Out of the Silence
Part 5

See Part 1 for notes and disclaimers and author's ramblings.
If you don't receive a part, the parts can be found at:
http://www.loftworks.com/wftk/fiction.html

        Emily stared at him.  Time seemed to slow and stop.  The 
lighting slipped suddenly into the deep golden butter of late 
afternoon.  She took a breath.
        "Damn him," Emily said finally.  
        T.C. tilted his head and waited.
        "Yes, I did.  I changed completely.  I've been passionate about 
everything since then.  I was totally different.  I've loved two men, 
married and divorced one of them, had a child, gotten involved in 
causes.  Oh yes, I lived my passions.  I thought it was the shock... 
After Toronto, after I started writing, it was as if the dam burst.   I 
didn't just write about my ... passions anymore.  I lived them."
        "And are you glad you did?  Weren't you the better for it?"
        "Yes.  I just never made the connection.  I've been obsessed 
about him.  But he did give me the freedom to live," Emily said slowly.
        "I think that's a great deal of love, don't you?"
        Emily nodded, "But why did he tell me not to write about 
vampires anymore?  Did he want me to forget any association?"
        "I don't think so," T.C. said getting up and joining her by the 
window.  "From what we know from Natalie's journal, if *they* know 
about you, you tend to get dead really fast.  I think he was saving 
your life from his friend.  By the way, did he call the other guy 
anything?"
        Emily shook her head.  "I don't remember.  But he had the 
coldest blue eyes I've ever seen."
        T.C. opened up his notebook and pulled out a publicity photo of 
The Nightcrawler and handed it to Emily.  "That him?"
        Emily looked at it and she put her hand to her mouth.  She 
looked at T.C., then nodded.
        "This guy is not a nice guy.  You were lucky to walk away."
        "Who is he?"
        "Well, we think he might be Nick's vampire father--his master.  
We don't know for sure, but we do have some fairly reliable information 
that he was the closest thing Nick had to a father."  T.C. shrugged, 
"Who knows, though."
        Emily looked out the window.  "Is he dead, too?"
        "Don't think so.  But we do think if anybody knows what 
happened that night, it would be him."
        "Do you think you'll ever find out what happened?"
        T.C. shook his head.  "It's a pretty slim chance.  Vampires are 
considerably better at hiding their tracks than mere mortals.  But we 
keep looking."
        "If you find out, will you let me know?"

                                 *****

        T.C. came back abruptly to the present as traffic started to 
move.  "About time," he muttered as he finally moved through the 
intersection and detoured around the car and SUV jammed together in 
what looked like modern sculpture.  He hoped the people in the vehicles 
had survived.  
        His cell phone rang.  T.C. checked it and saw it wasn't Julie. 
It was headquarters.  He glared malevolently at it as it rang again.  
"Can't you tell I'm going home," he complained loudly.  "Leave me 
alone, it's been a lousy day." 
        "Briinnnngggg?" was the only reply.
        T.C. cursed and hit the talk button.  "Davis," he barked. Maybe 
if he were mad enough they'd leave him alone.
        "Captain Davis, we have a hostage situation at the National 
Bank on Queen."
        "Where's Mills?" T.C. asked, referring to the night shift 
Captain.
        "Stuck in a snow bank, sir.  Can you coordinate until he gets 
out?"
        T.C. cussed mentally.  "I'll be there in fifteen minutes.  
What've we got in the way of assets?"
        "We have a black and white on site getting everybody out of the 
area.  We have Detectives Anders and Zeiderhoff on their way, ETA 5 
minutes.  This just barely broke, sir."
"Okay, call for the SWAT team, and when A and Z arrive have them try 
and get some communication going and find out what the hostage takers 
want--and how many hostiles there are.  Oh, also get some kind of idea 
on how many hostages."
        "Right, sir."
        T.C. made a U-turn to blaring horns and headed back, finding it 
ironic that the hold-up in traffic had left him so close to work.  
        He hit the auto-dialer, and waited.
        "Hello?"
        "Julie, I was halfway home, and now I'm going back.  Sorry, 
hon."
        "What's going on?"
        "A hostage situation at the bank.  Hopefully Mills will get out 
of his snowbank soon and take over, or better yet, we can resolve it."  
He cringed at the silence, and waited.
        "All right," Julie said finally with a sigh.  "I hope you can 
get it worked out.  Be careful, Tom."
        "I will."
        "And I'll be waiting up," Julie said softly.  "After all, Peggy 
is still at Mike and Chelsea's."  
        T.C. closed his eyes.  Great.  Julie was feeling romantic, and 
he had to go to work.  Why, tonight of all nights?  He could use a 
little ...well, no sense thinking about it until he could do something 
useful about it.
        "I'll, uh, see what I can do."
        Julie laughed at the sudden huskiness in his voice.  "I'm sure 
you will.  Love ya."
        "Love you, too."
        Julie hung up, and T.C. wondered what it was about that woman 
that could turn him to mush even after twenty-three years.  He took a 
breath and concentrated on driving.

        Four hours, twenty-two minutes later, T.C. left Toronto Police 
Headquarters on College Street.  The hostage situation had been over 
for one hour and fifty-two minutes, but he'd ended up having to do some 
PR work at headquarters.  The hostage-taker had been an out of work, 
homeless man desperate to provide something for his family.  He hadn't 
been dangerous and he'd been talked out easily.  T.C. shook his head.  
It shouldn't be like this.  There should be a net to help people who 
lost their jobs.  Something to help them before they lost their homes.  
But there wasn't and it happened.  And now this man was in worse shape 
than ever.  Now he had felony charges against him. There ought to be a 
way to stop this kind of senselessness from happening.  
        He glanced at his watch as he headed across the plaza to his 
car.  It was three minutes after eleven and he really wanted to get 
home to Julie.  He was tired, cranky, and seriously in the need of a 
little loving, thank you very much.  It had been a long day on top of 
too little sleep.  Last night's ominous red moon had kept him awake 
wondering what might happen.  He had felt like 'something wicked' was 
coming.  Looked like he'd read too much into it.  Well, except for the 
fact there had been too much snow, too much bad news--just too damn 
much insanity today.  He wondered briefly how Denise was holding up and 
if she'd gone home.  He hoped so.  Not much she could do for Joe at the 
hospital.  But at least Joe was still alive...
        It was the stillness that caught T.C.'s attention and stopped 
his thoughts midstream.
        He stopped and squinted.  "Damn," T.C. muttered.  "Damn, damn, 
damn."  There was a figure standing in absolute stillness in front of 
the Honour Roll Memorial making all of T.C.'s senses scream like fire 
alarms.  There was nothing odd about somebody visiting the memorial.  
He did it himself quite often.  His former partner Jack Wisniewski's 
name was on it.  He had fallen in the line of duty seven years ago.  
T.C. still missed him.  But that wasn't what was making every hair on 
his body stand up and dance.  It was something else.
        "Something wicked...," T.C. breathed.  That was what it felt 
like.  Something wicked.  Something dangerous.  Something....  His feet 
were taking him there before his brain had a chance to stop and say 
some nice sane words like, 'wait a minute' or better yet, 'get backup, 
you idiot'.  The compulsion was stronger than anything he'd felt in 
years.  And that's what it was.  Compulsion.  Need.  A strange knowing.  
A certainty of things to come.   
        The snow muffled his steps, but he knew the tall dark figure 
standing so silently staring at the monument heard him. He slowed and 
finally stepped up carefully to stand next to man.  They were both tall 
men.  T.C. stood 6'7" in his bare feet.  The man he stood next to was 
perhaps 6'4" tall, but T.C. felt dwarfed by him.  He filled the 
immensity of space with his commanding presence.  T.C. felt as much awe 
as fear at the feelings running through him.  He'd never seen him 
before, but he knew he'd seen him somewhere.
        T.C. stood in silence, feeling that any intrusion would be 
unwelcome--and in fact, dangerous.  The man next to him paid no heed to 
T.C.'s presence, as if he didn't even exist.  Perhaps, T.C. thought, he 
didn't. 
        T.C took stock of his silent companion.  He was wearing a black 
wool coat that probably cost more than T.C.'s salary for a year.  He 
wore black leather boots that gleamed in the bright clear moonlight.  
As T.C. watched, he reached out and touched a name with his hand.  He 
wore no gloves and seemed oblivious to the cold.  T.C. felt the hair on 
the back of his neck stand up.  He read the words twice to make sure.
        Detective Nicholas B. Knight - May 17, 1996.  
        T.C. had the desire to laugh hysterically.  He thought to 
himself, 'and it's just that easy, boys and girls'.  As if.  What 
should he do?  He looked at his companion again and recognized him now.  
No doubt at all in his mind.   He wondered if he would survive the next 
few minutes.  He'd entered the minefield and now had no way out.  Oh 
God...
        He cleared his throat.  "Someone close?" T.C. asked with what 
he hoped was the right amount of sympathy and interest.
        LaCroix turned and surveyed T.C. dispassionately.  His eyes 
pierced T.C. with cold blue intensity.
        "Yes," he said, and the single word mocked T.C. for being so 
foolish as to ask.
        LaCroix turned away and touched the stone again.  His grief was 
palpable, tangible and reached out to envelop T.C.  He stood silently 
waiting.  He would never have this chance again. 
        LaCroix turned away from the monument, and seemingly 
uninterested in T.C.'s continued attendance, started to walk away.
        "Mr. LaCroix," T.C. said quietly, "may I talk with you?"
        LaCroix turned and scrutinized T.C. icily.  "We have nothing to 
talk about, Captain Davis."
        T.C. felt his blood run cold.  LaCroix knew his name!  How?  
Did he know everything? 
        LaCroix raised an eyebrow and amusement curved his expressive 
lips for a moment, then he turned away once again.
        "Knight is dead, isn't he?" T.C. blurted out in panic.
        LaCroix stopped. His back was suddenly telling T.C. volumes.  
He had touched a gaping wound that hadn't healed in 17 years.
        LaCroix turned back.  "I do not suffer fools idly.  *This* does 
not concern you."
        T.C. watching the pain that shimmered across LaCroix' face 
despite his hard words, suddenly moved towards him.
        "You are not the only one who mourns," he said quietly.  "He 
had friends who cared, and they still feel the pain and loss of not 
knowing.  And what about Natalie's family?  They deserve to know, too."
        "And you think knowing the truth will set them free of that 
pain.  Fool!  Truth burns...and leaves even deeper wounds," LaCroix 
said with ironic anger.
        "Only if it isn't treated," T.C. said brazenly taking his 
opening.
        "You know too much as it is."
        "So why am I still alive?"
        LaCroix smiled, and T.C. looked into a darkness, an evil, he 
could never have imagined.  He swallowed despite himself.  LaCroix was 
suddenly, somehow next him.  So close that T.C. couldn't seem to 
breathe. 
        "We can remedy that," LaCroix whispered, his eyes glowing, 
reached out a hand.
        "But he wouldn't have wanted it, would he?"
        LaCroix stopped, and something passed through him.  He closed 
his eyes and once again the pain was tangible. 
        T.C. waited, and when LaCroix opened his eyes, they were blue 
once more, and weary beyond belief.
        It would seem that Nick Knight's death laid heavily, deeply 
upon LaCroix, and he knew no surcease of pain.
        T.C. took a deep breath.  "I'm not sure if you are omniscient 
or just have an excellent network of spies, but you know who I am. You 
probably know everything I've discovered.  You must know I have no 
intention of telling anyone anything.  All I want...all we want is to 
tell those who still wait and wonder about them the truth--or at least 
an answer.  Just to tell them.  Give them answers, give them something 
to bury.  Let them have closure and move on."
        LaCroix looked at him with deep weariness.  "Let it go, 
Detective ... let it go and walk away."
        "You haven't," T.C. said slowly.  "I can see that, even after 
all these years, it's as raw as if it were yesterday..."
        "Yesterday!" LaCroix hissed.  "You fool.  It was yesterday.  He 
was my son.  He was *mine* for eight-hundred years.  For longer than 
you can imagine he was mine.  It is but a blink of the eyes since he 
died!  A heartbeat!"
        T.C. stared at him.  "Eight-hundred..." He couldn't process it.  
They had thought perhaps three-hundred and fifty, but never had they 
imagined Knight had been alive that long.  Then the rest sunk in.  They 
had been right, but he had to confirm it.  "You were his father--you 
made him?"
        "Yes, I made him what he was.  Nicholas was my creation!"  
LaCroix glared at him, anger darkening his visage.
        They stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity. 
T.C. found his brain suddenly racing, thoughts and ideas tumbling over 
each other in his head.  If Knight was eight-hundred, how old was 
this...being...standing in front of him?  What would it be like to lose 
someone you had known that long when everyone else literally came and 
went like a mist?
        And then suddenly, he wondered why was this incredibly powerful 
vampire still standing here talking to him when he could have killed 
him or left--flown off--without T.C. being able to do a thing about it?  
Maybe he wanted to talk about it?  Needed to talk about it?  Had no one 
*to* talk to about it?  That was crazy...it was insane.  It was...
        "Do you want to talk about it?" T.C. blurted out before he 
realized what he was saying.
        LaCroix sneered.  "Why would I talk to a mortal about my son?"
        "Because you can't talk to anyone else about him.  Can you?"
        Silence stretched between them.  T.C. was conscious of the 
moon's glow dimming as clouds slipped by in the sky, and snow starting 
to fall yet again.
        "'Things without remedy should be without regard; what's done 
is done,'" LaCroix said finally, softly.  (1)
        T.C. shook his head impatiently.  "It's not done.  Not in an 
eyeblink of seventeen years."
        More silence.  LaCroix regarded him with a cold and steely 
gaze.  T.C. couldn't read his face, and couldn't begin to guess what 
LaCroix thought of his impulsive suggestion.  On the other hand, he 
couldn't imagine what he was thinking to suggest they talk about it.  
It was insane.  It was suicide.  It was probably the stupidest thing 
he'd done in his entire life.
        "Very well, mortal," LaCroix said softly, cruel amusement 
lighting his face.  "Come.  Talk.  And hope you live to see the 
morning's light.  It is your life."
        T.C. thought of Julie, of his children.  His life seemed to 
pass in front of him. His heart started racing.  Fear swept through 
him.  Did he know what the hell he was doing?
        LaCroix smiled wickedly.  "I thought not."
        "You thought wrong," T.C. retorted.  "Lead the way, Mr. 
LaCroix."
        LaCroix reached out and pulled T.C. to him in a parody of an 
embrace. "Oh, I'll do more than that, mortal."

End Part 5
----------
Send comments, virtual chocolate, and klewless blonde vampires to
delggren@es.com