Garreth glanced around at the display of women's s.e.xy undergarments. "Just drooling."

Fowler hurried past the shop door. Garreth waited for several more people to pa.s.s before slipping out. He fell in behind two couples, using them to screen him from Fowler.

If Fowler felt frantic, he did not show it. The grim set of his mouth had vanished. Except for turning every few seconds to scan the arcade or pausing to lean out over the bal.u.s.trade and peer at arcades opposite and courtyards below, he might have been just another shopper.

Garreth waited until a turn in the arcade left a quiet corner, then quickly circled the two couples and closed on Fowler. "What are we going to do with you, Dr. Van Helsing?"

Fowler whipped around. As his face registered recognition, consternation evaporated, giving way to a watchful stillness in the pale eyes. Eyes like ice. "I beg your pardon?"

If Garreth had had any doubts about Fowler before, the question wiped them away. He knew that voice. He had heard it hundreds of times before, in a dozen accents in both s.e.xes, across the table of an interview room and during field arrests, always the same . . . even, controlled, but not quite able to hide its mocking undertone, its catch-me-if-you-can arrogance. He eyed the writer with angry satisfaction.You're dirty, Fowler, and now your a.s.s is mine.

He dropped his voice so only Fowler could hear it above the guitar music coming from the courtyard below. "My pardon is one thing you'll never have. Your appet.i.te for blood is bigger than mine. Those men couldn't tell you where Lane was no matter what you did to them. They didn't know."

The ice-pale eyes focused on his gla.s.ses. "Why are you so sure? Because you do?"

Garreth suddenly felt very glad they stood with a crowd moving past them. He savored the eddying currents of perfumes, sweat, food odors, and blood scents. "Yes. You've seen her, too, though you didn't realize it. She was in Baumen, in the cemetery."

That startled him out of his complacency. "The cemetery!"

Garreth grimaced bitterly. "Ironic isn't it. You followed me here and tortured and killed to find her . . . for nothing. She's already dead."

Fowler's face hardened. The pale eyes narrowed. "I don't believe you."

"You saw the grave. It had rose bushes on it."

Garreth waited for a sag of defeat as Fowler realized he had wasted those three lives, and his. Instead the writer's eyes narrowed still more. In a low, almost casual voice he said, "You're a b.l.o.o.d.y liar. You're just trying to protect that . . . creature." He jammed his hands into his coat pockets.

You goofed, man,a voice murmured in Garreth's head. Screwed up royally. Fowler looked so rational he had forgotten he was dealing with a looney tune. The man had spent most of his life hunting Lane . . . planning revenge, dreaming of it. Of course he refused to accept that it might have been pointless.

Garreth reached for his gla.s.ses. This needed more persuasive methods.

At the same time Fowler's hand came out of his coat pocket.

Every alarm in Garreth kicked into action. Weapon! He lunged for the wrist.

The writer held not a gun, however, but a small bottle, the pump type used as a purse-size perfume container. Pushing Fowler's arm up made no difference. Fowler was already depressing the top. Mist caught Garreth full in the face.

Suddenly he could no longer breathe. The air congealed in his lungs. Garlic juice!

Backing against the arcade bal.u.s.trade he clawed for the turtleneck of his shirt. A part of him recognized the action as useless. It never did help, but he tried anyway, reflexively, in panic, struggling to suck in air.

Several pa.s.sers-by stopped. One woman started toward him.

Fowler reached him first, catching him under the arm and groping for Garreth's coat pockets. "Christ, Sid; don't tell me you've come away without the b.l.o.o.d.y atomizer again." He looked around at the woman. "He has these asthma attacks when he's upset.

He'll be right in no time once he's had his medication. You shouldn't be so touchy, though, Sid; it was just a joke. Come on. Let's get you back to the car and sorted out."

Fear spurted in Garreth. No! Only, he had no breath to say it aloud, and no strength to do anything but struggle to breathe.

Maybe he should just collapse.

The grip under his arm held him on his feet, though. Fowler half dragged, half carried him through the Cannery, chattering all the way. "Hang on, Sid; don't panic. We'll be back at the car before you know it. I do wish you'd remember to carry your atomizer all the time. Maybe Heather ought hang the thing around your neck. Where's she got off to, anyway? Come on, come on; do I have to carry you all the way. Try to walk, can't you? Do you know how embarra.s.sing this is? I daresay it looks like I'm abducting you or something. We'll be lucky if some copper doesn't stop us."

Fat chance. Through reddening vision Garreth saw people turn to stare at them, but no one questioned or interfered.

His chest ached from the effort to expand it. His lungs felt as though they were about to burst. Unconsciousness could be only seconds away. It was incredible that he had not pa.s.sed out already.

"Thank G.o.d we're almost there," Fowler rattled on. Garreth could barely hear through the thunder of blood in his ears. "We'll have you set right straightaway. But one more of these attacks of yours, Sid, and I swear you can b.l.o.o.d.y well count me out of sight-seeing with you and my sister again."

Near the street, Garreth's chest loosened. Air! He wanted to gasp in relief and gulp it in. Instead he forced himself to breathe slowly. If Fowler did not notice he was recovering, he could jump the son of a b.i.t.c.h. He hoped. The hammer of sunlight on top of suffocation left him shaky and wrung-out.

"Hey ho, Sid old son, here we are." Fowler propped Garreth against the car. "Let me just find the key and we're off."

Garreth tensed. Every breath came easier. A few more and he would be breathing normally. Then he would take the b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

"And here we are." Fowler held up the key. But he also had the perfume bottle palmed in the same hand, and before Garreth could move, squeezed a second round of garlic mist into Garreth's face.

Anger exploded in Garreth. Not again! Choking, he clawed for his gun.

Fowler caught his wrist and twisted the weapon away. "Naughty, naughty:" He released the cylinder, flipped it out, and dumped the bullets in a smooth, one-handed motion. "We won't be needing these." The cylinder back in place, the gun went into Fowler's coat pocket. "Now, shall we get on with it, with no more foolishness?"

Why did the incident give Garreth a feeling of deja vu? Oh, yes. He had also tried to draw on Lane when she had him pinned in that North Beach alley drinking his blood. With no better results, he remembered bitterly.

Unlocking the car, Fowler shoved him in. Garreth huddled in the seat listening to his lungs creak and his heart slam against them with the strain of fighting to breathe.

Fowler climbed in the other side and started the car. "I'm sure you're uncomfortable. Suffocation is a terrifying sensation. At least in my personal experience it has always been a most effective method of persuading people to share information they might refuse to otherwise. You needn't worry about pa.s.sing out or dying, however. Your kind doesn't. You only feel as though you're about to. Endlessly." He backed out of the parking s.p.a.ce. "We'll finish our chat somewhere quiet. You still haven't told me where Mada is."

The words brought a terror totally apart from the panic caused by not being able to breathe. Deja vu indeed. Fowler would never appreciate the irony of it, but he was an echo of the woman he wanted to destroy. Another victim of Lane's excesses. And as in the alley with Lane, Garreth was completely in his captor's power. Helpless.

11

Somewhere quiet indeed. Garreth bit his lip. No one would think of checking Lane's apartment when they started looking for Fowler and him.

The lock clicked open. Fowler dropped his lock picks back into the inside pocket of his coat. Picking Garreth up from where he had dropped him by the door, Fowler dragged him inside and deposited him in the wicker basket chair. Then in a quick circuit, Fowler opened the drapes several inches, closed the door, and came back to the wicker chair.

Sunlight streamed across the room in a beam that splashed over Garreth. He noticed it even in the midst of his other pain, and strained away from the slap of it toward the side of the chair still in shadow.

Fowler promptly dragged the chair so the beam fell directly across the middle, where no amount of leaning would avoid it. "We can't have you too comfortable, can we, old son?"

He reached into his coat pocket. Garreth stiffened, expecting the perfume bottle again. Fowler had sprayed him twice more on the drive over and with time between for only a few gulps of air, each renewed loss of breath had felt more terrifying than the last.

Instead of the garlic, however, Fowler produced four thin plastic strips of the kind electricians used to secure a group of wires in one neat bundle.

He toyed with them. "Handy little gadgets, these cable ties. One can do all sorts of things with them where one needs a loop or a way to fasten something to something else."

Or tie up someone? The ties looked just the right width to make the marks on Holle's and the Count's wrists.

Fowler wrapped a tie around one of Garreth's wrists, fed the pointed end through the lock loop on the other end and pulled it snug. "I believe your law enforcement agencies use a longer, wider version as handcuffs. It makes sense, really. They're strong and there's no lock to pick." He pulled Garreth's arms behind him and wrapped the other wrist, this time looping the tie through the loop made by the first before closing it. Cable ties went around Garreth's ankles, too. "There now. You won't wander, even if I let you breathe for a while." He smiled. "Or should I say, if you earn the right to breathe."

Garreth tested his wrists. No good. The plastic strip cut in like wire with no feeling of give. At night and breathing normally he might have the strength to break them, but not here, not now.

"The price isn't very high, really. All you have to do is tell me where to find Mada."

The h.e.l.l. How did Fowler expect him to talk when he could not breathe?

As though reading his mind, Fowler said, "You can whisper if you have a good go at it. I strongly advise you do so, old son."

Why bother when he would not believe the truth?

"Whereis she!" A hand cracked across Garreth's face.

Through the pain came the thought that if only he could get out of this sunlight he might find a way to fight Fowler. It would halve his handicap anyway.

Fowler slapped him again. The force whipped his neck and rocked the chair. But with the blow came an idea for getting out of the sun. Carefully Garreth mouthed:f.u.c.k you.

Fowler reacted instantly. Grabbing Garreth by the lapels, Fowler hauled him out of the chair and slung him halfway across the room against the bookshelves beside the fireplace. If Garreth had been breathing, it would have knocked the air out of him. "Tell me!"

Shadow brought no relief, though, no renewal of strength. He sagged to the floor. G.o.d if only he could pa.s.s out. This was excruciating, swimming on the edge of consciousness . . . like the half-death of his transition phase, feeling and hearing everything but unable to roll over to relieve his aches or move to scratch his itches.Above him Fowler chuckled. Grabbing Garreth by the lapels once more, Fowler jerked him to his feet and slammed him backward again, into the brick of the fireplace itself this time, again and again, once for every word he spoke. Garreth's gla.s.ses shook loose and fell off. "You . . . will . . . tell . . . me. You'll tell me or learn just how much pain can be inflicted on one of your sort. It is a great deal, I promise you. I have seen. There's no refuge. You can't even faint. Until the central nervous system is disrupted, you must feel and endure every moment of agony, and you would be surprised how much of the body may be destroyed before damaging the spine or brain."

Garreth fought welling panic. Fowler had to be playing mind games. Not that he doubted what the writer said was true. There had probably been plenty of opportunity for observation of vampires in pain while killing Irina's friends in Europe. No wonder she hated and feared the man. But how much could Fowler do here? Whittle at him with a pocket knife?

Abruptly he wished he had not thought of that. He hated knives. The idea of being cut always bothered him far more than the possibility of being shot.

Fowler hissed through his teeth. "I don't know why you protect the vile creature. She condemned you to this life. One would expect you to hate her, to rejoice in seeing her destroyed." He brushed at dust on Garreth's lapels. "Perhaps what you need is the opportunity to reflect on it. Yes, that's it. I'll hang you up in the bedroom closet with a clove of garlic around your neck. I doubt very much that anyone will discover you there. In a couple of weeks or months, then, I'll come back and resume our discussion.

How does that strike your fancy?"

It struck pure terror . . . bone-melting, bowel-emptying, paralyzing dread. Visions spun behind Garreth's eyes of weeks or months without food or breath, also without unconsciousness or sleep, unable to die, only to hang there suffering ceaselessly. A living death.

"Or maybe we'll try a stake on you for size. Not kill you, you understand, just give it a little tap so you know what it feels like."

Dumping Garreth back in a chair beside the fireplace, Fowler went out to the kitchen. A cracking noise came back to Garreth, then Fowler returned carrying a chair rung. With his pocket knife he sharpened one end into a long, thin point, carefully cutting so that all the shavings fell in the fireplace. "We don't want to be untidy, do we."

Don't panic,Garreth thought desperately, watching him. That had been one of the first lessons in survival at the academy. Panic kills. He must stay calm and think rationally.

Or get mad,a voice whispered in his head. It sounded a little like Lane, but more like his father and the instructors at the academy.Think Survival. Fight. Even if your teeth are kicked in and you're shot full of holes, you never stop fighting.

Never. Kick, claw, use any weapon you can find but don't let the sc.u.m waste you.

And this b.a.s.t.a.r.d in particular. He obviously enjoyed inflicting terror. He had probably hummed and smiled just like this at Count Dracula while preparing that other stake.

Anger boiled up thinking about the savagery of the little man's death. Garreth let it come . . . welcomed it. Fowler had had enough fun. It was time to stop him. What was a little suffocation and daylight? Irina had made herself live a human rhythm without any aids like dark gla.s.ses, had forced herself even to go to church. He could surely bear some pain in the name of survival.

As anger grew, his mind started working again . . . planning. The first order had to be freeing himself. By twisting his wrists he could reach around to slip a finger of one hand under the cable tie on the other. He pulled. The plastic bit into his finger and wrist.Come on man, he prodded himself.Work at it. We're talking life and death here.

Fowler whittled at the stake.

Garreth eyed the knife. That would have him free in a second. He could talk if he made an effort, Fowler had said. He would try, then. Straining, he managed to compress his aching chest, moving a fractional amount of air up his throat. "Fowler." It hardly counted as even a whisper, but it was sound.

Fowler heard. He turned, smiling. "h.e.l.lo, h.e.l.lo. Do you mean you have something to say to me after all?"

Garreth let the smile and arrogant tone feed his anger. He worked another bit of air out. "Closer."

Fowler came over and leaned down. "Now then, where's Mada?"

Garreth rammed his head into Fowler's nose as hard as he could.

The writer reeled back with a howl, clutching at his face. Knife and stake clattered to the floor.

Garreth threw himself out of the chair on top of them. He could barely feel the knife. His fingers shook weakly as he tried to close them around the handle and the room spun beyond the red haze of his vision. Curses ran through his head. The garlic effect should have been wearing off, unless he was still being affected by some that had soaked into his coat. If only he could breath a little.Well you can't, d.a.m.n it, he yelled at himself,and you're not going to pa.s.s out, either, so forget about it.

Biting his lip, he locked his fingers around the knife and turned the blade so he could saw at his bonds. It seemed to take forever to find the right position, then a sudden lance of pain in his wrist told him he was also cutting his skin. He kept working anyway. Fowler would not remain blinded by pain forever.

Or even another minute. From the corner of his eye he could see the writer's hands coming down. He sawed desperately with the knife, cursing. How could a stupid d.a.m.n piece of plastic take so long to cut?

A moment later he swore again. Fowler was stiffening; he had seen what Garreth was doing.

With a snarl, Fowler charged, foot swinging.The toe connected just behind Garreth's ear. Pain exploded in his head. A little more pain he might have ignored, but the force of the blow loosened his grip and the knife fell out of his fingers. He groped frantically for it.

At the edge of his vision, Fowler's foot swung a second time. Garreth rolled away, cursing. Dodging the kick meant abandoning the knife.

With a snort of triumph Fowler kicked the knife into the fireplace and s.n.a.t.c.hed up the chair rung. He came at Garreth gripping it in both hands.

Garreth rolled again. Not quite fast or far enough. The stake drove into his hip. A spasm of pain wracked him. He kept rolling.

Maybe he could jerk the stake out of Fowler's hands, even if it meant landing on top of it and driving it in deeper.

No such luck. The point came free in a flood of wet warmth down Garreth's leg. Through the red fog clouding his vision, Garreth saw Fowler reset his grip on the stake and lunge again. Garreth flung himself sideways one more time and twisted his wrists desperately, straining at the cable ties.

With a sharp jerk, the cut tie broke. His hands came free. Just in time to reach up and deflect the stake. Instead of driving through the middle of his throat, it impaled the muscle where his neck and left shoulder joined.

This time Garreth pulled it out himself. Grabbing the shaft below Fowler's hands, he forced it back up toward the writer. A wordlessly snarling Fowler leaned on the stake to drive it down again. Garreth pushed up, resisting. Even as he held Fowler off, though, he knew he could not do so for long. The writer had gravity and daylight on his side and the strength was seeping out of Garreth's arm along with the warmth of blood spreading across his shoulder.

Garreth abruptly shoved sideways. As his arms went out from under him, Fowler came crashing down on Garreth. Garreth rolled, taking the writer with him. Coming on top, he wrenched away the stake and hurled it across the room.

Fowler caught Garreth's belt and heaved him aside, then scrambling to his feet, dived to retrieve the stake.

Garreth rolled for the fireplace. He had to free his feet! His fingers closed around the knife as Fowler scooped up the stake and turned. Garreth picked up a log from the stack on the hearth and heaved it at the charging Fowler, then reached for the cable ties on his ankle with the knife.

The log struck Fowler's chest. With no effect. To Garreth's dismay, the writer reeled back only a step before recovering and charging on.

Sawing at a cable tie with one hand, Garreth picked up another log with the other.