Dark Rain: 15 Short Tales (34 page)

nce upon a time there was an old vampire.

He lived in a big castle in a forgotten forest, far, far away from any humans… and any unhumans, for that matter.

He lived a quiet, uneventful life, feasting on the rodents unlucky enough to inadvertently reveal themselves or to even squeak behind a nearby wall. The old vampire could, after all, command them to show themselves… and, once compelled, they would scuttle right up to him, usually shaking with fear. Yes, mice can shake with fear. The old vampire had seen it and, secretly, quite enjoyed it. Perhaps too much.

However, the old vampire did not enjoy death, which is why he killed the vermin quickly, plunging his teeth into their necks and biting off their little heads, flinging them off to the side, where they would roll about like so many marbles.

Okay, maybe he liked death sometimes, but certainly not enough to kill humans. Okay, that was a lie. He loved killing humans, too, which is why he had forced himself to live in this castle, far away from anyone, especially humans. The old vampire, you see, loved seeing fear in the eyes of men—and women and children, too, for that matter. He also loved to see the sweat on their brow and loved, perhaps too much, when they sometimes pissed or shit themselves in fear. He would, of course, never admit to the latter.

Anyway, he loved death and killing and fear too much… so much so that he had nearly wiped out a small village in a remote Alaskan harbor. Which is how he ended up here, in a castle in the forest, far, far away from all those lovely humans who could sweat and show fear and piss and shit. The old vampire thought he was doing a noble thing, giving up human blood. In fact, he had convinced himself he could live without it. And so far, he had lasted, precisely, nine hours.

This was, after all, his very first day in his new castle in the damnable woods that were just too far away from prying human eyes. Eyes that could show fear. Blessed fear.

Once upon a time there was an old vampire who lived, precisely, nine hours and fifteen minutes in an old castle in a forgotten forest far, far away from any humans… an old vampire who put said castle on sale just before feasting on his real estate agent… and everyone else in the office.

closed the office door behind me and sat in the straight-backed chair. I crossed one leg over the other and straightened the seam of my pants. The polish of my shoes reflected the halogen lighting overhead. The chair was too small for me, but I was used to that. My gun ground into my lower back, but I was used to that as well.

The man sitting before me watched me carefully. His hands were clasped before him on the desk, a pencil protruding like an extra finger. The eraser was worn down, almost to the metal jacket. The eraser was black and useless. But still, he used it, and would go on using it until there was very little left. No one would ever accuse Lieutenant Hollander of government waste. Hollander was a big man, too big for his small office, which seemed proportioned for someone perhaps half his size. The office was fairly Spartan, with just a few photos of his family and some case folders stacked here and there. The brightest spot in this bleak room was an oil painting hanging on the wall behind him, signed in the bottom-right corner with a single name: Sara.

“How are you, Alan?” he asked.

“Just fine.” Quietly, he manipulated the pencil in his hand, flipping it over once to tap the eraser end on his desktop.

“Before I get to the reason why I called you into my office, I just want to say how sorry I am about Sara.”

“I don’t want to talk about it, Lieutenant.”

“I understand.”

I said nothing, glancing past his head at the painting. It was of the ocean. Sara had loved the ocean, so much so that we had purchased a home on the beach where she could paint from the balcony—she had made a good deal of money from her art. Art that even my boss had bought. Now, she was dead, and I had to look at her painting every time I came into his office. I sucked in some air and felt the cold emptiness of her death squeeze my ribcage.

“Do you have any idea why I called you in?”

“No, Sir.”

He paused and set the pencil down on the desk, then picked it up again. He looked at me and squinted a little, as if I were a mirage on the distant horizon. “I have an assignment for you.”

“Okay.”

“I know they’ve been cutting back your workload, easing up on your number of assignments, but this will be, in fact, your last one.”

“Okay.” So, they were finally phasing out my position, as I’d expected for quite a while.
Budget cuts.
I sat there, stoic.

“You’ve been with us how long?”

“Thirteen years.”

“And you’ve deported many men in this time?”

“Hundreds, Sir.”

“You ever deported a dog?”

“A dog?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“No, Sir.”

He shoved a file across the desk. It was a very thin file. I picked it up and set it on my lap.

“It’s all in the file,” he said.

t was 122 degrees Fahrenheit in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia.

The man in front of me was not happy. Mostly, he was confused. Unhappy, confused, and probably irritable, since the air conditioning was clearly on the fritz. He looked at the paperwork on the desk in front of him some more, then at me again, and finally, at the dog sitting quietly by my side. Quietly, that is, if you didn’t count the continuous panting.

“You are here in Saudi Arabia to return… a dog?” The man spoke nearly perfect English.

“That’s correct.”

He looked again at the photocopy of my INS badge and identification, which he had photocopied himself as soon as I was led from customs to his office.

“I thought your agency returned people—criminals—to other countries. Not dogs.”

“He’s been a very bad dog.”

“Is that a joke?”

“Actually, that
was
a joke. Returning the dog to his rightful owner, I’m afraid, is not a joke.”

“I’m not in the mood for jokes. It’s much too hot for jokes, Mr. Putnam.”

A ceiling fan chugged above us, but did little to disperse the superheated air. The fan, I thought, looked like it was going in reverse. Sucking air up, instead of dispersing it down. I almost said something, but decided against it. With any luck, I should be out of here in a few minutes.

“I think you are a spy,” said the man.