sense with them. With that over, I'll save all other commentary until the story is done. Oh, on the sad-o-meter scale, this might be kind of high... This story may be archived at only fkfanfic.com. If you don't receive a part, the parts can be found at: http://www.loftworks.com/wftk/fiction.html Out of the Silence by Dorothy Elggren copyright February 2000 The night was cold. Bitter. Wind howled in fury around the house, seeking entrance through every crack and crevice. Wood creaked and air whispered, as the house shifted uneasily in the storm. T.C. lay listening to it all. He listened to Julie's breathing, slow and deep, quiet at his side--secure knowing he was there to protect her. He listened to the scream buried deep in the throat of the wind. He listened to the house's groan in response. The wind had come around and was now blowing steadily, angrily from the north, and it chased sleep from his eyes. Something prickled at him. Something buried deep. He shook his head, and with a sigh, pushed the covers back and got out of the warm bed. He left Julie behind, deeply asleep as he padded down the hall to his study. He ignored the light, ignored his desk and strode directly to the window and pushed the curtain back. Night stared fiercely back at him without compromise. It was a black, bitter night. Clouds obscured the light, sucking it from moon and stars. "Why," T.C. asked slowly, "am I awake, what is it?" Something ached in his gut. Something had called him from sleep. But he had no idea what. As he watched the sullen night, he was startled to realize that the color of night was changing, subtly and slowly. "What the hell...," T.C. whispered. From the north, a copper moon ripped apart black clouds and tinted them dull and ugly red. The wind shrieked and giggled, and on the roof, shingles clattered. The moon's dull glow bathed the air in a fine blood-red mist, and for a moment, T.C. could swear that everything was bleeding. Clouds, sky, moon, air and ground. Blood everywhere. And then it was gone. The clouds closed up the gash in the sky, obscuring and then hiding the moon. Sweat trickled down T.C.'s back and hair crept along his flesh. He let the curtain fall back, hiding the night from view. The wind swept around the house in a mournful cry. An omen. It was an omen. He could feel it aching like bitter ice all the way to his core... T.C. woke to Julie's favorite trick for getting him up. The odor of coffee percolated through his senses and he opened one eye to see her perched on the side of the bed waving a cup under his nose. "Hmmm...," T.C. murmured. "Wake up, sleepyhead," Julie said. "You're going to be late." "I'm the Captain," T.C. said shutting his eye. "I'm allowed to be late." Julie ruffled his mustache with her finger. T.C. smiled, but kept his eyes closed. "A fine example you are," she teased. "I need my beauty rest," T.C. said. "Go 'way." He heard the clink of the cup as she set it down. Good. She was leaving. Julie kissed him on the ear. He smiled--this was better--she wasn't leaving. Then she kissed him on the eyebrow. He opened his eyes and pulled her into his arms and met her lips with his. "Get up," Julie ordered against his lips. "You're late." She slipped out of his arms and disappeared through the door. He stared after her. She peeked around the corner and smiled wickedly. "Course, if you get home early, there could be more of that-- what with Peggy spending the week with Mike and Chelsea..." T.C. grinned and got up. The night that had seemed so ominous faded away in face of Julie's sanity and love. It had just been a storm. That was all. Yeah, that was all. Nothing was going to happen. It snowed off and on all day. A dark, cold day with light then heavy snow falling, snarling traffic, causing outages, and creating problems. It was one long headache, and T.C. wished more than once he'd stayed home in bed. Let someone else deal with all the idiocy out there. Didn't people know how to drive in a snow storm? Better yet, didn't they know enough to just stay home? "Cap," Wheeler leaned into his office, "we got another pile-up over on Yonge. Five-car." "Why are you telling me this?" T.C. asked. "It's just routine." "Yeah, except for the fact they slid off the road into a bank ATM. Money starting flying all over the place, and people went nuts." T.C. closed his eyes and wished for the old days when he'd been a Detective. Then he'd only had to worry about a few cases of simple murder or maybe a suicide. Not all this other stupid stuff. "Okay. Send Gessner and Whyte as backup to whoever is already there." Wheeler raised an eyebrow. "Okay...," And he disappeared. "Briiiinnng." T.C. stared balefully at his phone and then picked it up in annoyance. "Davis," he barked. "T.C.," Scott said, "I've got bad news." "Who doesn't?" T.C. said. "No, not that kind," Connors said softly. "Joe had a heart attack this morning shoveling his walk. Denise just called me." T.C. was silent as fear clenched its fist around his heart. He closed his eyes and was peripherally aware he was clutching the phone in a crushing grip. Memories raced through him. Joe's warm grin and laughing eyes. Poker sessions. Shared fears. Whispered secrets. So many memories over the past eight years since he had first met with Joe Reese and Scott Connors in Joe's dusty den. So many... "How's he doing?" T.C. managed to choke out. Scott sighed, "He's still in CCU, but he's expected to recover." "He's getting old. I guess we all are...," T.C. said. "Yeah. Anyway, I just thought you should know." "Where's he at?" T.C. asked. "Mercy Faith." "Thanks, I'll stop by and check on him. Scott...?" "Yeah?" "I can't imagine going on without him." "I know." They were both silent. Their minds far from the day's snowstorm and far from work. For eight years, the three of them had been conducting their own private investigation in careful silence. If they lost one...would they, could they continue? "Thanks," T.C. said again. "Are you going by?" "Yeah, after work." "I'll see you there." T.C. hung up and stared at the gray wall in front of him. Joe... And yet he was 67, and he had a rather hefty girth on him. But still he was the Rock of Gibraltar. He buried his face in his hands and remembered that night so long ago when over a poker game his whole life had changed... ***** "I thought we might play a little five-card draw and see what happens. Scott and I play Gin pretty regularly, but with three, we almost have enough for a decent game of poker," Joe Reese said as he placed a cold beer in front of T.C. "Bets gentlemen?" Reese asked. Connors threw in ten pennies. "I'm feeling lucky tonight." Reese surveyed the pennies seriously, "That so?" he asked. "I'll match that, and raise you five." T.C. smiled and matched the bet. "I'll raise that another five," he said. Reese smiled benignly at him, "Okay, we have a game. Anyone want to discard?" T.C. on his turn discarded two, and added two. Things were looking up, he now had two pair. Connors shoved another five pennies in the pot. Reese eyed him closely. "Guess you haven't got much there have you?" he said as he shoved ten pennies into the center of the table. T.C. matched. "Call," he said calmly. Connors threw his hand down with a shrug. He had a pair. Reese won it with a full house. Scott shuffled and dealt the cards. Along with game two, Reese introduced the topic of the evening. "So, T.C., can I call you that?" T.C. nodded. "I understand you have a little bet going with your partner over the Lambert-Knight case? That so?" "Yeah." T.C. didn't elaborate. He figured he'd let them do all the work since they were so anxious to have this little chat. "What do you think about it?" Reese asked. T.C. looked at him measuringly. "I'm not sure what to think, actually. Things are hinky." "Hinky?" "Weird," T.C. expanded. "Oh," Reese said, "yeah, we know. That's why we're here." "I didn't think we were really here to play poker." T.C. said calmly. "Well, actually we are. It's the only way to talk about that case," Reese said. Connors nodded. "Yeah, otherwise it starts to eat at you. Tell me T.C., you sleeping very well these days?" T.C. stared at him astonished. "No," he said slowly, "I'm not, actually." Connors nodded as he meditated over his cards. "Yeah, I know. I became an insomniac for a while over it. It gets to you." ***** T.C. remembered it as if it was yesterday. He had been investigating the nine-year old mystery of Detective Nick Knight and Dr. Natalie Lambert's disappearance on a bet. A bet! If he had only known. That night playing poker he'd learned more than he'd ever imagined. His whole world had changed that night. Forever. ***** Reese looked at him. "With nine years of very careful investigation, and a lot of speculation, we think we know a fair amount about what was going on, but I'll be honest, we have no idea what happened that night, and without someone coming forward, we probably never will know. What we know is why Nick was different, why Natalie lied for him." "So?" T.C. asked. "So," Reese said, "Natalie Lambert kept a journal on Nick Knight, on her research to understand his blood chemistry, physical make-up, and attempts to cure him." "Of his allergy," T.C. stated, a little puzzled. "Sort of. But not exactly. That is lie number one. But we'll get to that all in good time." "Knight's chemistry was...unique," Connors added with a twisted smile. "Very unique. He had an extra nucleotide in his cell that Lambert found by conducting research with a tunneling microscope. He also had some other unique additions to his basic cellular structure. "Apparently Natalie met Nick prior to his coming to work at Metro. Where and how, we will never know, but our best guess is that it was in a circumstance that inadvertently revealed his true nature." "True nature?" T.C. said quizzically. They were talking in convoluted euphemisms. "Yeah. Just give us a while to get there, T.C. This is really hard to say to yourself, let alone somebody else. People would think we are absolutely nuts," Scott said with a small laugh. "Anyway, apparently he asked for her help. We think, after nine years of hypothesizing, that he hated what he was. And he wanted to be a normal human being. So he asked for Natalie's help, and she agreed. She was trying to modify certain elements in his blood, those unusual nucleotides." "Huh? You aren't making any sense. You want to try this in English. What the hell was wrong with Knight?" T.C. asked. Reese and Connors looked at each other. Connors passed the baton to Reese. "When he died there were five bottles of steer blood in his fridge and a packet of human blood in his freezer." "That wasn't in the report," T.C. said flatly, daring them to deny it. "No, it isn't," Reese agreed. "I removed that about three or four years ago. Had to. Once we realized what it meant, we felt it was safer for everybody if we took it out." "Safer?" "Yeah. Safer. Natalie was very careful about what she put in that journal and how. She was very afraid of what would happen if it fell into the wrong hands, or as she put it 'they' found out about it," Connors added. "And while we are talking about blood, we might as well admit we faked Nick's blood type. We figured that if Natalie had been doing it since he started on the force, we wouldn't break tradition." "She faked his blood type?" T.C. felt his jaw drop. "Why?" "Because, his blood type is unique. So unique that he's the only one that's got it," Connors thought for a moment and then added, "that we know of." "So he had the rarest blood type in the world, with unusual elements and kept steer blood in his fridge. You want to translate for me what you aren't saying?" "We're saying," Reese said heavily, "that he didn't use the blood for painting. He used it to stay alive." "What? He had to have transfusions? How could he have passed his physic...oh, Natalie. But wait. Steer blood?" T.C. stopped unable to process. Reese and Connors looked at him sympathetically. "Sorry about this. You're getting in one night, what it took us years to figure out. Even so, it scared us badly when we put it together," Reese said. "Put what together?" "That Knight wasn't human," Reese said. T.C. felt as if someone had hit him in the solar plexus. "In fact, he was probably immortal," Connors added, "if you can believe the legends." That felt more like a blow to the chin. "And it explains the murder weapon, too," Reese added with a nod. T.C. felt like somebody had knocked him out. His eyeballs hurt. "Our best guess at this point in time," Connors said, watching T.C. carefully, "is that Knight was a vampire. A real vampire." T.C. just stared. ***** End Part 1 ---------- Send comments, virtual chocolate, and klewless blonde vampires to delggren@es.com Out of the Silence Part 2 See Part 1 for notes and disclaimers and author's ramblings. If you don't receive a part, the parts can be found at: http://www.loftworks.com/wftk/fiction.html Vampires. Blood-sucking creatures of the night. They existed. He hadn't believed it at first. Not really. And yet, he had. And time had proven it out. He believed. He knew. In fact, one night, about four years ago, he'd actually had a sighting of the demon kind. It had been a freak accident, and T.C. counted himself lucky that the vampire had no idea he was observed. If he had been, T.C. was sure he'd be dead. Dead, dead, dead. The weird thing about it was that he hadn't been thinking about Knight, or vampires or anything remotely related to the case when it had happened. It had been a surveillance operation. Detectives from his precinct had been tracking a drug operation, one so highly delicate that they moved their surveillance equipment every day, and it had been paying off. They'd identified twelve major players already. That particular night, they had been running the surveillance from a corner room in a three-story warehouse. They had been watching with interest the comings and going at the dilapidated building across the street. It appeared to be the headquarters for distribution to street vendors-- they had struck paydirt. ***** T.C. dropped by to check on the surveillance and determine what other support they might need. Roberts handed him some night-vision goggles with a grin. "Hi, Cap," he said. "Take a look through those. You can see *everything*!" T.C. raised an eyebrow as he took the NVG's. "You are lucky SOB's, you know. We never had anything like this for surveillance. No money, no support..." "Yeah, and you had to walk there through a meter of snow, too, right?" Roberts interjected with a laugh. "Yeah," T.C. said, cocking his head at Roberts, "and don't you forget it, or you'll be doing surveillance with tin cans and string." "Right, boss," Roberts said with just the right amount of sass and humility in his voice. T.C. shook his head and slipped into the dark booth set up around the window. Roberts' partner Kyle Miller was already there watching the output from a video camera. T.C. exchanged nods with Miller and looked out into the dark night through the goggles. It always amazed him that nothing remained hidden by night's darkness with NVG's. Nothing. He watched in silence for a few moments and was rewarded when a man exited the building and slouched to a car. Moments later, the car took off and excelerated rapidly down the street. T.C. looked at Kyle, "We could have got him for speeding." Kyle grinned. "Yeah, but we have greater things in store." "Who was that?" "Dave Clegg. They call him 'the Bowler'." "Do I want to know why?" T.C. asked dryly. "Dirt on the street says its because he's a fanatic bowler, but also because he has a great score on keeping his dealers in line. They screw up, they...disappear." "We haven't nailed him for that?" "Not yet," Kyle said. "But I think we will this time." T.C. nodded in satisfaction and left the booth. He wandered over to the booth by the west windows and ducked in out of curiosity. A camera was taping street activity, but since this side was a dead end, there wasn't much of interest. But T.C. just wanted a few more minutes to play with the goggles. He looked at the warehouse through them. NVG's fascinated him. He had an urge to take them apart to see what made them work. Why was everything green through the goggles? T.C. shrugged mentally. He supposed someone could tell him, but in the meantime it gave new meaning to turning green. Roberts ducked in to check the tape. "There's a homeless guy living over by that dumpster at the warehouse." "Been watching him, huh?" "Now and then. Like you say, Cap, the goggles are great." He ducked out again and T.C. started looking for the homeless guy. He found him in what ought to have been a dark recessed corner near the dumpster--unless you were using NVG's, that is. The homeless guy looked like he was settled down for the night with a bottle to keep him company. T.C. sighed. There was no easy or simple solution to vagrancy and homelessness. There were as many reasons as there were homeless people. What, he wondered, was this guy's story. Abuse? Addiction? Delayed Stress Syndrome? Mental Illness? Job loss? Who knew.... T.C.'s thoughts stopped as the homeless guy sat up. The look of fear was clear on his face. He searched back and forth through the darkness, and T.C. began looking, too. What had scared this guy? What was he hearing? T.C. watched the guy's head slew around to the left, towards the dumpster. But even as T.C. started to focus on the dumpster, a dark blur streaked across his field of view. It seemed to sparkle with...well, he didn't know what, but the blur was suddenly a man. And he had the homeless guy held in a tight grip against his body. He was dark, with hair caught back in a pony tail. Well dressed. Eastern European. All those thoughts crossed T.C.'s mind in a single instance as the man ripped the homeless guy's shirt and coat away. He threw his head back in a movement that was primal, sensual, and visceral at the same time. His jaws opened and that was when T.C. saw them. Fangs. In the instant it registered, the vampire struck, burying his fangs in the homeless guy's jugular. A rictus of pain crossed the homeless guy's face. Pain, surprise, disbelief. T.C. was sure it was mirrored on his face. The embrace was a grotesque mimicry of an intimate moment that T.C. watched without breathing, without moving, as his hands tightened on the goggles and sweat broke out on his brow. How long it lasted, he didn't know. Perhaps a minute, perhaps less. It seemed timeless. The homeless guy's eyes slid shut as blood loss overwhelmed him. Then the vampire dropped him, callously, to the ground. There was a look of primal lust on his handsome face. His eyes sparkled with sheer joy under heavy lids. And T.C. could see it all as if he was only two meters away rather than a hundred. The vampire cocked his head, listening, and swept the area with a look that missed nothing--or almost nothing. T.C. involuntarily gulped, but didn't move. Movement just might draw attention to him. But the vampire did not see him, did not look at the dark windows of the empty building. He picked up the body and vanished in a blur. And that was how T.C. witnessed a murder...and didn't raise a finger, or say a word to stop it... "...and I didn't do a damn thing to stop it. I didn't say a word. I didn't tell Rogers or Miller anything. I just handed back those goggles and walked out of there," T.C. said, his face hidden in his hands, several hours later sitting in Joe Reese's study spilling it out to Joe and Scott. "Don't beat yourself up over this, son," Joe said softly in the darkened room. "You couldn't have stopped it. How far away did you say he was? A hundred meters? By the time you could have yelled for help, or gone there, it would still have been over. And nobody else would have seen a thing." T.C. just shook his head. "Yeah, but I should have done...something. Anything! I don't know. I was so caught up in it...I just didn't think." He ran his hands through his hair. "Couldn't think, is more like it. It was so...hell, I don't know. No. I felt like I was a voyeur watching sex. It was primitive and unbelievable. Hell, now I know they're the top of the food chain. He was pure predator. Like nothing I could have imagined. No movie special effect can even come close to it. It was minimal effort with maximum outcome." "Calm down, T.C., you sound like you're high..." "High? Hell, I haven't come down that far!" T.C. said in a burst and he stood and began pacing the room. He stopped and looked over his shoulder at Joe. "You can't imagine what it was like." He started pacing agitatedly again. "And how the hell did he just vanish like that? Just a glittery blur and he was gone..." T.C. gasped and stopped. "Ohmi... the trajectory... it was upwards." He stared at Reese as it hit him. "They can fly." "Now, don't go jumping to conclusions there," Joe cautioned. "Jumping. Oh, no. No no no no no! I'm not jumping, I'm past that, all the way to absolutely certain," T.C. said as he ran his hands through his already rumpled, wildly curling hair. "He went up. And he had to be incredibly strong." "T.C.," Scott said finally, interrupting. "If he can fly, and if he was that strong, do you think you could have done anything to stop him if you'd been closer?" T.C. stared at him, stopped dead in his tracks. "In fact, you'd be dead if you had tried. At least now we've got more information, we know more than we knew yesterday about how they operate, how they attack and kill. We know how swift and deadly they are. Before we could only speculate, now we have facts. It could save our lives someday, you know." Joe sighed. "When you talk about them like that, I just can't imagine Nick ever doing anything like that." "And yet," Scott mused, "he had to be capable of it. If he was one of them, he would have been as much a predator as the one you saw tonight." "I don't think I like Nick Knight very much right now," T.C. muttered. "I'm still shaking." "Nick," Reese reminded him, "wasn't like that." "At least," T.C. added, "not in your sight." "Not when I knew him. If he'd been like that, he wouldn't have been a cop!" Reese said heatedly. "Okay, quit it, both of you!" Scott said sharply. "We knew he was a vampire. We knew it was dangerous. Now we know more than we could have imagined, and how quickly they can strike, and its twisting the old knife in the guts. It doesn't change anything. It's just a little more..." "...visceral," T.C. finished. "I need a drink." ***** "I could really use a drink," T.C. murmured as he stared out the window at the heavy snow falling. It was hard to imagine Joe laid up in a hospital. A heart attack. He was indestructible. He was the force behind everything--Joe and his unshakeable belief that Nick Knight deserved to be found. T.C. shook his head at that. He had such ambivalent feelings about it since the night he'd seen and truly understood what a vampire was. What had Knight been? It all depended on how T.C. felt at a given moment. Vampire and predator. Hero cop. Natalie's friend and confidant. Perhaps her lover. Perhaps her killer. Enigma. That was what Knight was. He didn't fit the mold--or the myths. At least, he hoped he didn't. Was Knight like that graceful and elegant killer that had moved more like a primal animal than a man--T.C. hoped not. But he suspected that he must have been. All the information about Knight indicated he had incredible charisma and charm, not too mention grace and elegance. Maybe that was part of it. Perhaps a vampire had a sexual charisma that sucked in the victim before he even realized what had hit him. The one he'd seen kill had exuded something sensual--and he'd felt that from a hundred meters away. Imagine what it could be like at a meter. Maybe Natalie had never had a chance...then again, maybe it had been her choice. It all depended on how you looked at it. T.C. sighed and turned from the window. This was something he didn't have time to dwell on. He'd go see Joe after he finished his shift. Hopefully this insane storm would wear itself out by then. His phone range. "Davis" T.C. said into the receiver. He closed his eyes and shook his head as he was informed of an eight car pile up on Yonge Street two blocks away from the previous pile up, and a major power outage that had hit part of his area. It just never ended. He should have stayed a Detective... End Part 2 ---------- Send comments, virtual chocolate, and klewless blonde vampires to delggren@es.com Out of the Silence Part 3 See Part 1 for notes and disclaimers and author's ramblings. If you don't receive a part, the parts can be found at: http://www.loftworks.com/wftk/fiction.html T.C. stepped out of the elevator and headed down the hall. He had been called to Mercy Faith more times than he cared to think about where constables under his watch had lain wounded or been declared dead. He could remember years when no officer of the law died, but in recent years, violence had escalated and it had become all too common. Dead in the line of duty. Too many. Times had changed and not for the better. But on the other hand, he hadn't been in the cardiac ward before. And it had never been someone as important to him as Joe was. He walked to the CCU counter and waited for the nurse to notice him. "How can I help you?" she asked pleasantly. "I was hoping to see Joe Reese," T.C. said slowly. "I'm sorry, but no one is being admitted to the Unit right now. We are admitting a new patient. If you'll have a seat in our waiting room, we'll notify you when visitors can be admitted. Are you family?" T.C. shook his head. "No. Just a really good friend." "You may not be admitted, it depends on how much family is here. We only let two visitors in at a time and for only five or ten minutes at a time." T.C. nodded. "I understand. Thanks." He left and went into the waiting room. He saw no sign of Scott. Work, he presumed was holding him up--not at all unusual. But he did see Denise, Joe's wife, sitting alone staring out the window. T.C. walked across the room and sat down beside her. "Hello, Denise," he said. Denise smiled at him. "T.C.," she said softly, "it's good to see you." "How's Joe," he asked. "He's doing pretty well. They said they might move him out of CCU as early as tomorrow. It was only a mild heart attack." She laughed slightly at that. "They call it mild. I thought he was dying." Tears suddenly made her eyes brilliant. "I've never been so scared in my life." T.C. took her hand and held it comfortingly. "He'll be okay." "I hope so," she said haltingly, "I don't know what I'd do without the big idiot." T.C. laughed. "You know Joe, he's too damned stubborn to die." Denise smiled shakily. "I hope so." "Where're the kids?" T.C. asked. "They're coming. They should be here by tomorrow. I wish they didn't live so far away," Denise said fretfully. T.C. suddenly was aware of how hard the day had been for Denise sitting here by herself. He settled back to stay awhile and let her talk. At least that was something he could do--and after a day of not being able to do anything--it felt really good. "And how about you?" T.C. asked. "How are you doing?" Denise looked at him, her eyes big, and the tears spilled out. "It's been awful," she choked out, and then she began to cry. T.C. pulled her into a warm embrace and held her while the storm passed, and cursed this world where family was far away, and you had to sit alone in a cold hospital waiting room with your fears. After a while, Denise pulled away, blew her nose, wiped her eyes and smiled. "I needed that," she said. "I feel a lot better, now." T.C. grinned, "That's what your local constabulary is for, ma'am." She laughed. "I'll remember that." Just then a nurse coughed at their side. "Mrs. Reese," she said cheerfully, "your husband is awake and trying to give orders. We thought you might give him the low-down here, and let him know he's the patient, not the Doctor." Denise stood up with a shaky laugh. "It figures. Give Joe a few minutes to orient himself and he tries to take over." She looked at T.C. "Come with me, please?" T.C. nodded and followed her down the hall, patiently matching his long steps to her much smaller ones, when all he wanted to do was run down the hall and see Joe and tell him he was so glad he was alive, and he couldn't go. He just couldn't leave T.C. and Scott behind--not to mention Denise. Joe looked irritated. That was T.C.'s first thought when he saw him lying in bed hooked up to six different monitors. The nurse told them they had ten minutes and vanished, as Denise took Joe's hand and smiled down at him. "How are you feeling, Joe?" she asked. "Like hell," Joe said irritably, confirming T.C.'s initial impression. Yes, Joe was definitely not happy to be here. "Better," T.C. said mildly, "than not feeling anything at all, Joe." Joe squinted at T.C. "You might not be saying that if you'd been feeling what I've been feeling. Felt like someone just reached in and tried to squeeze the old ticker flat." "Well, they didn't succeed, did they?" "Hell, no, but it still hurts, and with all this *crap* they've got stuck in me, I'm feeling like a science project." "Best damn looking science project I've ever seen," T.C. said with a grin. Joe grinned back. "Glad to see you, too, T.C." "The feeling is mutual. You know you can't go checking out on us." Denise laughed, listening to the banter, and leaned down to kiss Joe. "Now I know you're going to be okay." Joe smiled back at her. "Honey, I wouldn't dare leave you." "So, what did the Doctor say?" Denise asked. Joe sighed and moved a little, seeking a more comfortable position. "He says I'm here for at least four or five days while they run tests and get the heart stabilized. It's still jumping around a bit. Can't say I'm looking forward to the beeping and buzzing of all these things keeping track of every burp I make, but if everything goes well, I'll be in a regular room tomorrow and home soon. Guess I won't be doing any parachuting or ski-jumping for a while." Denise laughed, as Joe meant her to at his joke. "You won't be watching any games with a bowl of popcorn and a six-pack of beer. I think he's going to put you on a diet." "Yeah," Joe said glumly. "I heard that, too." "Well," T.C. said, "I guess I can leave you safely in Denise's hands for a while. Looks like I was worried over nothing." Joe raised an eyebrow, "It's not Denise I'm worried about, it's those physical therapists. They're out there salivating, waiting to run me through torture tests." "I'm sure you'll have the tables turned in no time." T.C. stopped and met Joe's eyes seriously. "You get well, soon, okay. We need you." Joe smiled grimly. "Don't worry, I'm not going anywhere. I ain't checking out until we put our little case in the solved column." Denise sighed, "Joe, you aren't supposed to be thinking about stuff like that right now." Joe looked at her and patted her hand. "Don't worry, hon, I'm not. I just turned it over to T.C. It's his project now until I get better. So," he said looking back at T.C., "I'll expect you to have it solved by the time I'm better." T.C. snorted. "Right. No problem. I'll do that." He met Joe's mischievous dancing eyes with a twisted grin. Yeah, he knew Joe Reese. Even down in a hospital bed, he always had the best lines. "Okay, Joe," T.C. said, "it's mine. Now you just concentrate on getting well, and I'll see you in a couple of days." He took Joe's hand and just held it for a moment. They smiled at each other. And then the nurse was ushering them out. T.C. headed home, his thoughts mixed and muddied by events. And it didn't help that it was taking twice as long to get there due to snarled traffic and intermittent heavy snow. He was starting to think seriously about moving to someplace where it was warm and it didn't snow. It was a very enticing thought on days like this. His mind drifted from the snow to Joe and the case. It really was a pity that he couldn't solve Knight's disappearance and hand it back to Reese tied up in a neat little package with a big red bow on it, but realistically, they all knew it would never be solved. Just wasn't going to happen. Nobody knew how to hide their tracks like vampires. After all, they'd been practicing for centuries--how could a mere mortal hope to find someone as elusive as Lucien LaCroix in a single lifetime? And what would he say to him if he did? "Hi, could you tell me what happened to Nick Knight and Natalie Lambert that night?" T.C. shook his head at the eternal question. What *had* happened to them? "Dead," he said softly, "dead, dead, dead." And that was his opinion. Not that they hadn't learned some interesting things along the way, but none of it answered the fundamental question. T.C abruptly came to a dead (no pun intended) stop. Up ahead he could see lights flashing. He thought about pulling out of line and checking it out, but dismissed it. He was off duty, and it was obvious there was plenty of help up there already. He shrugged his shoulders and let his mind wander to their most recent revelation... Only three months ago, Joe had learned a woman had contacted the police force looking for Nick Knight. Reese had tentacles everywhere, and it hadn't taken him long to learn from someone at the 96th precinct about the call. He'd called T.C. and asked him to follow up--after all, T.C. had the resources, and Joe didn't anymore. A few discreet inquiries had given T.C. the pertinent information and it had left him with his eyebrows practically in his hair. The caller had been Emily Weiss. That had rung all kinds of alarm bells. Nowadays she wrote those books about magicians and witches and such that Peggy was so into. But a long time ago she'd written books about vampires. He knew because before he'd done anything else, he'd called a friend in the publishing business and got the low down on Ms. Weiss. The last vampire novel she'd written had been 'The Denied'. It had been a huge best seller, and yet, she had not followed it up. She'd turned to writing about other mystical creatures. No one knew why. T.C. had gone straight to the case file and looked her up. Yup, there she was. One of the women linked with Knight romantically. She'd been stalked and Knight and Schanke had been assigned to her case. They'd solved it. Turned out her assistant Andrew had been the crackpot thinking they were destined to live together in undead happiness or some such thing. He'd taken a nosedive off the top of a building in the end. An interesting case to T.C.'s way of thinking, one he was sure had reams of fascinating events which had never made the record. Ms. Weiss, it turned out, was living in New York, so T.C. had called her. After a few minutes of conversation, that was more like a fencing match, he became convinced Emily Weiss knew more than was safe, though she wasn't admitting anything. After more artful conversation that said nothing concrete, he managed to get the point across that he knew she knew something about Knight and he knew it, too. A little more dancing around and she agreed to an appointment. T.C. flew to New York to have a chat with the elusive Emily Weiss. It had been very illuminating... ***** T.C. gave his credentials to the security officer and informed him of his appointment with Emily Weiss. He'd found it interesting that she'd been totally in sync with him on meeting in a 'non-official capacity'. No meeting at the office, no meeting in a public forum. She'd chosen to meet in her apartment. The guard cleared him and sent him into the building. The elevator ride seemed long as T.C. tugged at his tie and peered at his reflection in the burnished gold doors of the elevator. All too soon, he'd found himself ringing the doorbell of her penthouse apartment. Seems she'd done right well without writing about vampires. The door opened and T.C. found himself meeting the dark, level eyes of Emily Weiss. Her hair was graying, but she had a serene beauty about her. "Ms. Weiss?" T.C. asked "Mr. Davis, please come in." Emily led the way into a lived-in sitting room, where papers were strewn about, and sat down in a comfortable overstuffed chair. T.C. made himself at home on a leather couch, and was happy to find it actually fit his long legs. Nothing worse in his opinion than being stuck in a chair that was two sizes too small, like say the airplane where he had sat in 'sardine class'. Emily met his steady gaze nervously. Her sudden calm seemed to have deserted her as she played with a pencil. "You wanted to talk to me...about Det...Detective Knight?" T.C. smiled engagingly, trying to put her at ease. "Yes. As I mentioned on the phone, I understand you were trying to locate Detective Knight. Right?" Emily nodded, bit her lip and added in a low undertone, "Yes. I was sorry to hear that he was dead." "Yes," T.C. agreed, "it was a great loss at the time. He was the most decorated officer ever in the history of Toronto's Metro police." T.C. looked at her seriously. "I know that this is difficult for you, but believe me, it is much more difficult for me to be here. You know, and I know, that Detective Knight wasn't your 'average' cop. There was a lot more to him than met the eye. That's why I'm here. And I think you know that. What we discuss here will never be written down or recorded by the Toronto PD. I am here in a much more private capacity." "Oh," Emily said and suddenly seemed to sit up a lot straighter. T.C. knew that he had allayed some of her fears, and got on with it. "Nick Knight and Natalie Lambert disappeared and were presumed dead under some of the most unusual circumstances. Their disappearance has *never* been solved. I didn't join the Toronto PD until several years later, but I was asked to look into the case on a bet, actually. But I also have special skills in solving difficult cases and this case defied everything I knew or expected. What I found....made no sense. At least not at the time. What I did discover was that Nick Knight was a very unusual man, with a very different lifestyle. "In the process, I made the acquaintance of Captain Joe Reese. He was Knight's Captain, the last nine months of his life. It turns out that he and the medical examiner, Dr. Connors, have suppressed evidence in the case. They didn't do it to prevent the murder from being solved, but to prevent any one else from losing their life." Emily flinched and looked away. "Nick Knight had a secret. A very dangerous secret. Whether that was why he and Natalie were killed, we don't know, but we believe that it had *something* to do with it." T.C. stopped and watched Emily in the thick silence. Finally she met his eyes. "You know what that secret is, don't you?" T.C. asked softly. End Part 3 ---------- Send comments, virtual chocolate, and klewless blonde vampires to delggren@es.com Out of the Silence Part 4 See Part 1 for notes and disclaimers and author's ramblings. If you don't receive a part, the parts can be found at: http://www.loftworks.com/wftk/fiction.html See Part 1 for notes and disclaimers and author's ramblings. Emily looked away. The pencil in her hand suddenly snapped with a loud crack. They both jumped, and then meeting each other's eyes, laughed. Emily took a deep breath. "I think so." "And that's why, after all this time, you were looking for him?" Emily got up and began pacing the room. She stopped in front of the window and stared out into the bright sunlight. "I used to have dreams," she said slowly. "Terrible, frightening dreams--and yet at the same time, they were the summit of all my deepest desires. They started about five years after Andrew, my assistant, killed himself. Five years after I stopped writing about vampires. I loved writing about them, you know. I identified with them in so many ways. I loved the night, stayed up and wrote all night long. But I felt responsible for Andrew's death, and I felt that I could no longer write about vampires. The stories caused his death. If I walked away, no one else would die." She looked back at T.C. "It was the second death I felt responsible for, and I just fell apart. It took me a year before I began writing again. I still wrote about mystical creatures, I suppose, because they are what live in my head. But I never wrote about vampires again. I put what happened in Toronto behind me, and moved on." "So what made you try to find Detective Knight?" T.C. asked as he pushed up his glasses. Emily began drawing circles with her finger on the window. "The dreams," she said. "What was in the dreams?" T.C. asked quietly. "I didn't know exactly. That sounds silly, I suppose, when they had such an impact on me. Most of the time I would wake up and not be able to remember. I would wake up terrified and yet excited. I didn't understand and I couldn't remember anything specific. Other times, I would wake up and not know where the dreams ended and reality started. I'd dream incredible things--things that only happen in fiction--but they had happened to me, at least in my dreams. I was never sure if it was my fantasy--or my mind playing tricks.. But there was one thing I dreamed over and over again; a voice. There was a quality to it...an intensity that made me believe it wasn't a dream. I could hear someone saying, 'you don't know what you are asking of me'." It echoed in my head--for days afterwards, sometimes. And then, slowly over the years, I began to remember things. Things that weren't what I remembered or what anyone else remembered. I thought I was going crazy. They weren't dreams, but how could they be real? I began to believe that maybe they might have happened, *must have happened*, even though I couldn't remember them happening." "That apparently is not uncommon for people who came in contact with Knight," T.C. said. Emily turned from the window and walked over and sat down by T.C. on the sofa. She stared at him intently. "Really?" "Yes." "Then I'm not crazy?" "No." She laughed and looked away. "My psychiatrist thinks I need *years* of therapy." "I don't think you need any." "This is crazy." T.C. shrugged. "Well, yes, and...no. Once you get past the idea of it, it makes sense. So what did you remember?" Emily smiled and shook her head. "I remembered him kissing me. It was...unlike anything I'd ever experienced. I remember wanting him more than anything in this world--more than life itself. I remember loving him--and feeling sure that he loved me." T.C. raised an eyebrow discreetly. "But that didn't tally with what you remembered in your conscious mind, did it? It didn't happen, or did it?" "Oh, I think it did. I'm sure of it. I think he took my memories away to protect me." "Why do you say that?" "Because he was a..." Emily stopped and looked at T.C. "...a vampire," T.C. finished. She closed her eyes in relief. "Yes," she whispered. "Oh, yes." "You aren't crazy, Emily. He was a vampire." She looked at him, her eyes bright and luminous, life suddenly lighting her face. "I knew it!" she whispered. "I just knew it." "How did you figure it out?" T.C. asked. "The dreams? Or the unresolved memories?" "Both, I suppose. The dreams bothered me for years--so did the memory fragments. About two years ago, they became so intense, and my memories of that time--or should I say my non-memories--became an obsession. So, I went to a psychiatrist. I went through regression therapy, and it all came out. Oh, not at first. Whatever he did to me really was good. It was like prying open a bottle's lid that had rusted on. It was a terrible experience. But finally, it all came to me. It was like this huge rush. Once the door opened, it came back all at once. Everything fit into place." Emily stared down at her hands, her mind obviously back in the past. "And?" T.C. prompted. "Oh...sorry. It's so intense. Even now. It's like those memories stay new, like they just happened. They have a different feel to them. Something about what he did to me, I guess. Anyway, I started to tell my psychiatrist, and then I just got this feeling that I shouldn't tell him everything. I did tell him that vampires were real--that's why he thinks I need help. I can't distinguish between the fantasy world I write in and the real one. He's an idiot. Anyway, I finally decided I had to know, so I tried to find Detective Knight. And they said he was dead. I...I couldn't believe it. I still can't. I had this feeling that he was indestructible. I thought I would never know if I was making this all up in my head...or if it was real." "Oh, it's real, all right," T.C. said with feeling. "I've seen one in action. And they are very real--and very dangerous. So much so, that what we say here will not be repeated except to two others who are also working very quietly on trying to find out. We don't want to endanger you in any way." Emily smiled, then laughed. "Oh, I don't know, I think I've already been to the brink." "Why? What happened?" "What happened. In some ways I think I was more alive then than I've been before or since..." Emily stared down at her hands and absently picked at a hangnail. T.C. tried very hard not to ask her again. He felt like he was already prying into some incredibly private moments. Emily looked at him. "I was staying at his loft. The safehouse had been compromised, so he took me there because of the limited access. He left me there with a woman to watch over me. She was...different." "What was her name?" T.C. asked curiously, wondering why Knight would have worried about protecting Emily in his own loft against a mortal. "Janette." "Janette!!" T.C. exclaimed, losing his calm. "I can't believe it! He had Janette watch you?" "Uh...yes. Who was she that you...are so excited?" "Janette. Janette DuCharme, or Janette de Brabant. Who knows. She's a vampire, too." "A vampire?" "Yeah. Knight was protecting you from an unknown assailant--a stalker--that turned out to be Andrew, right?" "Yes. I had been attacked and actually bitten at the radio station. Andrew had delusions that he was a vampire, you see." "I don't get it,"T.C. said slowly. "Why Janette? Oh, your stalker attacked you like a vampire. He bit you. I'll bet Knight thought it might be a threat from a real vampire. The only way to guard against a vampire is ... with another vampire. Incredible!" "So I met more than just the two of them, then..." "Two?" T.C. asked. Emily smiled. "Yes, two. I'll get there. Janette asked me if I loved him. I think I loved him from the moment I laid eyes on him. She must have seen it--certainly before I did. I never believed in love at first sight. In fact, I never believed I would be in love-- until I met Nick. Anyway, when he came back and she left we talked... about our feelings. Our loneliness. He was incredibly perceptive. He asked me why I wrote about vampires the way I did. It makes sense now, knowing he was one, but at the time, I just thought him intriguing and somehow in tune with me in a way I'd never experienced." "I never knew him," T.C. said, "but everything I've read and everyone I've ever talked to about him says he was able to hone in to people. I don't know if it is a gift of being a vampire or just a gift of Nick Knight, but he could read people--and empathize with them." "Yes," Emily said nodding her head. "He saw my pain, and made me face it. I'd buried it deeply, but he forced me to unbury it and face it. One thing lead to another...and all that passion I'd been repressing came out." Emily smiled at the memory. "He just pulled me into his arms and kissed me--and then after a few minutes he pulled away and told me he couldn't do this. I begged him not to turn me away, and he said he wasn't, he was turning himself away." "Getting into dangerous water?" T.C. mused. Emily shook her head. "I don't know. I only know he didn't want to stop, but he did." "Probably to save your life," T.C. said. "What?" "You of all people should know the mythology of vampires," T.C. reminded her. "Sex equals death for a mortal, from everything I've read." "Oh. Yes. Sorry. I tend not to think things through clearly when I remember him." "Hmm. Well, you apparently weren't alone." "Oh?" "Natalie," T.C. said softly, hating to remind her that someone else had been more important in the end. "Natalie?" "Dr. Lambert. They disappeared together. They were *very* close for a long time." "Oh, yes. I remember her," Emily said nodding her head. "She was very nice." She looked down at her hands. "I can't help but wonder why he would allow her to...well, when he wouldn't let me. Silly, after all these years, really." "No. It's not silly. But I suspect that what happened between them occurred over a long period of time. It's like the frog who'll jump out of boiling water if he's dumped in, but if you put him in a cool water, and turn the heat up slowly--the frog never knows the danger until it is way too late. For you it was very fast, and he jumped. But with Natalie...," T.C. shrugged, "it was probably too late by the time they realized how much they loved each other. "They were just too close, and Natalie knew too much about Nick. Whatever happened that night took not only Natalie, but Nick, you know. It might not have been Nick that killed her," T.C. said. Emily nodded. "You're right. It's stupid that I can feel that strongly all these years later, when for most of them I didn't remember a thing about it." "Yes, but you said the memories were unusually clear," T.C. reminded her. She bit her lip. "Yes. They are." "So, what happened then?" "There was a reading. I remember that I read it as if Nick was Christian--the vampire in my story. I've never read better, but that's beside the point. Afterwards, Andrew went completely crazy, sure that I was writing about him. He took me up to the roof and was threatening to kill us both. I was *terrified*. I thought I was going to die. Then Nick showed up. Somehow he knew, and he got there in time." "And..." "I told him that Andrew thought he was Christian, and this I remember perfectly, he told Andrew to 'be careful what you wish for'. Andrew, I think was delusional and thought he was LaSalle, the master vampire in 'The Denied'. He told Nick that he would never take me from him." Emily stopped, seemingly remembering, caught in the passion of the moment "And what did Nick say?" T.C. asked. Emily jumped slightly and in embarrassment put her hand to her cheek. She seemed suddenly much pinker. "He said, 'Christian, I made you what you are. You must obey me. Let her go.' And his eyes just started to glow, and he had fangs. One second he didn't, the next he did. He demanded Andrew release me, and Andrew got really scared. He asked Nick what he was, and Nick said, 'What you pretend to be'. Andrew freaked out and got really scared. It got through his delusions and he forgot all about me. He jumped down off the ledge and ran past Nick, and suddenly, there was this other ... vampire ... there. He came out of nowhere and he killed Andrew. He just grabbed him and killed him--drank his blood. Right there in front of me. It was if I had suddenly become part of one of my stories. Only it was real, so terribly real--and deadly." Emily blinked back sudden tears and swallowed. "Emily?" T.C. asked concerned. She shook her head and put a hand out to stave him off. "No. It's all right, really. I'm okay. Anyway, this other vampire, when he was done, just picked Andrew up and threw him off the roof. Nick was...incredibly angry at him for killing Andrew. But it didn't seem to even touch him. He just wiped the blood off of his face and told Nick it was his turn." "His turn?" "To kill me," Emily said simply. "It was pretty obvious. He wanted me dead, and Nick didn't." "So he really was a good guy, even under the worst circumstances," T.C. said in wonder. Emily nodded. "Yes, I was so astonished. There he was the man of my dreams, and a vampire, too. Everything I loved wrapped up in one man. And he told me that was why he could not love me. Because he was a vampire." "Honorable guy," T.C. said leaning back into the sofa. Emily shrugged. "I don't think I helped. I begged him to take me, and he said 'This is not a fiction, Emily. You have no idea what you are asking me to do.' I remember saying I didn't care, and the other one, telling him to take me, to give in to what he was." Emily stopped and suddenly got up and walked over to her desk. She angrily pulled a kleenex out of a box and wiped her eyes. "I made my best case, and got turned down." She turned and looked at T.C. "I can't stop wondering what it would have been like...to be with him. To be like him. So many times I've wished since I remembered. That's why I called really. Truth." Emily folded her arms across her breast and shook her head. "I'd still take him, all these years later--jump at the chance--if he'd take me. I've never felt that powerfully about anything. Never. But he didn't want me. In the end he wanted her." "I don't think that is exactly the case, Emily. He told you that you had no idea what you were asking him. You still don't. I know I don't. I watched one appear out of nowhere one night and kill a man. The lust and hunger on his face still haunts me, Emily. We have no idea what it must be like to have that power and ability. If Nick didn't like killing and was haunted by that kind of hunger, you may have been asking him to destroy himself. He was desperately trying to find redemption and forgiveness for what he was, and what he'd done. We're pretty sure of that. He wanted humanity and mortality. What you wanted would have taken him back to being a killer and torn him apart." Emily hugged herself tighter. "Maybe." "If you're feeling embarrassed for wanting him, don't. I think he probably loved you, from what you've said. He gave you what he thought was the better gift. The best one he could give you. Life. Freedom from darkness." "Freedom," Emily said bitterly. "I didn't know for so long why I couldn't write about vampires. I thought I did, but it was a lie. He did that to me." "Did what?" "Made me forget. That's what happened next. He told me to forget. He told me to 'live my passion and never write about vampires again.'" "Well, did you?" "Did I what?" "Live your passion?" End Part 4 ---------- Send comments, virtual chocolate, and klewless blonde vampires to delggren@es.com Out of the Silence Part 5 See Part 1 for notes and disclaimers and author's ramblings. If you don't receive a part, the parts can be found at: http://www.loftworks.com/wftk/fiction.html Emily stared at him. Time seemed to slow and stop. The lighting slipped suddenly into the deep golden butter of late afternoon. She took a breath. "Damn him," Emily said finally. T.C. tilted his head and waited. "Yes, I did. I changed completely. I've been passionate about everything since then. I was totally different. I've loved two men, married and divorced one of them, had a child, gotten involved in causes. Oh yes, I lived my passions. I thought it was the shock... After Toronto, after I started writing, it was as if the dam burst. I didn't just write about my ... passions anymore. I lived them." "And are you glad you did? Weren't you the better for it?" "Yes. I just never made the connection. I've been obsessed about him. But he did give me the freedom to live," Emily said slowly. "I think that's a great deal of love, don't you?" Emily nodded, "But why did he tell me not to write about vampires anymore? Did he want me to forget any association?" "I don't think so," T.C. said getting up and joining her by the window. "From what we know from Natalie's journal, if *they* know about you, you tend to get dead really fast. I think he was saving your life from his friend. By the way, did he call the other guy anything?" Emily shook her head. "I don't remember. But he had the coldest blue eyes I've ever seen." T.C. opened up his notebook and pulled out a publicity photo of The Nightcrawler and handed it to Emily. "That him?" Emily looked at it and she put her hand to her mouth. She looked at T.C., then nodded. "This guy is not a nice guy. You were lucky to walk away." "Who is he?" "Well, we think he might be Nick's vampire father--his master. We don't know for sure, but we do have some fairly reliable information that he was the closest thing Nick had to a father." T.C. shrugged, "Who knows, though." Emily looked out the window. "Is he dead, too?" "Don't think so. But we do think if anybody knows what happened that night, it would be him." "Do you think you'll ever find out what happened?" T.C. shook his head. "It's a pretty slim chance. Vampires are considerably better at hiding their tracks than mere mortals. But we keep looking." "If you find out, will you let me know?" ***** T.C. came back abruptly to the present as traffic started to move. "About time," he muttered as he finally moved through the intersection and detoured around the car and SUV jammed together in what looked like modern sculpture. He hoped the people in the vehicles had survived. His cell phone rang. T.C. checked it and saw it wasn't Julie. It was headquarters. He glared malevolently at it as it rang again. "Can't you tell I'm going home," he complained loudly. "Leave me alone, it's been a lousy day." "Briinnnngggg?" was the only reply. T.C. cursed and hit the talk button. "Davis," he barked. Maybe if he were mad enough they'd leave him alone. "Captain Davis, we have a hostage situation at the National Bank on Queen." "Where's Mills?" T.C. asked, referring to the night shift Captain. "Stuck in a snow bank, sir. Can you coordinate until he gets out?" T.C. cussed mentally. "I'll be there in fifteen minutes. What've we got in the way of assets?" "We have a black and white on site getting everybody out of the area. We have Detectives Anders and Zeiderhoff on their way, ETA 5 minutes. This just barely broke, sir." "Okay, call for the SWAT team, and when A and Z arrive have them try and get some communication going and find out what the hostage takers want--and how many hostiles there are. Oh, also get some kind of idea on how many hostages." "Right, sir." T.C. made a U-turn to blaring horns and headed back, finding it ironic that the hold-up in traffic had left him so close to work. He hit the auto-dialer, and waited. "Hello?" "Julie, I was halfway home, and now I'm going back. Sorry, hon." "What's going on?" "A hostage situation at the bank. Hopefully Mills will get out of his snowbank soon and take over, or better yet, we can resolve it." He cringed at the silence, and waited. "All right," Julie said finally with a sigh. "I hope you can get it worked out. Be careful, Tom." "I will." "And I'll be waiting up," Julie said softly. "After all, Peggy is still at Mike and Chelsea's." T.C. closed his eyes. Great. Julie was feeling romantic, and he had to go to work. Why, tonight of all nights? He could use a little ...well, no sense thinking about it until he could do something useful about it. "I'll, uh, see what I can do." Julie laughed at the sudden huskiness in his voice. "I'm sure you will. Love ya." "Love you, too." Julie hung up, and T.C. wondered what it was about that woman that could turn him to mush even after twenty-three years. He took a breath and concentrated on driving. Four hours, twenty-two minutes later, T.C. left Toronto Police Headquarters on College Street. The hostage situation had been over for one hour and fifty-two minutes, but he'd ended up having to do some PR work at headquarters. The hostage-taker had been an out of work, homeless man desperate to provide something for his family. He hadn't been dangerous and he'd been talked out easily. T.C. shook his head. It shouldn't be like this. There should be a net to help people who lost their jobs. Something to help them before they lost their homes. But there wasn't and it happened. And now this man was in worse shape than ever. Now he had felony charges against him. There ought to be a way to stop this kind of senselessness from happening. He glanced at his watch as he headed across the plaza to his car. It was three minutes after eleven and he really wanted to get home to Julie. He was tired, cranky, and seriously in the need of a little loving, thank you very much. It had been a long day on top of too little sleep. Last night's ominous red moon had kept him awake wondering what might happen. He had felt like 'something wicked' was coming. Looked like he'd read too much into it. Well, except for the fact there had been too much snow, too much bad news--just too damn much insanity today. He wondered briefly how Denise was holding up and if she'd gone home. He hoped so. Not much she could do for Joe at the hospital. But at least Joe was still alive... It was the stillness that caught T.C.'s attention and stopped his thoughts midstream. He stopped and squinted. "Damn," T.C. muttered. "Damn, damn, damn." There was a figure standing in absolute stillness in front of the Honour Roll Memorial making all of T.C.'s senses scream like fire alarms. There was nothing odd about somebody visiting the memorial. He did it himself quite often. His former partner Jack Wisniewski's name was on it. He had fallen in the line of duty seven years ago. T.C. still missed him. But that wasn't what was making every hair on his body stand up and dance. It was something else. "Something wicked...," T.C. breathed. That was what it felt like. Something wicked. Something dangerous. Something.... His feet were taking him there before his brain had a chance to stop and say some nice sane words like, 'wait a minute' or better yet, 'get backup, you idiot'. The compulsion was stronger than anything he'd felt in years. And that's what it was. Compulsion. Need. A strange knowing. A certainty of things to come. The snow muffled his steps, but he knew the tall dark figure standing so silently staring at the monument heard him. He slowed and finally stepped up carefully to stand next to man. They were both tall men. T.C. stood 6'7" in his bare feet. The man he stood next to was perhaps 6'4" tall, but T.C. felt dwarfed by him. He filled the immensity of space with his commanding presence. T.C. felt as much awe as fear at the feelings running through him. He'd never seen him before, but he knew he'd seen him somewhere. T.C. stood in silence, feeling that any intrusion would be unwelcome--and in fact, dangerous. The man next to him paid no heed to T.C.'s presence, as if he didn't even exist. Perhaps, T.C. thought, he didn't. T.C took stock of his silent companion. He was wearing a black wool coat that probably cost more than T.C.'s salary for a year. He wore black leather boots that gleamed in the bright clear moonlight. As T.C. watched, he reached out and touched a name with his hand. He wore no gloves and seemed oblivious to the cold. T.C. felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He read the words twice to make sure. Detective Nicholas B. Knight - May 17, 1996. T.C. had the desire to laugh hysterically. He thought to himself, 'and it's just that easy, boys and girls'. As if. What should he do? He looked at his companion again and recognized him now. No doubt at all in his mind. He wondered if he would survive the next few minutes. He'd entered the minefield and now had no way out. Oh God... He cleared his throat. "Someone close?" T.C. asked with what he hoped was the right amount of sympathy and interest. LaCroix turned and surveyed T.C. dispassionately. His eyes pierced T.C. with cold blue intensity. "Yes," he said, and the single word mocked T.C. for being so foolish as to ask. LaCroix turned away and touched the stone again. His grief was palpable, tangible and reached out to envelop T.C. He stood silently waiting. He would never have this chance again. LaCroix turned away from the monument, and seemingly uninterested in T.C.'s continued attendance, started to walk away. "Mr. LaCroix," T.C. said quietly, "may I talk with you?" LaCroix turned and scrutinized T.C. icily. "We have nothing to talk about, Captain Davis." T.C. felt his blood run cold. LaCroix knew his name! How? Did he know everything? LaCroix raised an eyebrow and amusement curved his expressive lips for a moment, then he turned away once again. "Knight is dead, isn't he?" T.C. blurted out in panic. LaCroix stopped. His back was suddenly telling T.C. volumes. He had touched a gaping wound that hadn't healed in 17 years. LaCroix turned back. "I do not suffer fools idly. *This* does not concern you." T.C. watching the pain that shimmered across LaCroix' face despite his hard words, suddenly moved towards him. "You are not the only one who mourns," he said quietly. "He had friends who cared, and they still feel the pain and loss of not knowing. And what about Natalie's family? They deserve to know, too." "And you think knowing the truth will set them free of that pain. Fool! Truth burns...and leaves even deeper wounds," LaCroix said with ironic anger. "Only if it isn't treated," T.C. said brazenly taking his opening. "You know too much as it is." "So why am I still alive?" LaCroix smiled, and T.C. looked into a darkness, an evil, he could never have imagined. He swallowed despite himself. LaCroix was suddenly, somehow next him. So close that T.C. couldn't seem to breathe. "We can remedy that," LaCroix whispered, his eyes glowing, reached out a hand. "But he wouldn't have wanted it, would he?" LaCroix stopped, and something passed through him. He closed his eyes and once again the pain was tangible. T.C. waited, and when LaCroix opened his eyes, they were blue once more, and weary beyond belief. It would seem that Nick Knight's death laid heavily, deeply upon LaCroix, and he knew no surcease of pain. T.C. took a deep breath. "I'm not sure if you are omniscient or just have an excellent network of spies, but you know who I am. You probably know everything I've discovered. You must know I have no intention of telling anyone anything. All I want...all we want is to tell those who still wait and wonder about them the truth--or at least an answer. Just to tell them. Give them answers, give them something to bury. Let them have closure and move on." LaCroix looked at him with deep weariness. "Let it go, Detective ... let it go and walk away." "You haven't," T.C. said slowly. "I can see that, even after all these years, it's as raw as if it were yesterday..." "Yesterday!" LaCroix hissed. "You fool. It was yesterday. He was my son. He was *mine* for eight-hundred years. For longer than you can imagine he was mine. It is but a blink of the eyes since he died! A heartbeat!" T.C. stared at him. "Eight-hundred..." He couldn't process it. They had thought perhaps three-hundred and fifty, but never had they imagined Knight had been alive that long. Then the rest sunk in. They had been right, but he had to confirm it. "You were his father--you made him?" "Yes, I made him what he was. Nicholas was my creation!" LaCroix glared at him, anger darkening his visage. They stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity. T.C. found his brain suddenly racing, thoughts and ideas tumbling over each other in his head. If Knight was eight-hundred, how old was this...being...standing in front of him? What would it be like to lose someone you had known that long when everyone else literally came and went like a mist? And then suddenly, he wondered why was this incredibly powerful vampire still standing here talking to him when he could have killed him or left--flown off--without T.C. being able to do a thing about it? Maybe he wanted to talk about it? Needed to talk about it? Had no one *to* talk to about it? That was crazy...it was insane. It was... "Do you want to talk about it?" T.C. blurted out before he realized what he was saying. LaCroix sneered. "Why would I talk to a mortal about my son?" "Because you can't talk to anyone else about him. Can you?" Silence stretched between them. T.C. was conscious of the moon's glow dimming as clouds slipped by in the sky, and snow starting to fall yet again. "'Things without remedy should be without regard; what's done is done,'" LaCroix said finally, softly. (1) T.C. shook his head impatiently. "It's not done. Not in an eyeblink of seventeen years." More silence. LaCroix regarded him with a cold and steely gaze. T.C. couldn't read his face, and couldn't begin to guess what LaCroix thought of his impulsive suggestion. On the other hand, he couldn't imagine what he was thinking to suggest they talk about it. It was insane. It was suicide. It was probably the stupidest thing he'd done in his entire life. "Very well, mortal," LaCroix said softly, cruel amusement lighting his face. "Come. Talk. And hope you live to see the morning's light. It is your life." T.C. thought of Julie, of his children. His life seemed to pass in front of him. His heart started racing. Fear swept through him. Did he know what the hell he was doing? LaCroix smiled wickedly. "I thought not." "You thought wrong," T.C. retorted. "Lead the way, Mr. LaCroix." LaCroix reached out and pulled T.C. to him in a parody of an embrace. "Oh, I'll do more than that, mortal." End Part 5 ---------- Send comments, virtual chocolate, and klewless blonde vampires to delggren@es.com Out of the Silence Part 6 See Part 1 for notes and disclaimers and author's ramblings. If you don't receive a part, the parts can be found at: http://www.loftworks.com/wftk/fiction.html His cold breath whispered across T.C.'s face. "There is only one place to confront my son's death." The ground suddenly slipped away, and the cold wind rushed by. T.C. barely registered the fact that they were moving--flying--his mind went blank with shock. He was going to die. He knew it. Julie would kill him. She'd dig him up and kill him all over again. They landed abruptly on the roof of a building. LaCroix let him go, strode away to a door and kicked it open. He disappeared inside, and T.C. stared after him in shock. It wasn't everyday he went flying without any visible means of support like say, a plane. He took a deep breath, found some equilibrium, and then slowly followed LaCroix. He walked into a pit of darkness, stopped and put out his hands, attempting to feel his way. Suddenly LaCroix was beside him again and handed him a candle. The candle's dim glow cast LaCroix into eerie shadow and light. An omen of danger yet to come. Perhaps last night's moon had been a warning--and he'd been fool enough to ignore it. He really was an idiot. LaCroix turned and headed down the stairs into the darkness. T.C. followed slowly bringing his tiny bit of light with him, staving off the inky blackness wondering what the hell he was getting involved in. T.C. wanted to ask where they were, but instinct kept him quiet. He'd know soon enough given LaCroix' mood. Even as he descended the staircase, more candles were lit, bringing the large icy- cold room to dim and hollow life. T.C. reached the floor and looked around. Most of the furnishings were shrouded in dust covers and the room resonated with forlorn emptiness. Dust, thick and heavy lay everywhere. Disturbed for the first time in years, it filtered through the meager candlelight and glimmered like diamonds, cold, cruel, icy diamonds. The dust floated lazily, dreamily through the air and T.C. felt like he had somehow stepped inside a snow globe. Everything here felt unreal and eerily...otherworldly. After a timeless moment, T.C. moved from the bottom of the stairs and crossed the room to stand in front of LaCroix. He saw that LaCroix' entire focus was absorbed in staring at the floor and looked down curiously. A shiver passed through him, and for a moment he heard an echo that hinted at voices and passion played out long ago in this room. He knew where he was. Knight's loft. On the floor there was a large area of discoloration. It was faint, not much darker than the rest of the floor, but T.C. knew immediately it was the only visible remnant of the violent events that had occurred on that night so long ago. The crime scene statements had said there was a pool of blood approximately 41x33 cm. Rules and regs would have required experts clean it up after the scene was cleared and processed. The law required it--since the average person didn't know how to deal with biological hazards like that. But nevertheless... he *knew* this was where Nick Knight had died. It had happened here. All of it. The scene had played out and ended here with Nick Knight's death, his blood spreading out from him in a crimson tide. T.C. had never been here, never even driven by. He had assumed that the building would have been cleaned up, sold and all evidence gone. He should have known better. He looked up and met LaCroix' empty mocking eyes. "It happened here," T.C. said flatly. "It *all* happened here," LaCroix said finally. T.C. instinctively knew he was talking about more than that night. He turned abruptly on his heel and stalked away from T.C. He walked around as if he could neither stand still nor face his thoughts. As if the place haunted him. Perhaps, T.C. thought, it did. LaCroix turned and stared at him, his eyes once again burning that odd green-gold color. "She killed him," he hissed. "she bled all the strength from Nicholas with her puerile ideas. She encouraged his foolish notion of finding mortality. Convinced him that by changing his natural habits he could go back to being a lesser thing. A blind sniveling mortal." T.C. almost stepped back at the vitriol that raged in LaCroix' voice and curled around him. Sheer will allowed him to hold his ground in the storm. "He was duped by her promise that *science* held the answers. It was her God and he allowed her to convince him that *anything* was possible," LaCroix snarled through suddenly long and wicked looking fangs. "She made him weak, and because of her, he turned his back on his family, he turned away from his true nature, he turned away from *me*. He trusted her and it destroyed him! He should have trusted *me*!" It was as if a wall, a self-imposed icy dam had broken. The words and anger and pain rushed out of LaCroix in a torrent of conflicting emotions. T.C. listened, struggling to retain an impassive face, astonished to find that he had been right. LaCroix had talked with no one about this and it was tearing him apart. His sense of justice, however, overrode his growing understanding of the risk he was in. The story was just too slanted to let it slide by. "Knight didn't seem like the type to be led around by a nose-ring," T.C. injected carefully. LaCroix' burning gaze raked him and T.C. swallowed reflexively. He crossed the room as if T.C. were his prey and from inches away pinned him with a withering stare. "And what would you know about it, mortal?" he asked ironically. "You weren't here--were you?" T.C. crossed his arms across his chest and raised an eyebrow showing bravery that really didn't exist inside of him. "I read every case he worked on. I've interviewed everybody and their dog--except, um, you--about his behavior patterns and actions. I've read every report he wrote. I got to know him. He had a rhythm to how he did things and he wasn't weak. He was committed. Intensely, deeply, irrevocably committed to being the best officer he could, to doing the most thorough job he could. He was probably committed to changing his...uh...lifestyle just as deeply. I doubt that Dr. Lambert hogtied him and forced him onto that path. From her notes, I think he enlisted her to help him, isn't that closer to the truth?" LaCroix let his gaze slip down T.C.'s face to his neck. "I lose patience with you," LaCroix said and his voice was suddenly inside T.C.'s head pummeling his thoughts and his mind started to fray away at the edges. "I think Knight held to his convictions with incredible strength--his will was unbreakable wasn't it?" Fog seemed to be building up in his head and the room was going dark. All he could hear was his heartbeat. Dreamily, T.C. finished his thought as it disappeared into the strange gold fog, "and you couldn't dent it, ... could ... you?" Abruptly LaCroix picked him up by his throat and tossed him viciously across the room. T.C. slammed into the wall and slid down it to lie in a heap on the floor. His head was ringing and hurt like hell, his throat felt like it had been ripped out. He hurt everywhere. The room was hazy and seemed to be going an odd shade of black. White flashes popped in front of him and pain radiated in every bone of his body. After a while his vision slowly returned and the pain began to recede. It focused into a throbbing head and arm. T.C. sat up shakily and leaned his head on his knee. "Time out," he whispered hoarsely, weakly. "Ref, could we have a time out, here?" No one answered, but no one was trying to kill him either, so he called it even. He took stock. His arm felt like someone had used a meat cleaver on it. He guessed it had taken the brunt of the hit when he'd sailed across the room. Better that than his head, he supposed. He stood, shook the dust off and limped over to the nearest chair, ripped the dust cover off it and sank into it with a moan. His ankle was toast, too. Great. He wasn't going to be doing anything fancy with that foot for a while. He looked around and saw LaCroix sitting at the dining table staring at something. T.C followed his gaze and saw it was the door. It was one of those slider types. He looked back at LaCroix and wondered what was so fascinating about a dirty door. T.C. stared at LaCroix trying to decide whether knowing about Knight was worth the cost. It was already high and he wasn't giving odds on leaving this room alive. He sighed and rubbed his neck slowly, trying to stop the hammer that was pounding there. "Okay," T.C. said finally, "you're not big on Dr. Lambert. You didn't like her, or what she was up to. I get that now." "She was his muse," LaCroix said bitterly. "He followed every charlatan, mountebank and mummer that whispered in his ear that he could regain his mortality. She was just the last in a long line of fools Nicholas pinned his hopes on." T.C. raised an eyebrow. The words flowing out of LaCroix were not exactly common usage. This guy must have the vocabulary from hell. Guess living for eight-hundred plus years would do that for you. "She promised him that science would find answers and give him mortality." LaCroix laughed bitterly. "He was a fool. Denying himself happiness, looking for the impossible. If someone promised him mortality he would have followed them over a cliff." "And did he?" T.C. asked LaCroix turned and stared at the scar on the door again. There was a story there, T.C. was sure. He was also sure he didn't want to pursue it. This one was already costing him way too much. "Yes," LaCroix said finally. "He followed that arrogant woman off a cliff. He followed her into death." No. LaCroix definitely didn't like Natalie Lambert. He spoke as if T.C. wasn't there, verbalizing his thoughts. "Nicholas was always so strong, so convinced of his quest that I could only change his course by chipping away slowly and carefully at his 'convictions'. And his convictions cost him, dearly. He could not play in the mortal playground the way he did and not get hurt. He never learned. Never, not in eight centuries did he learn that lesson. No matter how many times I taught it to him. He refused to learn. And the cost was high...the last year...he changed. He didn't break, my Nicholas..." LaCroix shook his head and stopped as if unable to accept the words he spoke, the truth he knew, but had denied even to himself. "...Nicholas didn't break, but he was coming close. He lost that buffoon of a partner he doted on. That was the start." LaCroix suddenly became aware of T.C. and glared at him with a burning hatred. T.C. wished he'd go back to staring at the door. It was inanimate and couldn't get hurt. And T.C. didn't think he could take another flight and not *break* something. 'Look at the door,' he thought, 'look at the damn door...' He wished in vain. LaCroix got up and strolled casually across the room to sit on the sofa across from T.C. He seemed unaware of the dust that roiled up around him. T.C. coughed and sneezed. When he looked up at last and met LaCroix' deadly gaze, he swallowed. Fear alone kept him from getting up and moving farther away. His blood turned to icewater in his veins, he couldn't have moved if he wanted to. "That night," LaCroix said in a cold, icy whisper with cruel anger, as if he knew *exactly* how afraid T.C. was, "I'd convinced him it was time to move on. It was. His partner was dying. *Natalie* was pressing him to love her. It was all falling apart around him. His little mortal play world was shattering into tiny pieces. He knew it was time to go. He had outstayed his welcome. I felt sure he would come with me. But silly little Tracy Vetter died and Dr. Lambert was waiting for him when he came back here." "You were here?" T.C. asked. LaCroix glared at him. "If I had been, he wouldn't have died!" he said icily, his voice suddenly breaking. He stopped and looked away. The cords in his neck were taut with anger. T.C. licked his lips. He decided he didn't like hanging around an edgy almost-out-of- control vampire. It was bad enough being within biting distance when they were in control, but right now, T.C. felt as if any chance he had of living through this was disappearing into thin air. He watched warily as LaCroix struggled to contain his emotions and flaring anger. LaCroix turned to look at him again with eyes that were full of hatred. He finally spoke with deadly quiet. "She asked him to make love to her. *Fool*... She finally knew she couldn't make him mortal with her stupid science. She finally understood, and yet she understood nothing. Nothing!" LaCroix' hand clenched on the sheet under his hand and ripped it. T.C. puzzled out LaCroix' words, but could make no sense of them. "What did making love have to do with it?" LaCroix met his confusion with a bark of angry laughter. "Everything! They had come into some erroneous knowledge. Natalie believed that making love would make Nicholas mortal." "Why did she think that?" T.C. asked after a long moment. "What happened?" "You do know who Janette is, don't you, Detective?" LaCroix asked ironically. T.C. nodded numbly. It would seem that LaCroix had kept closer tabs on their investigation than any of them would have imagined. "Janette became mortal," LaCroix said somewhere between disgust and disdain. "She fell in love with a mortal, and made love with him. And then she became mortal--at least that was her story. Dr. Lambert, of course, heard about it and thought it was their last chance. But it wasn't. It was their death sentence." "So, was Janette really mortal?" T.C. asked confused. "Yes. For a while. Nicholas," he said with wicked amusement, "brought her back across." T.C. tried to assimilate it and failed. He wanted clarification, but LaCroix swept on, "Who knows what really occurred. It was a combination of circumstances. A mystical event--brought about by the unleashing of centuries of anger and pain when Janette's mortal lover was murdered. The good doctor didn't understand that. She thought they could duplicate it by making love. It was doomed to fail-- as everything is--with Nicholas. She couldn't see it. He *wouldn't* see it. He never thought anything through. They were too caught up in their emotions and trauma to see anything clearly." LaCroix closed his eyes and his shoulders slumped. It was if LaCroix was accepting what he had refused even to acknowledge. "It was inevitable from the moment they met. Passion cannot be held back forever. What he saw in her, I'll..." LaCroix stopped again, and T.C. waited. LaCroix looked at him and grimaced. He shook his head as if admitting reluctantly a truth he could not deny. "She was intelligent, quick. Even I enjoyed mixing wits with her. If she hadn't been so stubbornly independent, she might have been a fine addition to the family. Together, we once saved Nicholas' life from unraveling when he was shot. It was ... amusing. "But she was blind to reality. And Nicholas never accepted what he truly was. And so, in the end, he took her blood, drank her soul, and couldn't stop." T.C. turned and looked at the floor where the blood stain was. "Yes," LaCroix said softly, following T.C.'s gaze. "He laid her down there and wept. He had taken too much. She lay on the cusp. He could bring her over...or let her die. And that was when I entered the tragedy they were playing out. I arrived in time to play out the last act. I felt it all, but I didn't anticipate the Doctor pushing Nicholas so. I failed. I didn't get here in time to stop her--stop them." T.C. scratched at his chin thinking and then met LaCroix' oddly defeated gaze. "Would you...could you have stopped it?" "Oh yes," LaCroix said, his voice dropping, the timbre of it sending chills along T.C.'s skin. "I, at least, was in a rational frame of mind. Neither of them were." LaCroix' lips thinned and anger burned in his eyes. "I should have killed her, as I intended to, the year before. I was weak and allowed Nicholas to persuade me to let her live. But only because I realized, even then, that if she died it would destroy him. I will *never* understand why he let her become so important! She was mortal. She would die. Why didn't he realize that?" T.C. bit his lip and stared at the floor. And then he put in his two cents. "Because he loved her?" LaCroix turned his steely gaze back on T.C. "Love! Nicholas didn't love her. He loved the idea of mortality. He loved the idea of her loving him. He didn't know what love was. Damn him. He was confused, and she added to it. She said she loved him, but she destroyed him. That's not love. I wanted my son to live. If he just would have left her behind, walked away, he would eventually have gotten over her." "What about Natalie?" T.C. asked. LaCroix looked at him in disdain. T.C. stared at him belligerently, and LaCroix added grudgingly, "If he'd left, she would have moved on. Gotten on with her pathetic mortal life. She would have gotten over him." "But he didn't leave her," T.C. said softly, "did he?" LaCroix didn't answer immediately and T.C. waited patiently, feeling the bitter chill begin to seep into his bones. "No," LaCroix whispered. "He knelt there, weeping, holding her hand. He never intended to leave her. And then he started talking about ... faith." End Part 6 ---------- Send comments, virtual chocolate, and klewless blonde vampires to delggren@es.com Out of the Silence Part 7 See Part 1 for notes and disclaimers and author's ramblings. If you don't receive a part, the parts can be found at: http://www.loftworks.com/wftk/fiction.html "What do you mean, faith?" T.C. asked. "He asked me if I had faith." LaCroix laughed, an odd cracked sound. "I told him I'd seen too much. He said that perhaps then, he hadn't seen enough. I couldn't believe what I was hearing! Nicholas was ... so determined, so intent on this course. Faith! What rubbish!" LaCroix spat the words out in caustic anger. "In that bitter moment when he knelt there looking at the woman he believed he loved and had killed, he was filled with...such determination, with ... ." He looked at T.C., pain twisting at his pale visage, as he struggled to contain his anger...and something else that T.C. couldn't quite put a name to "He could have saved them both by saving her," LaCroix hissed, "brought her across. But he didn't. He chose to let her die, not condemn her to what he considered to be hell. He was so blind, so foolish. Not that I wanted her in the family, but better that than ... this ... ruinous waste! Oh, Nicholas!" LaCroix was silent, his body rigid, fists clenched as he struggled with a myriad of emotions. His eyes glittered with rage, hate, pain, and ... love for his long-dead son. "Then what?" T.C. asked hesitantly. LaCroix shook his head and with a twisted grimace spoke, "He spoke of her *faith* in him and her belief that they could have a life together, whether in this world or the next. Nicholas told me he had that *faith*, too." T.C. listened in amazement. "I couldn't convince him that life was precious. I couldn't convince him that his life here and now was better than some intangible hope--he had this insane idea that there was something better beyond this world. I told him he couldn't know until it was too late, until he was dead and couldn't turn back. But he had made his choice and he was absolutely determined. Damn him!" T.C. shook his head, knowing he was missing something important here. LaCroix watching raised an eyebrow. "You can't understand, mortal, all that had happened between us over the centuries, and I choose not to place those memories in front of your naive mind." "You're right, I don't understand," T.C. said softly, carefully. "No, you don't. Nicholas stood there looking at me with tears in his eyes, holding that stake out to me. I knew what he wanted, and it burned like the sun that he thought I could do *that*. We'd been at odds for centuries--I cannot tell you how many times he called me a monster, how much he abhorred the life I had given him. But nothing hurt so much as *that* did. I asked him if he thought I was the devil, and he said..." LaCroix stopped. He closed his eyes as if to shut out a sight he could not bear. Then he spoke so softly that T.C. strained to hear it. "He said I was his closest friend." LaCroix said no more but got up as if he could no longer stand still, could no longer face his memories. In sudden vicious anger he picked up a chair and threw it across the room as if it were kindling. It shattered against the wall and splintered into a heap on the floor. Dust bloomed up and thickened the air. The agony on his face was palpable and T.C. felt his heart go into overdrive as LaCroix turned and pulled him up from his chair. He held T.C. by his shoulders, his black, raging eyes capturing T.C.'s gaze. "Don't you understand? *I* killed him!!!" LaCroix closed his eyes and hissed out the words, "He asked *me* to release him from his pain! He held that stake out to me. He knew I could not refuse him! He knew ... Damn him!!! ... Damn you, Nicholas!!!!" T.C. stared into LaCroix' grief-stricken face and felt the pain as if it were his own. He'd spent so much time getting inside Nick Knight's head, so much time coming to know Natalie Lambert, that they'd become real, they'd become family. And he could've wept for the waste of it. So much tragedy, so much gone wrong. A modern day Romeo and Juliet. And LaCroix the grieving father left behind in torment. T.C. felt tears well up in his own eyes as he stared into LaCroix' face that was a rictus of pain. After a long silent moment, T.C. reached up and clasped a hand over LaCroix'. All he could feel was sorrow for this man, this vampire, who might very well be his own killer before the night was through. LaCroix opened his eyes and stared at T.C.'s hand in something akin to amazement, and then meeting T.C.'s eyes, he wrenched his hand aside, turned away and spoke in a low voice, finishing the tale. "I took the stake from him. He knelt down and took her hand in his, and I thrust the stake through his back, through his heart, and freed him from his pain." He walked to the door, leaned against it and was silent. T.C. sat down again in amazement. Nothing was as it seemed. Nothing. No murder then, really, but love gone awry. Fate. An accident in the heat of passion cost Natalie her life. Nick had chosen to follow rather than continue his empty, hollow existence without her. And LaCroix had given his son release from the pain he could no longer bear. And now LaCroix could no longer bear the pain himself of what he had done out of love. It was a tragedy, set in motion centuries ago, that had yet to end, if T.C. were to judge by the raw pain that had been released tonight in this room. What could T.C. possibly say? I'm sorry? You did the right thing? Not hardly. He didn't know what to say. He hardly even knew what to think. He decided to sit tight and see what happened next. He was in way over his head. LaCroix turned away from the door, saturnine and urbane once more, as if the last hour had never occurred. It was as if the emotional, uncontrolled outburst had never happened. LaCroix had resumed his cool, controlled persona, slipped back inside his hard, tough shell. T.C. stood and licked his lips nervously. LaCroix watched and his lips curved into something that made T.C.'s skin crawl. He supposed it was a smile, but he felt like he had just become dessert. LaCroix was suddenly standing nose to nose with him again. T.C. gritted his teeth and wished LaCroix would quit doing that. It was unnerving how a vampire could move so fast. "This," LaCroix said softly, menacingly, "should never have happened," and raised a hand. T.C. felt his senses sway again. He felt woozy. Uncertain. Was he going to lose his life now? And then somewhere in the back of his head T.C. heard Emily Weiss saying: 'I think he took my memories away...' "Don't," T.C. said, his voice sounding far away inside his own head. His heart beat loud...tha-thump...tha-thump. LaCroix stopped, intrigued. "Don't, what?" "Take ... my ... memories." "So, you have been doing your homework," LaCroix said softly. "You do know far too much for your own good, Detective." T.C. stood there swaying, trying to pull his wooly brains together. Everything seemed to be floating. "What's ... the ... point?" LaCroix narrowed his gaze and let his hand drop. "Elucidate," he commanded. T.C. felt the heaviness evaporate. He shook his head and pushed his hair back. "Man, that feels weird," he said. He met LaCroix' intense, demanding gaze. "What's the point of getting it out of your system, if you then wipe my memory?" T.C. said in exasperation. "That's the whole point-- to share it. If I lose the memory, then you haven't shared it. You haven't gotten it out of your system. You've accomplished nothing. It's good therapy to know there is someone out there who understands. Who you can talk to." LaCroix laughed, amused. "Why would I ever talk to you, Davis?" T.C. blinked. "I don't know. Why did you talk to me tonight? You could have walked away. You could have made me forget we'd met at the memorial. But you didn't. Maybe it's because you're carrying around more pain that you can bear. Maybe it's because you knew I cared--really cared--that's why." LaCroix' gaze turned colder at T.C.'s bold words. "Hey. It's just a theory," T.C. said spreading his hands and shrugging. "Whatever the reason, you needed to say it. And maybe you'll need to again someday. Maybe not, but just knowing that there is someone out there willing to listen and, keep their mouth shut about it...it's like medicine." T.C. frowned, "At least I think that's the way it works. Besides," he finished cheerfully, "I'll be dead in an eyeblink or two, anyway." LaCroix was silent. Then his expressive face curved again into the barest whisper of a smile. "And that's a reason to let you walk away?" "Maybe not in your eyes, but I'm only asking for the chance to be trusted. Have I ever betrayed your secret? Nick's secrets? Have any of us? No, and we never will. This way we can put it to bed, and tell Natalie's family she's dead. And you, maybe you can forget the pain and remember that he did..." T.C. broke off at the look in LaCroix' eye. Maybe he should have quit sooner. He never did know *when* to quit. LaCroix examined him, and T.C. felt like a bug under a microscope at the intensity of it. "I like you. You would make a good vampire," LaCroix said suddenly. T.C. felt sweat break out on his forehead. "No?" T.C. shook his head. "Got a wife and kids." "Pity." "One thing I would like, though," T.C. said hesitantly. LaCroix raised an eyebrow, while his eyes lingered on T.C.'s neck as if he still hadn't given up the idea of a new convert...or perhaps a midnight snack. "Where are they?" LaCroix' face darkened, "Why? Looking for proof?" "Uh, no. Just want to bury them." "They are buried. Together. I burned their bodies. Nicholas would have appreciated it. A Knight's funeral." "Then there's nothing that would show anything unusual about Knight, is there?" T.C asked. "No." "Then let us bring them home, bury Dr. Lambert where her family can find her." "No. Too many questions will be asked." "Can I at least go there?" "You are quite tenacious, aren't you?" T.C. grinned, suddenly feeling moderately comfortable with LaCroix. "Their ashes are buried in the church cemetery in Brabant. It seemed fitting that he should be buried next to his sister, Fleur." "Brabant?" T.C. asked, not sure where LaCroix was referring to. "Brabant. North of Antwerp, in Belgium. It is his home." "Oh," T.C. said faintly. LaCroix walked away suddenly invigorated, as if he had cleansed himself of a heavy burden. He turned and looked back at T.C. with an odd smile. "Perhaps I will take you up on your offer. Sometime..." T.C. smiled. "He wouldn't want you to be in pain." LaCroix' smile twisted into a sneer. "Don't be so sure of that, mortal." T.C. shook his head. "If he called you his best friend, he would want you to have peace." LaCroix said nothing but looked around slowly and then met T.C.'s eyes once again. "Perhaps." Then abruptly, "Very well, keep your memories, much good they will do you." T.C. nodded, unable to believe how much condescension LaCroix was showing. He knew without a doubt that under any other circumstances he would be dead, or his memory in shreds. A little therapy was good even for an ancient, powerful, lonely vampire, it seemed. Either that or he was the luckiest SOB in the world. LaCroix added a warning. "You and your little co- conspirators..." "Yes?" "Be very, very careful about what you say and do in tying up your loose ends. One wrong word, one hint of what happened here in the wrong quarters...and you *will* die. All of you." "Scout's honor," T.C. said solemnly. LaCroix watched him, his head tilted. "Let it go and nothing will happen to you. He would have wanted it that way," he said finally, softly. "So," T.C. said slowly, "it was you that wrote the letter." LaCroix let a chilly smile touch his lips. He quirked an eyebrow. "Remember, I'll crucify you if you talk out of turn, mortal." Cruel amusement crossed his face. He turned suddenly and took a deep breath. He looked around the loft, and his gaze was far away, his mind in other times and places. Perhaps, T.C. thought, he was remembering other moments that had been better than the ones of that last terrible night. LaCroix knelt and touched the floor and bowed his head. He was silent for a long time. T.C. waited quietly, honoring his pain. "He was a man, take him for all in all, I shall not look upon his like again, (2)" LaCroix said at last, sorrow coloring his voice as he mourned his beloved son. The words hung in the air, and T.C. finally identified them as a quote from Hamlet and smiled in agreement. LaCroix stood and his gaze met T.C.'s once more. The harsh and icy gaze was muted as if the brittle anger had been lanced. T.C. couldn't say why or how he knew it, but he knew that LaCroix was more at peace with himself. So, T.C. realized, was he. Their eyes locked in understanding. And then LaCroix was gone. T.C. stood alone in the quiet of Knight's loft and listened to the silence. He was alive, and with memories intact. Adrenaline rushed through him making him feel weak. His head hurt, his throat was bruised, his arm felt broken, but he had never been so glad to be alive. All he had to do now, was find a way back to his car and get home to his wife. The thought of Julie was a light shining through an incredible darkness. Julie. She wasn't a widow. He was alive and he was going home. If he could figure out how to get out of here... He looked around the loft in astonishment that it was so quiet after all the turbulence of the last hour. He had his answers, it was finished. He knew the truth; he could walk away at last. The truth had made him free. Healing could begin for all. For T.C., Joe, Scott, Natalie's family, and even ... LaCroix. It was time. Past time. He limped around the room extinguishing candles and picking up the last in his hand opened the door to the stairs. He looked back into the room where the most remarkable experience of his life had occurred and felt a tear slip down his face for all that had been lost here. Love, life, hope. And yet perhaps not. Perhaps more had been found than lost. Knight had faith that there was something beyond this world, that he would be with his Natalie. Perhaps he was. And LaCroix...he had found some kind of peace and acceptance tonight for his actions. He thought of LaCroix' final quote. Interesting choice--it said volumes about LaCroix and his love for his son, Nick Knight. Joe Reese had once said that Knight had made a difference to a lot of people. T.C. could at last agree with that. There had never been anyone like Nick Knight. Whether you thought of him as a vampire or a man, there had been no one like him. Ever. The world was a lesser place without him. T.C. would like to have known him. He stood at the door feeling a deep sorrow for all that had happened here. It seemed only right to end the play, so T.C. spoke into the loft, "Now cracks a noble heart. Good night sweet prince: And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!"(3) The loft seemed filled with a quiet peaceful silence. T.C. shut the door and left the loft alone once more in darkness. Fini (1) Macbeth, Act 3, Scene 2 (2) Hamlet, Act 1, Scene 2 (3) Hamlet, Act 5, Scene 2 Author's notes: When I finished Shadows and Ghosts, Jules wrote me and said that I couldn't leave LaCroix out there like that--suffering. I began to wonder if I could write a story about LaCroix and his reaction to what happened that night in the loft. I contemplated for a long time on what he might do and who he would go to. I realized that if he couldn't talk to anyone about Divia in 2000 years, he wasn't exactly going to be able to talk about Nick, either. I couldn't see him going on about it to any other vampire. In fact, I saw him only giving Janette a bare-bones account on inquiry. Talk about his feelings, not hardly. In the end I realized he would have to talk about it to someone who wasn't a threat, wouldn't be around for the long-haul, and yet really and truly cared about Nick. That lead me to my character T.C. Even LaCroix needs to talk, and given a one-in-a-million chance encounter with someone like T.C., I thought he'd go for it. I think he started it with the idea that he could kill or wipe T.C.'s memory when it was over, never imagining how events would fall out. You may agree or disagree. As someone once said 'Your mileage may vary.' I hope you enjoyed the story. I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Yes, I know, no one really likes to think it ended this way, but still, I find it contains a great deal of closure. Finally, my deepest thanks to T.C. for granting me use of his first name and personality for my character. And also for not accepting the fact that he had been laid off and after 18 months coming back to work here at E&S. Now he's just across the hall and in the same group I am. All that wonderful paranoia and crazy ideas are just fomenting all kinds of creative ideas in me. (But don't tell him I said so ). End Part 7 ---------- Send comments, virtual chocolate, and klewless blonde vampires to delggren@es.com