We went through the entrance to the minicommunity and two blocks over, and then Debs pulled up onto the grass in front of a modest, pastel yellow house and the car rocked to a stop. “That’s it,” Deborah said, glancing at the paper on the seat beside her. “Guy’s name is Victor Chapin. He’s twenty-two. House is owned by Mrs. Arthur Chapin, age sixty-three. She works downtown.”
I looked at the little house. It was slightly faded and very ordinary. There were no skulls stacked outside, no hex signs painted on the yellow walls, nothing at all to say that evil lived here. A ten-year-old Mustang squatted in the driveway, and everything about the place was still and suburban.
“He lives with his mom?” I said. “Are cannibals allowed to do that?”
She shook her head. “This one does,” she said, opening her door. “Let’s go.”
Deborah got out of the car and marched briskly toward the front door, and I could not help remembering that I had been sitting in the car and watching when she had gone alone to another door and been stabbed—so I got out quickly and joined her just as she pushed the doorbell. From inside the house we heard an elaborate chime playing, something that sounded very dramatic, although I couldn’t quite place it. “Very nice,” I said. “I think it’s Wagner.”
Deborah just shook her head and tapped her foot impatiently on the cement stoop.
“Maybe they’re both at work,” I suggested.
“Can’t be. Victor works at a late-night club,” Debs said. “Place on South Beach called Fang. They don’t even open until eleven.”
For a moment I felt a small twitch somewhere on the ground floor of my deepest and darkest dungeon. Fang. I had heard of that before, but where? In the New Times? In one of Vince Masuoka’s tales of late-night clubbing? I couldn’t quite remember, and it went out of my head when Deborah snarled and slapped the doorbell again.
Inside, the music swelled up a second time, but this time, over the top of the most dazzling chord, we heard somebody shout, “Fuck! All right!” and a few seconds later the door swung open. A person who was presumably Victor Chapin stood there holding the door and glaring out at us. He was thin, about five inches short of six feet tall, with dark hair and several days of stubble on his cheeks, and he was wearing a pair of pajama bottoms and a wife-beater undershirt. “Yeah, what!” he said belligerently. “I’m tryna sleep!”
“Victor Chapin?” Deborah asked, and the official cop tone of her voice must have penetrated his sulkiness, because he stiffened suddenly and looked at us a bit more warily. His tongue darted out and mo
istened his lips, and I could see one of his Dr. Lonoff-capped fangs for a second as his eyes moved from Debs to me and back again.
“Whuddya—Why?” he said.
“Are you Victor Chapin?” Deborah repeated.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
Deborah reached for her badge. As soon as it was obvious that it was, in fact, a badge, and even before she flipped it open, Chapin said, “Fuck!” and tried to slam the door. Purely out of reflex, I got my foot in the way, and as the door bounced back open and swung toward Chapin, he turned and ran for the rear of the house.
“Back door!” Deborah said, already running for the corner of the house. “Stay here!” And then she was gone around the side. In the distance I heard a door slam, and then Deborah yelling at Chapin to stop, and then nothing. I started thinking again of the time so recently when my sister had been stabbed, and the bleak helplessness I had felt watching her life drain out onto the sidewalk. Debs had no way of knowing Chapin had actually run for a back door—he could just as easily have gone for a flamethrower. He could be attacking her right now. I peeked into the dimness of the house, but there was nothing to see, and no sound of any kind except for the rush of a central air conditioner.
I stepped back outside and waited. Then I waited a little bit more. Still nothing happened, and I heard nothing new. In the distance a siren warbled. A plane flew overhead. Somewhere nearby somebody strummed a guitar and began to sing “Abraham, Martin, and John.”
Just when I had decided that I couldn’t stand it any longer and I had to go take a look, I heard a petulant voice rising up in the side yard, and Victor Chapin came into view, his hands cuffed behind him and Deborah right behind, frog-marching him toward the car. There were grass stains on the knees of his pajamas, and one side of his face looked red.
“You can’t—fuck—lawyer—shit!” Chapin said. Possibly it was some kind of verbal shorthand used by cannibals, but it made no apparent impression on Debs. She simply pushed him forward and, as I hurried over to join her, she gave me a look that was as close to happy as I had seen from her in quite some time.
“What the fuck!” Chapin said, turning his eloquence on me.
“Yes, it is, isn’t it?” I said agreeably.
“This is fucked!” he yelled.
“Get in the car, Victor,” Deborah said.
“You can’t—What!” he said. “Where are you taking me?!”
“We’re going to take you to the detention center,” she said.
“You can’t just fucking take me,” he said.
Deborah smiled at him. I hadn’t met very many vampires, but I thought her smile was probably scarier than anything the bloodsuckers could come up with. “Victor, you refused a lawful order and ran away from me. That means I can just fucking take you,” she said. “And I’m going to just fucking take you, and you are going to answer some fucking questions for me, or you are not going to see the outside for a long time.”
He opened his mouth and just breathed for a moment. His nice shiny fangs didn’t look so intimidating all of a sudden. “What kind of questions?” he said.
“Been to any good parties lately?” I asked him.