The Vampire in the Iron Mask by J R Rain, now you can read online.
Chapter One
The voice on the phone was faint.
“Are you a private eye?”
“Yes,” I said. “Although we don’t call ourselves that anymore.”
“What do you call yourselves?” The voice was so faint that I had to shove my cell phone against my ear, which I always hated to do.
Outside, through my open office window, I heard a homeless man crying alone. There’s nothing sadder than the sound of a homeless man crying alone.
And just as the thought crossed my mind, I saw myself weeping over my own son’s burned body.
Yeah, there are some things sadder.
I said, “We prefer to call ourselves eavesdropping technicians.”
“Seriously?”
“No. How can I help you?”
I usually got lots of calls throughout the day. Most people spent forty minutes telling me how bad their lives were, how bad their relationships were, and how they were certain that so-and-so was cheating on them or stealing from them or screwing them somehow—only for them to tell me they’d get back to me. They generally didn’t get back to me. They generally worked out their problems themselves. And talking to me was, somehow, the catalyst. So I didn’t take most of my calls too seriously. At least, not at first.
“I know someone who needs help,” said the faint voice.
“Would that someone be you?”
Hesitation. “No.”
“What kind of help?” I asked.
“You’re not going to believe me if I tell you.”
I nearly chuckled. Nearly. These days, I didn’t chuckle much. If at all. And if I had a nickel for every time someone told me I wouldn’t believe their story, I would have, well, a shitload of nickels. What people didn’t understand was that private investigators had heard it all before. Dozens of times.
“Try me,” I said.
“Jesus, maybe this is a bad idea. I’ll probably get fired—or worse.”
“Probably,” I said.
“That’s not very encouraging.”
“If you think you’ll get fired for telling me something—or anyone anything—then trust your instincts.”
“Good point,” said the voice.
I waited. The computer screen chose that moment to go into screensaver mode as the computer’s logo slowly bounced within the screen. I watched it idly, but my thoughts were on the side of the road, where I had been flung from the burning car so many years ago.
“Yes,” said the voice in my ear about twenty seconds later. “Yes, I’m willing to risk my job. Hell, I could even be willing to risk my life, but that could just be paranoia talking.”
“Tell me about it.”
The caller took in a lot of air, and then said, “I work at Medievaland in Orange County. Have you heard of it?”
“Jousting tournaments, eating with your hands, and waitresses dressed like wenches,” I said.
“Yeah, that’s the place.”