8

Rather than mess up the inside of his car, he left the ZX in the City Hall lot and walked home. What did being wet a little longer matter? Halfway to the Schoning house he realized he did not really want to go home. What would he do there but think about the accident and remember the taste of the girl's blood?

He turned south at the next corner. Minutes later he walked up the main drive of Mount of Olives Cemetery. Obelisques and other ornate headstones of the older graves near the gate bore names like Dreiling, Pfeifer, Pfannenstiel, and Wiesner. And Bieber. Garreth passed them all, striding on until he reached a grave on the far west side which bore no headstone or name, just a metal stake with a laminated card reading: Unknown male d. 11/24/83.

Garreth knelt beside it. How small a grave it seemed for so tall a woman. Not that much of Lane remained after the fire. He began pulling the new spring growth of dandylions and other weeds sprouting in the grass around the edge of the plot. The rain-softened earth made the task easy; even dandylion taproots came up. Garreth still worked carefully, avoiding the thorns of rose bushes on the grave.

The memory of Maggie's voice whispered in his head. "This is crazy, Garreth. The man was a cop hater. He tried to kill you and Ed Duncan. Yet you look after his grave like your mother is buried there. Why?"

A lot of people wondered the same thing, Garreth knew. "He was also someone's son," he had replied for Maggie's and everyone's benefit.

New leaves showed on the canes of the rose bushes planted on top of the grave. Soon there would be buds, then, hopefully, a profusion of blossoms. Blood red American Beauties. What more fitting for Lane?

Thinking about her here, he usually pictured not the vampire, the killer, but Mada Bieber, the child she had been . . . angry and tormented, her unusual height and quick temper making her a pitifully easy target for the ridicule of other children. He ached for the child and for all she might have been if hatred had not driven her to beg Irina Rodek for the vampire life as a way to wreak revenge on the humanity she despised. He talked to the woman, though.

"You would have laughed seeing me tonight," He carefully worked a weed free, making sure he had its roots, too. "I can just hear you: 'See, lover; that's what this life is about. Human blood is what we're meant to drink. They're our cattle, not the four-legged kind. So stop being so stubborn and unnatural. Stop trying to be human and join your people.' You'd like me to become like you." He jerked out a dandylion. "It would mean you'd won after all."

With her rich, mocking laughter echoing in his head, he continued cleaning the grave until growing light and a sudden drag at him announced dawn. Garreth sighed. Time to go, before he fell asleep on the cool, inviting earth, or early-bird citizens saw him and wondered why one of Baumen's finest was running around looking as though he had wallowed in a pig sty.

He might already be too late for the latter. The sound of running footsteps carried across the cemetery. By the time Garreth managed to push to to his feet, a man in sweats appeared out of the drizzle up one of the paths. So intent was his effort, though—blowing steam at every step, face grim with eyes focused inward—that he passed close enough to touch without ever seeing Garreth.

Surprise made Garreth call out. "Good morning, Mr. Fowler."

The writer started violently and flung around white-eyed, then let out a gusty breath of relief. "It's you, Officer Mikaelian. You gave me a bit of a turn. Disheartening, isn't it? We think we're such civilized, rational beings and then something appears out of nowhere in a cemetery and we jump right out of our bloody skins."

"Yet you chose to run through the cemetery. Isn't it a cold, wet morning for exercise?"

"Yes, well, I suppose, but I'm British, aren't I?" Fowler smiled wryly. "I'm used to weather like this. And I've been addicted to running since Alistair Cooper."

Garreth blinked. "Who?"

"A spy character of mine who used marathon running as a cover. I started running to learn what it feels like." He peered at Garreth. "What about you? Surely it isn't part of your normal patrol to be out here dressed and looking that way. If you don't mind a personal observation, you look like hell."

"It's the way I always look when I've been walking in the rain after pulling sixteen-year-old girls out of what's left of their car."

Fowler sucked in his breath. "Bloody shame. I keep a flask in the car for myself after a run on a day like today. You're welcome to a nip."

His gaze slipped past Garreth as he talked. Garreth turned but saw nothing except Lane's grave. His chest tightened. "Something wrong?"

Fowler blinked. "What? Oh. No, nothing. The rose bushes just caught my eye. You know that's how legend says you keep a vampire in his coffin."

Garreth hoped his start looked like surprise and not guilt. "I thought you used garlic or drove a stake through his heart."

"That's all the cinema shows, yes," Fowler said, and snorted, "but real vampire lore says to drape the coffin or grave in mountain laurel or roses. The thorns supposedly have magical power against vampires."

Garreth kept his face expressionless. "I'll remember that."

Fowler circled around him to lean down and touch the new green growth on one bush. "The word vampire is Balkan in origin, of course, but vampires aren't. They can be found mentioned as far back as Babylonia under the name Ekimmus. The Greeks had them, and the Chinese." He turned to lift a brow at Garreth. "Your Irish forefathers had them, too."

Dearg-due. Yes, I know. It still hurt remembering Grandma Doyle hissing the term at him. "Interesting. I take it you're into vampires?"

Fowler smiled. "It's purely professional interest. I used to write horror novels. But what a fool I am, nattering on when you're standing there looking positively frozen. Why don't you come back to my car for that nip. Then I'll give you a lift home."

Garreth grimaced. "I haven't eaten anything in hours. I'm afraid alcohol would put me flat on my butt and you'd have to carry me home. I'd rather walk anyway. Home is close; everywhere in Baumen is close. Thanks anyway."

"As you wish. Well, then, I hope there's someone warm at home waiting to help you thaw—what is it?"

Garreth stared at Fowler in horror, suddenly remembering. Maggie! He had completely forgotten about her! "I'm in deep shit. Pray for a miracle, Fowler, or the next time you see me, I may really be a ghost."

He spun away, and despite the exhausting drag of daylight on him, began to run.