Chapter 11
If you'd asked her, Carly wouldn't have been able to tell you anything about the drive to Shreveport. She didn't even recognize the highway when she drove it again. The elation of meeting someone else like her, of speaking to another human being without moving her lips or vocal cords, of projecting the images and sensations that made up her life into another person's mind, inspired a euphoria that stayed with her until she got into her hotel room and lay on the bed.
Not alone. I'm not alone. The words just kept playing over and over in her mind. She was tempted to call Sookie right away, but she'd likely not be home. She'd still be working.
Why didn't I give her my cellphone number? Carly kicked herself. She hadn't used it since she'd been back in the country. She hadn't even checked to see if it was charged. It was in her "USA tote" that she kept in her duffel bag. With horror, Carly realized she hadn't even called her mom to tell her she was home.
"She's gonna kill me." Carly rummaged around, pulled the cellphone out of her bag, and called her mother. Once Carly had settled in Memphis graduate school Edna moved back to her ancestral New York townhouse, which she'd rented to a gallery owner friend for most of the time they'd lived in New Jersey. He kept two guest rooms ready for Carly and her mom (after Uncle Benjamin died), so they could come into the city whenever they wanted. Even though it had been the site of her husband's death, Edna remained attached to the house and its furnishings. She didn't make any money from his rent—it didn't even cover the taxes—but she knew that someone who appreciated the house and its history lived there. The fact that his somewhat exotic ways annoyed her neighbors also gave her satisfaction. Edna accepted the rules established by her class and appeared to maintain them, but loved to watch the other members of her "set" chafe—she got that from her mother's side of the family.
"My prodigal daughter calls," Edna answered.
"Hi, mom. I'm really sorry I didn't call when I landed in New York. I should have let you know I was back."
"I still don't understand why you couldn't have stayed with me a couple of days." Edna's feelings were clearly hurt.
Carly hadn't told her mother about the change in her travel plans. Edna hated private planes and always avoided them. She thought small plane crashes were divine retribution for gluttonous displays of wealth, and she would have gone through the roof if she'd known Carly was traveling on one. "I had to go on a different flight. The landowner wanted the reproductions of the artifacts right away."
"And no one else could take them to him?" Edna didn't hide her irritation with her daughter. Carly had the bad habit of being overly generous with her time to make up for her social awkwardness.
"Mom, I was the only American on the dig, and he lives in Louisiana." Carly hadn't shared her initial suspicions that the property owner was a vampire with her mom. And now that those suspicions were confirmed and she'd spent an emotional night in his company, she didn't know how to open the conversation. They'd exchanged weekly letters throughout the summer, but they'd never corresponded about the introduction of vampires to human society.
"Well, you better find me a nice hotel room in Shreveport, Carly. That's all I have to say."
"I will, mom, but you could also stay with me. I think there should be plenty of room in the apartment, and I can sleep on an air-mattress."
"Carly," Edna sighed. "Staying in a hotel, and letting someone else make my bed, is much better than displacing you and putting you on the floor."
"Mom, I've been sleeping in a trailer all summer on a cot or a bunk. An air-mattress is luxury."
"It's unconscionable." Even though she scorned most upper-class affectations, and made fun of acquaintances who would only stay in five star hotels, or who spent $100K dollars on a granite counter-top, she couldn't bear the idea of anything that approximated "camping."
"It's fine, mom."
"Hotel, Carly."
"Okay, I'll ask around, mom. You could also ask your travel agent."
"He's never been to Shreveport. I already asked him." Edna also couldn't stay in a hotel unless she had a first-person testimonial that everything was clean enough and the staff was courteous enough, so Carly or cousins had to scout things out for her first. "When do you think you'll be ready for me, dear?"
"Some grad students are coming to unpack with me tomorrow. The place has book-shelves and a built-in desk, but I have to go buy a bed and a sofa."
"Well, if you don't have enough money to get something satisfactory, use the credit card. I owe you a house-warming present."
"Thanks, mom."
Edna yawned, "I'm sorry, Carly, I'm tired."
"It's only nine o'clock, mom. Why are you so sleepy?" Carly was concerned.
"I spent all day and most of the evening at Abdullah's gallery to help him with the invitation list for an opening he's got next month." Even though Edna moved back to New York, she'd subdivided a portion of the townhouse so that Abdullah could stay there.
"Can't get enough of him, mom?" Carly loved to tease her mom about the handsome Syrian, even though there didn't seem to be anything between them other than a deep, mutually supportive friendship.
"As funny as always."
"I try, mom. You know my winning personality shines best while I'm on the phone."
"Yes, I know very well," Edna had always encouraged Carly get to know people over the phone so that they'd be more tolerant of her quirks. "Back on topic, Carly. This opening is his first vampire show, and he's struggled with the guest list."
Carly thought she might have an opening. "How are you any help? Nothing personal, mom, but do you even know any vampires?"
"If you'd asked me that two months ago, I would have said, 'Of course, not,' but not now."
"What's the story, mom?"
"Do you remember Jean-Jacques Lévesque?"
Carly tried to remember, but her mother had collected more random French connections than she could keep track of. "No, mom, sorry."
"I'm not even certain you met him. But I've known him about ten years—I sold him one of your father's first editions."
"Oh, yes, I remember him. But, mom, if you recall, I wasn't in the best shape right then."
Edna realized she'd miscounted. "I'm sorry, dear. I forgot you'd just gotten back from that school." She refused to name it, because she blamed almost everyone for how far-gone Carly had become and how difficult it had been for her to recover. "I'd never thought twice about his always wanting to meet at night, or not eating, or not aging. I thought he was just European."
"Mom, that's nearly the funniest thing I've heard in weeks."
"In any case," Edna sounded slightly exasperated, "he wrote me the day after what he calls 'The Great Revelation' and asked if I'd like to attend a party at his home, which I'd never seen. He invited a number of his friends, business associates, and told us all that he was a vampire, and apologized for having kept the information from us. It was a marvelous party—slightly disquieting to see him drinking that blood substitute—but just marvelous."
Carly thought she could introduce Eric Northman into the conversation, but her mother was on a roll.
"In any case, because Jean-Jacques is an acquaintance, Abdullah asked me to approach the gentleman about area vampires who might want to attend the opening."
"What's the show?"
"You know that Abdullah's been specializing in art with occult themes for some time, now."
"No, mom. I didn't." Carly bet the neighbors were ecstatic at Abdullah's most recent cocktail party guests.
"Well, I think I mentioned it. In any case, he's put together an exhibition of artists who explore the theme of vampirism with a special emphasis on actual vampire artists who've approached him to market their art." Edna sounded as enthusiastic as a high school cheerleader organizing the prom. "It's really going to capture the zeitgeist, this show. Abdullah is so excited."
"I'm sure, mom. You sound excited." Carly was happy to hear her mother was enjoying herself so much.
"So the artists, the vampires that is, had recommended other vampires to Abdullah, but he was concerned that not all of them would be, well, reputable. You know how important the guest list is to an opening."
Abdullah talked of nothing but the guest list for a whole month or two before an opening. He always said, "It's like alchemy or chemistry-volatile, dangerous, but combine the right materials, cook them at the right temperatures, with the right pressure, the miraculous happens!" It was no wonder he'd decided to market occultist art.
"Jean-Jacques vetted the list last night and wrote elaborate—really thoughtful—extensive descriptions of all these people and who they knew among well, regular, people, and who among them nursed grudges against each other. There really aren't that many of them, Carly, so our list includes the whole Boston to Washington corridor as well as the Great Lakes and Chicago. Jean-Jacques even recommended one man from Shreveport—said he invested extensively in real estate and would be an excellent contact. Perhaps you should meet him. He sounds so intriguing. His name is-"
"Eric Northman." Carly was beginning to calculate odds. What were the chances of her meeting another telepath and her mother mentioning Eric Northman in the same night? Where's the lightning?
"Yes, how did you know?" Edna sounded so impressed that Carly had a social connection all her own.
"He owns the property in Sweden. He's our landowner." Carly didn't know if she could keep talking about him yet, so she kept the description short.
"Well, darling, all is forgiven! Jean-Jacques said he was one of the few truly admirable vampires he knew in the United States. What do you think of this Eric Northman?"
What do I think of Eric Northman? I think he's beautiful, accustomed to getting his own way, powerful, terrifying, private, cagey. "He was very supportive of the dig and really wanted to know about how we went about the excavation."
Edna was quiet. "Oh, Carly. That's not what I meant."
"I don't know, mom."
"Carly, please. Tell me what you think of the man."
"I think if you invite him no one will look at the art. They'll all just be looking at him."
Edna laughed. "That's almost exactly what Jean-Jacques said! That's why we're going to send him an invitation for a private viewing the night before the opening."
"That's really something, mom. Do you think that's a good idea, since you don't know him?"
"No. Now I think it's an even better idea. Jean-Jacques gave me his phone number as well as his address. I'll just call and introduce myself as your mother." Carly could tell Edna was smiling on the other side of the line.
"My god, mom. What are you trying to do? Are you trying to make things hard for me here?" Carly didn't know how to deal with this. Her mom had never given her any pressure to date, or to meet people she didn't want to me.
"No, darling." Edna paused. "I'm trying to get you to tell me exactly where you were last night."
Silence on both sides of the line was so profound, Carly swore she could hear the sound of the light racing back and forth as it carried the signal.
"What?"
"You know that I hate, absolutely hate, second-hand information."
What the hell was going on? What on earth was she talking about? Second-hand from whom?
"Mom, I really don't understand. I told you where I was. I was giving the artifacts to Eric Northman."
"Eric Northman lives in Shreveport, dear. You were in Memphis. I learned from Jean-Jacques that Mr. Northman is one of the primary investors in that lovely hotel we stayed in, in Memphis."
"Yes." Carly finally figured out where all this was going. "Yes, I'm sorry. Yes, I was—he let me—I stayed in the suite he has there."
"I know, darling."
"How on earth do you know that was staying there?"
"Jean-Jacques left him a message there. I guess Northman was en route when Jean-Jacques tried to reach him in Shreveport to ask if he'd be interested in the show. Jean-Jacques didn't want us to waste our time, of course. Northman returned his call not long after he'd gotten there and enthusiastically accepted the offer. Jean-Jacques reported the news of our connection absolutely transported Northman. So much so, he exclaimed, 'What a wonderful surprise' in Swedish over the phone!"
Carly was horrified at herself and what she'd assumed Northman had being doing when he'd retreated from her. The whole time that she thought he was in his room "dealing with his distraction" he was talking to his mother's friend! I've got some fucking issues. I've got to deal with this. Shit.
"Okay."
"He didn't tell you he made the call?"
"No. The artifacts had him...emotional. He was distracted."
"He certainly was. He told Jean-Jacques he would be there, and you would be his 'plus one.' So what happened?"
"That was pretty early in the night, mom. Um. Nothing happened. We just talked for a while." Carly couldn't talk to her mom about how he'd licked her wounded hand, or the corner of her mouth, or tried to glamour her into his bed. "He wanted to know about the dreams I'd had during the dig."
"Why?"
"Um. He figured out I did things differently than other forensic artists." Carly always described herself as an artist to her mom. Edna always said that "anthropologist" seemed like she pinned people to boards and collected them in trays for closer examination. "He was moved by the story."
Edna was quiet for a moment, and then said, "I've always thought it must be terrifying for you, dear. You're so strong. I'm so proud of you."
"Thanks, mom."
"Well, Carly, that's the end of my tale. I should probably say goodnight and let you go to sleep. Just tell your Mr. Northman that your mother can't wait to meet a real Viking."
"I will, mom. I love you." Carly would also tell Eric that his buddy Jean-Jacques had a very, very big mouth.
Carly hung up the phone with her mom after a few more closing words, found the charger for the phone, plugged it in, and sent Anna, the art grad student who had the lease and key to her apartment (as well as her car), a text message that said, "Carly here. call u 2morrow am." They'd agreed to trade messages once Carly was in Shreveport and then meet up the following morning. Carly was grateful for Anna, who was so generous to a perfect stranger. Carly's dissertation director had gone to college with the art studio coordinator who'd vouched for Anna's kindness and integrity, and they'd had a pretty good time when Carly had come out to meet everyone and get the lay of the land before shipping off to Sweden. Anna had introduced herself to Carly by saying, "My brother is pathologically shy, so you don't have to worry about me judging you." Carly thought, how couldn't this woman become my friend? Anna had rounded up a crew of people who'd owed her favors for similar acts of kindness, and they were going to help her deal with the truck.
Over the previous forty-eight hours, Carly's life was transformed. She'd found a friend who knew what her life was like. She was excited to be in Shreveport, Louisiana, with a genuine job and a loose network of people who seemed willing to help her out. But she was going to bed saddled with a great deal of shame for having thought the worst about Eric Northman the night before, when he was really probably just excited to have found another way that he could have her in his life. Her own mind buzzed in every direction, so she wasn't distracted by all the other things that were happening just down her corridor.
The next morning, Carly awoke to an odd combination of sounds—her cellphone ringing and screams of "Ayuda! Muerto! Hay huesos de aquí! Alguien que está muerto!"
Carly answered her phone, "Anna...," as she rushed to her door. She was wearing a long t-shirt. "Anna, hi. Someone's dead here. I gotta call you back."
"God, Carly, in your room?" Anna sounded horrified, as most people would.
"No, Anna. In the hotel, let me call you back."
Carly dialed, '911', and had the operator direct her to the Shreveport police, "Hi, I'm calling from a cellphone, there's a woman yelling in Spanish that someone's dead.."
"Ma'am. Are you at a hotel? 'Cause we already got police on the way," the dispatcher replied.
"Thanks." In her rush to get into the hallway and figure out what was going on, she'd left her room without her key, and the door shut behind her. "Fucking perfect."
Carly saw the maid at the end of the hall, surrounded by other guests in various states of dress, all with cellphones to their ear. The maid was surprisingly calm, given the circumstances, and had the presence of mind to hold up her master key and wave it, "Aqui! Por favor, para sus habitaciones." She would let the less dressed back into their rooms.
Although her Spanish wasn't terrific, Carly remembered enough to know, when she dipped into the maid's head, that this wasn't the first time the poor woman—her name was Pilar-had discovered a dead body in one of the rooms. Focusing on the images associated with these words, Carly saw vividly the horrific scenes the maid happened upon before. By comparison, this particular occasion wasn't so bad. Whoever attacked the body in the room—Carly couldn't make out if it was male or female from the harried and unfocused thoughts inside Pilar's head-left a fairly sedate scene. They'd removed the head and hands, and laid the body—without visible clothing or much flesh—under a sheet. There was very little blood on the sheet, so Carly guessed the victim bled out before being tucked in.
"Muchas Gracias, Pilar."
The maid smiled weakly, shook her head, and responded, "La gente esta loca, señorita."
"Si, es verdad." So true, Pilar. Some are crazier than others.
Carly returned Anna's phone call and filled her in on as much as she could. Carly anticipated that the discovery would delay her exit and the beginnings of her move-in, because standard police procedure would dictate interviewing the occupants of the near-by rooms. Anna was, of course given her nature, willing to accommodate any change in plans.
After a quick shower and a change of clothes, Carly called the front desk, waited on hold, and asked if the management had any idea how long she would need to stay.
"The police are keeping everyone who's not local. So if you are from out of town, you gotta stay, ma'am."
"Well, I'm just moving here, and I'll actually be starting a job Monday where I'll be working with the police pretty closely. Is there a supervising officer downstairs?"
"There are so many here, ma'am." The clerk's voice lowered, suggesting a more confidential tone. "To be honest, ma'am, we've had a few...incidents...in the last year or so, so there are lots of cops here."
Pilar's memories swept through Carly's mind. "Oh, I see." Carly chuckled, "I wish I'd known that. You didn't put that on your brochure, did you?"
"Oh, no, ma'am. It's not like that. All these girls have been 'working girls,' if you know what I mean."
"They've identified the victim?" Carly suspected that this body must be someone whose identity needed to be concealed.
"Well, I don't know about that, ma'am. They told me I wasn't supposed to say anything to anybody about this, and I don't understand Pilar—the maid who found it—too well."
"Okay. If you see someone who looks like they're in charge, let them know I'll be writing up a statement to give to them in lieu of an interview, and that they'll get my address and my phone number at work." Carly wanted to end her stay as quickly as possible.
After writing up a statement that included the approximate time of her arrival, her call to her mom, her text to Anna, and when she thought she'd fallen asleep—and the time recorded by Anna's call this morning, Carly loaded up her stuff and went to the lobby to find someone "in charge" and check out.
The far end of the hall and its intersecting passageway had been cordoned off with yellow crime scene tape and a gaggle of officers and technicians were taking samples, photographs, and measurements. Since the hotel had a horseshoe design, Carly was able to go in the other direction to get to the lobby. She departed unquestioned, a circumstance that diminished her opinion of the Shreveport Police Department somewhat, but they were known for persistence rather than consistency in following procedure.
Once she got to the lobby, she saw an older man, about sixty, stout but not overweight, who was pacing in a circle, talking on a cellphone, his badge displayed in his breast pocket. Carly got out her driver's license and her statement and approached him. "Excuse me, sir, my name is Carly Michael, I'm the new forensic artist and anthropologist who'll be working on the UVVC project over at LSU."
The police officer, Carly guessed he'd have to be a captain or higher, was troubled and confused. "Nice to meet you. Did the District Attorney ask for you to come down here?"
"No, sir. I was a guest here last night at the other end of the hallway. I'm just moving to Shreveport, and I don't start working until Monday."
"Oh. Well, helluva thing to have happen on your first night in Shreveport. Sorry about that kind of welcome." He was jovial and seemed to be willing to talk with her for a few minutes.
Carly kept her mind from wandering into his. After all, if this victim was unidentified, and usual methods available to the medical examiner's office didn't identify him or her right away, she'd know all there was to know about the case eventually, because the bones would be held in the storage unit for her lab. Since there wasn't a skull, she wouldn't be asked to work on it, but she'd probably try to help anyway. But she didn't really want to know any more about the situation right now.
"Well, I'm not moving here to run an ice-cream shop," Carly looked over her shoulder absently, because her reticence was setting in. "I'm supposed to be moving into my apartment today, and there's a crew of people waiting on me. Can I give you the statement I wrote up and my information? And the medical examiner has my police clearance information, which has fingerprints and DNA, so you've got all the info about me you might want. I just need to get out of here as soon as I can."
"Oh," he relaxed even more. "Sure. That's all? Good. I thought you might want to get in on the work."
"No, sir." Carly didn't like blood or guts. She only liked bones once decay or cleaning was done with them. "I'm not a field work type of person—or at least, not when they're fresh."
"If you were, you'd be a suspect, hon. Just means you're normal."
"Thanks." He clearly didn't know much about her. Carly thought that, for once, her reputation for being odd or disconnected hadn't preceded her, or that she was starting to get better. "Can I go?"
"No, problem." He looked around the lobby. "I just gotta get someone to walk you out."
"That's fine. I didn't want to check out until I'd cleared everything with you."
Carly checked out of the hotel, and a patrolman walked her to the U-Haul and cleared the way for her to exit the parking lot. Media trucks swarmed the perimeter of the hotel, and they'd all set up their satellite dishes. Sequestered in the wilds of Sweden, Carly had forgotten what a good old-fashioned USA crime circus looked like, and it was never her favorite thing.
"Well, Carly Michael, welcome to Shreveport, Louisiana. Looks like there will be plenty of work for you."
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