THREE

It started out as a quiet day in the diner. A midweek evening in December, way too late for the snowbirds and the spring breakers, too early for the summer vacationers who came down to roast and burn in the sizzling sun. Not more than maybe fifteen people in all afternoon, two girls behind the counter, the same old men, five girls talking in a booth, and five other people. Angelo was wearing a black trucker hat, aviator sunglasses, a dirty white T-Shirt and jeans. He sat sitting on a stool by the counter, wet and exhausted after the long walk in heavy rain, quiet and still, minding his own business.

It had been seven days since the meeting with Jean-Claude. Seven days since he had last gone to sleep. Outside, the rain had stopped but the glass was still pebbled with bright drops. He saw a sleek black car pull into the gravel lot. It was moving fast and crunched to a stop but it remained still and dull. No doors opened. No people scrambling out of the car and into the diner. A minute later, he was sitting in his usual booth, drinking coffee, watching the chess game between the two old men. Bored when they fell asleep and interested when they argued about how one cheated.

Through all the arguing about how one of them 'ate' the other's king piece, he could hear Laura quarrelling behind him. Looking over his shoulder, he spotted one man with her. Guy from some big northern city, he guessed, after much inspection. Tough guy in a thousand dollar suit and shined shoes. Down in this little place in a hurry, still dressed for his city office. But the clothes were nothing, it was the other things that striked him odd. The way he acted, the way he spoke…

Having finished his coffee, he eased off his seat and started towards the door. Up close, Angelo sensed something coming off the man. Some kind of a blend of menace and confidence. Some arrogance in there, maybe. A suggestion he normally got his own way.

"Everything okay?" Angelo asked, stopping in front of the two. Somehow, it seemed appropriate to actually give a rat's ass about something.

"Well, let's see." the guy started, "I hate the whole wide world, living in it hurts like hell…especially my job but I need it because my damned boss is threatening me so, I wonder, I rreaaallllyyy wonder, does that give you enough of an answer?"

Oh, ho, ho. Is this what you get for being nice? Ah, life was screwed up that way. Angelo wasted no second, he didn't think…just reacted, "Oh, the world hates little bitty Barbie, does it? Well, no shit, man. Of course it hurts like hell. It's twice the hell I have to put up with while having this conversation with you." He said calmly, hands in his pockets. The man looked amused. "What's your name?" he asked.

"Raymond." Angelo said automatically, he had gotten used to the name. The man watched as Laura hurried off to fill an order. "Yeah?" he asked. "I'm looking for a guy called Spencer." he continued, "D'Angelo Spencer. You know him?" Angelo pretended to think about it and then shook his head, "Nope. Never heard of him."

"Anyone else know him?" the man said back. Once again, Angelo shook his head. "No."

The man smiled at him, and Angelo was sure he didn't buy it. "You sure?"

A pause. And then, "I'm sure."

"Well, thanks anyway." The guy said. "Considering I might be stuck here for a while, I'll see you again." And with that, he left. Out the door and back into the cold, windy weather.

"Bring your friends." Angelo muttered to himself. He started back into the room, remembering he had forgotten his jacket. Laura was standing right there behind him. "What did he want?" she asked. He shrugged the jacket on, "Looking for a guy."

"Someone called Spencer?" she asked. He nodded. Laura sighed heavily, "Sixth time this week." she said. "There was an old guy who kept coming here, and now them."

Angelo shrugged. "Maybe they like the food?"

"Oh please." Laura laughed. "You crack me up." she shook her head, snickering, walking away to go and have a word with one of the impatient cooks who kept swearing and spitting on the meals. Angelo watched her go and his eyes wandered around the room, in deep thought, he glanced at somebody's abandoned newspaper.

He picked it up and stared down at the front page. The headline was: 'First murder in over fifty years' below it was a picture of a dead man, his body found behind an alley. The guy looked somewhere around his fifties, medium height, bulky….Holy shit.

That man was Jean-Claude.

It was his fault. Some people might say, 'No, it isn't. You didn't kill the man.' but it was still his fault. He got him killed. So there wasn't a difference. Maybe he should've told him. Maybe he should've said, 'Sure. I'm D'Angelo Spencer.' and then, Hardway would've told him whatever he was meant to. And then, he would have been home by now. Angelo could have ignored it all anyway, like he always did. He'd be no worse off, and then, the guy would still be alive.

You might ask him, 'Sure, but why do you care?' The answer to that would be simple. Simple and complicated in many reasons. It wasn't because he felt responsible. It was because he felt guilty. But why should he? He didn't kill him. Shit…shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.

Three fucking months in silence, with unknown identity, all flushed down the toilet because he didn't say, 'Sure. I'm Spencer.'

He was still wondering why the hell he had lied to Jean-Claude. And he only came up with one conclusion: Because there was no reason not to. But, there was also no reason why a private detective from a big northern city should have been looking for him. He had no living relatives. He owed no money. He had never stolen anything. Never cheated on anybody…

Vampires.

No. He mentally slapped himself in the face. The vampires were gone. Dead. Lifeless. Finished. Extinct. Vanished. Destroyed…Shot to hell. Take your pick but they all mean the same thing, and he wanted to stick with the thought of that same thing. How hard was it to be dead and remain dead? If there was such a thing as 'the god-almighty', he wouldn't have let those bloodsuckers live.

He continued to think about it. As far as he knew, he had been invisible. And he had never known anybody called Skyler. Not one of his patients. Friends. Or any close relatives. So whatever the hell Jean-Claude wanted to say, he was definitely not interested. Nope. Not one bit. Because him being invisible had become a habit. It's better than a habit, it was kind of like a game. He liked the secrecy, being able to sleep at night instead of staring at the ceiling all night for the past two years. It felt warm, comfortable and reassuring. Knowing that there isn't going to be a madman in your house ready and waiting with a fucking butcher knife.

He was sure it was the other guy who had killed Hardway. Think about it, a private detective comes in one day, looking for him without the other guy, so they weren't working together. The other guy probably worked for someone else. Maybe he was asked to come and follow Hardway, to see what he knew. To know what the hell he was doing. Hardway might have given them a problem up north. So he was tailed down here, the young guy caught up with him, beat out of him who he was looking for and then, whadddya-fuckin-know, the guy comes in the day after Hardway turns up dead and asks for a D'Angelo Spencer.

Sure, and then you might say, 'Are you going to tell the cops?' But involving the cops with anything was a matter for long and serious debate. That wasn't the problem, though. The problem was…would they believe him? From the looks of it, he could be suspect numero uno. When they find out who Hardway is, they'll be looking for him. But not right away, it could be weeks. Months, even.

That was his conclusion, as he drove the truck all over town, trying to think of what to do. After much thinking, he decided to look for Ms. Skyler, Hardway's client. It wasn't something he wanted to do. It was something he needed to do. Maybe she'd lead him to whatever the hell this was all about. So yes, that was his conclusion, as he drove up north to the airport at eight o'clock pm, a bottle of whiskey in one hand, and his things in the backseat.

Two hours later, Angelo stood inside the departures terminal, breathing the canned air, listening to a dozen conversations in Spanish, checking the television monitor. Los Angeles was at the top of the list, as he had guessed it would be. Second was Knoxville. He headed to the United ticket desk before he had any chance to read the third. Asked about the price of a one-way ticket and nodded when it was perfectly fine. As he walked back to the chairs, he pulled his cash roll from his pocket and assembled the price he had just been quoted from the smallest bills he had.

Then, he picked up the bag and walked back to the girl on the counter. She took it all and straightened the bills and shuffled them into denominations, without looking up. "Your name, sir?" she asked. Her tone was dull and unwelcoming. "Hunter," Angelo replied. The girl typed the name into her console and the ticket printed out. She put it in a folder with a red-and-blue world on it, then she tore it straight back out, asking, "You want to get checked in now?"

"Yeah."

"Gaaaattte B Six, sir," the girl said. "You have a window."

"Thanks," Angelo said. It wasn't like before…not anymore. He was a nice guy now. Quiet, at times but nice. No more insults unless it was really needed and someone was really pissing him off. Moving for insults to 'please' and 'thank you' was tough. His father had called that 'puberty'. He walked to the gate and fifteen minutes later was accelerating down the runway with pretty much the same painful feeling as being back in Lara's car, except the seat next to him was empty. And this time, there was no Hannibal. No Abby. No Kasu.