Blood Price

effect. "The giant bat. Nosferatu.
    Vampire. You find his crypt, gentlemen, and you'll find your killer."

    "Can you describe the creature?"

    "If you mean could I pick it out in a lineup, no. Tell you the truth, it went by so awfully fast I saw mostly outline. But I'll tell you this much," his voice grew serious and a note of terror crept in, "that thing had eyes like I've never seen on any living creature and I hope to God never to see again. Yellow they were and cold, and I knew that if they looked back at me I wouldn't last much beyond the first glance. It was evil, gentlemen, real evil, not the diluted kind of evil humanity is prey to but the cold uncaring kind that comes from old Nick himself. Now, I'm old and death and me's gotten pretty chummy over the last few years; nothing much scares me anymore but this, this scared the holy bejesus out of me." He swallowed heavily and searched both their faces.
    "You can believe me or not-that reporter fella didn't when I went down to see what the sirens were about-but I know what I saw and I know what I felt."

    As much as he wanted to side with the reporter, who had described Mr. Bowan as an entertaining old coot, Celluci found himself unable to dismiss what the old man had seen. And what the old man had felt. Something in his voice or his expression raised the hair on the back of Celluci's neck and although intellect argued against it, instinct trembled on the edge of belief.

    He wished he could talk this over with Vicki, but he wouldn't give her the satisfaction.

    * * *
    "God, I hate these machines." The heavy, exaggerated sigh that followed had been recorded in its annoyed entirety. "Okay. I'd have reacted much the same way. Probably been an equal pain in the ass. So, I'm right, you're right, we're both right, let's start over." The tape hissed quietly for a few seconds while background noises-the rumble of two deep voices arguing, the staccato beat of an old, manual typewriter, and the constant ringing of other phones-grew louder. Then Celluci's voice returned, bearing just enough edge to show he meant what he said. "And stop hustling my partner for classified information. He's a nice man, not that you'd recognize nice, and you give him palpitations." He hung up without saying good-bye.
    Vicki grinned down at her answering machine. Mike Celluci was no better at apologizing than she was. For him, that was positively gracious. And it had obviously been left before he talked to Mr. Bowan and found she'd been there first. Any messages left after that would have had a very different tone.

    Finding the tabloid's unnamed source had actually been surprisingly easy. The first person she'd spoken to had snorted and said, "You want old man Bowan. If anyone sees anything around here it's him. Never minds his own fucking business." Then he'd jerked his head at 25 St. Dennis with enough force to throw his mohawk down over his eyes.

    As to what old man Bowan had seen. . . . As much as Vicki hated to admit it, she was beginning to think Coreen might not be as far out in left field as first impressions indicated.

    She wondered if she should call Celluci. They could share their impressions of Mr. Bowan and his close encounter. "Nah." She shook her head. Better give him time to cool off first.
    Spreading the detailed map of Toronto she'd just bought out over her kitchen table, she decided to call him later. Right now, she had work to do.

    It was easy to forget just how big Toronto was. It had devoured any number of smaller places as it grew, and it showed no signs of stopping. The downtown core, the image everyone carried of the city, made up a very small part of the whole.

    Vicki drew a red circle around the Eglinton West subway station, another around the approximate position of the Sigman's building on St. Clair West, and a third around the construction site on Symington Avenue where DeVerne Jones had died. Then she frowned and drew a straight line through all three. Allowing for small inaccuracies in placing the second and third positions, the line bisected all three circles, running southwest to northeast across the city.

    The two new deaths appeared to have no connection to the first three but seemed to be starting a line of their own.

    And there was more.

    "No one could be that stupid," Vicki muttered, digging in her desk for a ruler.

    The first two deaths were essentially the same distance apart as the fourth and the fifth; far from exact by mathematical standards