Vampires by John Steakley Read Free Book Online Page B

can sell us to Texas Monthly.
    “What's she doing in California?”
    Cat shrugged. “She came to see us. Heard about us back home. She knows Jim Atkinson on the magazine.”
    “Does she know he couldn't get his story about us printed?”
    Cat smiled. “I told her. I don't think she believed me.”
    Jack sighed. “Oh, great.”
    “Did I mention she's beautiful?” asked Cat.
    Jack looked at him seriously. “Gorgeous, I believe you said.”
    “Oh, she's that, too. And weird-looking.”
    Annabelle frowned. “Cherry Cat, how could you say that?” She turned to Jack. “She's a very nice-looking girl. Very polite. Very hard-working. I like her.”
    “You like everybody,” growled Carl.
    “I don't like you,” she pointed out.
    “That's true.”
    “What do you mean, weird-looking?” asked Jack.
    Cat took a puff and thought a moment. “I don't know. Strange. I mean, she doesn't have a mohawk or anything. She just.. . Well, sometimes she looks like a princess, you know, all regal and pure.”
    “And other times?”
    “Other times she makes me think of a gang-bang victim waiting for the motorcycles to start.”
    The men laughed. Annabelle said, “Oh, Cherry!” and gave him a playful slap on the shoulder.
    Cat was feigning grievous injury when Father Adam returned wearing civvies and a grini look.
    “Are we ready?” he asked.
    “We are,” replied Jack with equal seriousness.
    They found their way outside and climbed into the truck. Cat insisted Jack drive, saying he was so drunk Jack looked handsome to him. Jack drove without replying. On the way he tried talking to the still stiff young priest.
    “Father Adam,” he began.
    “Aha!” chirped Cat from the back seat. “Tact!”
    “Shaddup, Cat!”
    “Yes, bwana.”
    Jack tried again. He was fairly gentle, the others thought, for him. He explained that the priest needn't worry too much about this-or, for that matter, any other-reporter. Jack told him about all the reporters they had met and been interviewed by in the past. About all the stories that had been written. About all the editors who had killed the stories. Or their careers trying to push the stories on through.
    Because nobody believed in vampires.
    Or wanted to believe in vampires.
    Or wanted to admit they believed.
    Or wanted it known that they believed.
    Or anything else.
    Jack told him some more about it in their brief drive through Carmel and into the Del Monte Forest. He told about the big stack of apologetic letters from a long string of publications. Told about the one story they did get printed, for the “Inquiring Minds” people. About how that story, despite all the fuss and silliness it caused, actually led to their getting a legitimate call from a sheriff in Tennessee.
    Jack ended with: “So I wouldn't worry too much about this girl-what's her name? Yvette?”
    “Davette,” corrected Annabelle.
    “Whatever. I wouldn't worry about her. Her tale won't get printed either. Even if it slams us. They don't even publish those for some reason. But.. .” And he pulled up at a stop sign and turned in his seat and faced the younger man. “But I wish they would. This ain't Rome, kid. This is the battleground. And if I could get on Good Morning, America tomorrow morning, I would. One of the biggest troubles we got is belief. Most people don't or won't believe until it's too late. But if they knew about somebody to call without going through all the rigmarole of the feds or the Church or whatever-Well, most times their local priests don't even buy their fears. But if they knew about somebody who did-and just one or two goddamned days quicker-we could save lots of lives. You get it?”
    Adam coughed, cleared his throat. "Yes, well, it's just that..
    Jack's voice was iron. "Nope. Yes or no, son. There is no third way. Are you here with us or someone else? Yes or no.,'
    The young priest stared out the front window of the truck for a few moments. Then he glanced at Annabelle, who smiled at him