Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ Vampire Chronicles – The Interview ❯ Chapter 2 ( Chapter 2 )

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Vampire Chronicles - The Interview

Chapter 2

Milliardo woke slowly, very slowly. It took several moments for him to realize that the knocking sounds he was hearing wasn't part of some vivid dream he was having, but actually someone rapping at his car window.

That someone was a young man about his age, with wavy, brown hair, dressed in a sheriff's uniform. Milliardo didn't remember ever meeting him before, but then again, at the moment he didn't even remember what he was doing asleep in his car at the side of the road.

The uniformed man slipped the baton, that he had been using to tap at the window, back into his belt and waited for Milliardo to open his car door. “Is everything alright, Sir?” he asked.

“Yes, I'm fine, sheriff.” The blond journalist nodded.

“Its deputy,” the other man corrected. “Deputy Otto. May I take a look at your papers?”

“Sure.” Milliardo gave another nod as he pulled out his driver's license and registration. The deputy walked over to his patrol car that was parked just behind the Ferrari, returned a few moments later and handed the papers back to Milliardo.

“May I ask what you are doing here, Sir?”

“Um... sleeping.” The deputy didn't say anything but Milliardo could tell from the way his jaws tightened momentarily that he wasn't in the mood for smart remarks.

“Sorry, I wasn't trying to be funny. I have been driving most of the day yesterday and got tired. I figured pulling over and catching some shut eye was better than falling asleep while driving.”

“I appreciate that.” the other man replied dryly. “I might have been the one to clean up the mess otherwise.”

Milliardo gave a little snort. Somehow he couldn't help but like the guy. He rubbed his sore neck and shoulders as he shifted in his seat.

“Pretty car, but not the most comfortable one it looks like.”

“Yeah, I suppose it wasn't designed to go camping in. Mind if I get out and stretch a little?”

“Go right ahead.”

As the blond journalist climbed out of the Ferrari and began to move his arms and legs in an effort to restore proper blood flow, the deputy walked back to his patrol car. For a moment Milliardo thought that the man was finished with him and was going to leave. But instead Otto reached into the passenger side and pulled out a large thermos. He unscrewed the black plastic top that also doubled as a cup, and filled it with some steaming, dark liquid from the bottle, as he walked back to where Milliardo was still stretching.

“Coffee,” he explained as he handed the drink to the other man. “It might be a little bitter, but it's strong enough to raise the death.”

“Thanks, that just what I need right now.”

 “So, you are that journalist from the big city Sheriff Bonaparte told me about. He said you were going to interview him for a big story for some big magazine.”

“Big city yes, big story in afraid not.” Milliardo laughed. “And most definitely not big magazine.”

The deputy shrugged. “The local Daily News has about 500 subscribers. Anything more than that is considered big by our standards.”

“Well, if you take it that way. By the way, how much further is it in to town?”

“Another twenty miles, give or take a few. Once you pass the old gas station it's only a stone throw.”

“Thanks.” Milliardo took another sip of coffee. It truly was bitter, but he needed that right now. His head was pounding and he felt worn out, like after a long night of drinking or a night of hot sex…or both. Great, I'm having a hangover without the benefits, he thought in a tinge of sarcasm.

Suddenly the radio in the patrol car started to beep and the deputy hurried to answer. Milliardo finished his drink and walked over to the police cruiser to return the empty cup. “Is something wrong?” the asked.

“An accident a few miles from here; somebody wrapped his car around a tree.” Otto explained as he slipped behind the wheel. “I suppose I'll see you later in town.”

The blond journalist nodded. “Thanks for the coffee.”

He watched as the deputy backed up, turned, and drove away with flashing lights and screaming sirens. As the patrol car disappeared in the distance he climbed back into his Ferrari and he too drove off.

#

Victoriaville was just like Milliardo had expected it to be; pretty, little houses, with little, white picket fences, front yards with beautiful flowers and well-cared for lawns, clean, narrow streets and people who walked to church or the groceries store just to meet with and say hello to their neighbors. It was rather old-fashioned... and somewhat cheesy in his opinion. But he could see why people wanted to spend their vacation here. It was a place to relax and take it easy.

He pulled up in front of a small motel; the first one he came across, and parked his sports ear in one of the specially marked parking spots. The lobby was empty as he walked in, but as soon as he rung the bell on the counter a woman in her mid-forties appeared from the backroom.

“How can I help you, Mister?”

“I need a room, for two nights,” he explained. “Double occupancy, king size bed if you have it” The paper was paying for his expenses, and as far as Milliardo was concerned, a comfortable room and a bed large enough for his figure was the least he expected in return for being sent on this assignment.

He put this signature under the registration paper she handed him and received a key in return. “Room 21, second floor, third door to the right when you come up the stairs. You got any luggage, Mister...” She took a quick look at the registration form. “Peacecraft?”

“Outside in my car,” he confirmed.

“I can have my son bring it upstairs if you wish.”

“Thanks.” The young man handed her his car keys. “It's just the larger, blue bag; the rest can stay in the trunk.”

She nodded. “Consider it done, Mister Peacecraft, enjoy your stay.”

“Thank you.”

Milliardo climbed up the stairs and unlocked the door marked with a stylishly painted 21. The room was large, warm and welcoming, with a small and very clean bathroom to the right, and a large bouquet of freshly cut flowers on the table. The blond journalist sneezed. Darn allergies!

He was just opening the blinds to let in some of the bright morning sun when there was a knock at the door.

“Come in.”

A young man, the motel owner's son he assumed, walked in with his luggage. “Where would you like me to put it?” he asked.

“Right there is fine.” Milliardo pulled on this wallet and handed the teenager a ten dollar bill. He had learned a long time ago that in his profession generous tip were always a good investment. “Is there a place around here were I can get something for breakfast?”

“Mimi's café just across the street; most of our guests eat their. They serve breakfast till 11.”

“Thanks.” As the journalist turned he suddenly noticed a tag dangling from the handle of his bag. It was one of those clear plastic ones you could slip a piece of paper with your name and address into. “What's that?” he wanted to know.

“Um...” The teenager, who had already turned to leave, stopped.  “It fell to the ground when I opened the trunk of your car, so I figured it had fallen off your bag and I put it back on.

“I don't think it's mine.” Milliardo reached out to check the tag but the moment his fingertips touched the plastic he was hit by a strange image of a young woman with long, dark blond hair. The journalist almost stumbled as he jerked his hand back

“Are you alright?”

Milliardo nodded more or less mechanically. What the hell was that just now?  “Yeah, yeah I'm fine.” he assured the young man who was still eying him strangely...

“Okay, then I'll go now.”

“Yes, thank you for your help.” Milliardo waited for the teen to close the door behind himself, before he crouched down next to his duffle bag. He hesitated slightly before cautiously reaching out again. His fingertips touched the nametag again and.... nothing happened.  Alright, Milliardo, it's official. You are loosing it. With a somewhat sheepish grin he turned the tag in his hand and read the neatly printed writing.

Sylvia Noventa

Hmm, who is Sylvia Noventa? A coworker, a friend of his sisters? Over time he had given rides to many women. It wasn't surprising really; sports cars were known to be chick magnets after all.

He opened the little snap button, removed the tag from his bag, and tossed it onto the nightstand as he rose to his feet. He checked his watch, it was nearly 9am. Maybe he should start by making some appointments for his interviews before he went over to Mimi's café for breakfast.

In the side pocket of his duffle bag was the assignment envelope Noin had given him. He dumped it onto the table, reached for the list of names and phone numbers and pulled out his cell phone. Milliardo settled down on the edge of the bed as he dialed the first number, which coincidently happened to be the sheriff's office. A woman told him that the sheriff was out in the field, so he left his name and phone number and she promised to call back as soon as her boss got back.

Next in line was a Dr. Po who was the county's medical examiner. Once again the journalist only got to talk to some assistant who informed him that the doctor had been called to a fatal accident and would probably be gone for another few hours.

Milliardo stifled a yawn as he turned off his phone. You can't say that I didn't try. Well, maybe I should get a little more sleep before I get going. He kicked off his shoes, fluffed up the pillow and stretched out on the bed. Somehow his gaze fell onto the little plastic tag on the nightstand and he picked it up once again.

Sylvia Noventa. Why does the name sound so familiar? I'm sure I've heard it before. But where and when?

#

“You don't believe in vampires, do you? How ignorant of you. All you have to do is open your eyes; they are right under your nose.”

“Creepy isn't it?”

“No, not creepy; I find it fascinating.” The dark-haired girl laughed as she opened her mouth to reveal a pair of razor-sharp fangs.

“Is not a coincidence, its fate...”

Milliardo woke with a start. He bolted upright and sat in bed panting. A nightmare! Where the hell did that come from?

The young man shivered. His sweat drenched shirt was sticking to his back. I think I could use a shower!

He climbed out of bed, grabbed a new shirt and a fresh pair of boxers from his duffle bag and shuffled into the bathroom. A few moments later he was standing under the shower. As the hot water was pounding down on his body Milliardo's mind drifted off

What the hell is going on? First I don't remember pulling over and falling asleep on the side of the road, then there is the strange address tag; I have no idea where it came from, and finally that crazy dream. I don't recall having had a nightmare since I was a kid. Am I really getting so worked up about this assignment that my mind is starting to play tricks on me? I could have sworn that one of the girls in my dream was the same one I saw when I first touched the tag. But what about the other one...

He shook his head trying to clear his mind. Alright, that's it. Enough of this nonsense. Time for breakfast

He quickly finished his shower and dried himself off. He slipped into his boxers but when he picked up his jeans he suddenly noticed a trail of small, red droplets on one of the legs. What that; blood...? Milliardo frowned. No, blood would look darker, more rust colored, when it dried. He dipped his head and wrinkled his nose as he recognized the faint smell. Red wine, wonderful! And I just bought those jeans.

He made himself a mental note to add the pants to his expenses account as he walked back into the room. Good thing I packed an extra pair.

#

Mimi's Café looked more like a diner than a cafe. But it was all the same to Milliardo. As long as the food was good he didn't care where he was eating. The place was nearly empty. An elderly couple was sitting at a table by the window and a man in a postal carrier's uniform was sipping coffee at the counter.

The blond journalist slipped into the seat beside him and gave the woman behind the counter a friendly nod “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” she replied. “What can I get you, dear?”

“Can I still have breakfast or is it already too late?”

“Sure you can. Let me get you the menu.”

“That's alright. I'll just take the breakfast special,” he told her. “And coffee; black no sugar please.”

“You got it, dear.” She relayed his order to the kitchen and poured him his coffee.

Meanwhile the postman had finished his cup and was ready to leave. He tipped his hat on the way out “Bye Ina.”

“Bye Ernie, see you tomorrow.”

A few minutes later the breakfast special was ready. And just as Milliardo had expected, the unwritten, national law that required all 'breakfast specials' to consist of pancakes, sausages and scrambled eggs also existed in this town.

He was still finishing up his second pancake when the door behind him opened and a young woman entered the diner. She was wearing an olive green windbreaker that almost looked like it was military issued, and her light-brown hair in two pigtails.

“Ah, Do. Po, good morning.” the woman behind the counter greeted her, as she slipped into one of the empty seats next to Milliardo. “Green tea, as usually?”

“No, I think I'll need something stronger this morning.”

Ina, the woman behind the counter, shook her head in sympathy as she sighed. “Terrible thing that accident. What a way to start your morning. Ernie told me about it. He drove by on his route when the sheriff was still investigating the scene.” She poured another cup of coffee and put it in front f the doctor.

“Yes, terrible.”

“Ernie said there were two people in the car. Both got killed?”

The younger woman nodded, and Ina shook her head again “Poor things.”

Milliardo waited for the woman behind the counter to disappear into the kitchen before he turned toward the doctor. “Excuse one.”

“Yes?”

“You are Dr. Po?”

“Yes?” she repeated.

“The medical examiner?”

 “Is that-problem?”

The young man grinned. “No... I just expected...”

“A man?” she asked. Obviously she had gotten that reaction before.

“No, that's… well, actually yes.” Milliardo admitted. “And also someone a whole lot older, gray hair, glasses, heading for retirement.”

She managed a tiny smile. “Sorry to disappoint you.  By the way, who might you be? I don't think I have seen your face around here before.”

“Oh, sorry, my name is Peacecraft, Milliardo Peacecraft...”

“Ah, you are the reporter who called my office earlier this morning.”

“That's right.” he confirmed.

“If this is about the interview, I'm afraid I'm a little bit busy this morning but I can try to fit you in sometime this afternoon.”

“That's alright, but actually there is something else I wanted to speak to you about.”

“Oh?” she asked.

“Yes, the accident you were talking about just now... Was there... The car involved, was it a red Honda convertible?” He had no idea why bat the car make and color just jumped into his mind for no apparent reason.

“That's right,” Do. Po confirmed

“Two females in their late teens, one of them has long hair, dark blond.... was her name... Sylvia Noventa?”

The young woman nodded. “Did you know them?”

“I'm not sure. “Milliardo admitted “I think I met them yesterday on the road. Can you tell me a little more about the accident? Do you know already what happened?”

“Well from what we could tell from the scene the driver lost control in a curve, left the road and crashed head on into a tree. We won't be able to tell if it was due to speeding, alcohol or mechanical failure until I have done an autopsy and the sheriff has finished his investigation.”

The reporter nodded understandingly. “Thank you, doctor.”

#

It was a good hour later that Milliardo pulled up in front of the sheriff's office.

 He showed the woman at the reception desk his press-pass. “I believe we talked earlier on the phone.”

“Right,” she confirmed, “The reporter from the city. You are in luck, Sheriff Bonaparte just got in. Let me call him.” She pushed one of the buttons on her phone as she picked up the receiver. “Sir, the reporter, Mr. Peacecraft, is here to see you. Do you want me to send him in?”

Milliardo couldn't hear the answer, but he assumed that the sheriff agreed because the woman rose from her chair after she hung up the phone, and asked him to follow her. The sheriff's office was just down the hall. The secretary knocked before she opened the door.

Sheriff Bonaparte, a tall, bearded man, in his 50th, was not alone. He and his deputy were studying a number of photographs that were spread out over his desk.

“Mr. Peacecraft,” the secretary announced.

“Yes, thank you. Please come in.” He gathered the photos and slipped them into his desk before Milliardo had a chance to look at them.

“I see you made it safely into town,” the deputy greeted him.

“I didn't fall asleep again, if that's what you, mean.” there blond journalist replied with a tiny smirk.

Bonaparte looked at his deputy, then at the reporter and back at his deputy. “You know each other?”

“We met on the road this morning,” Otto explained.

“Ah, I see. Well then, should we start?” the sheriff asked. “Do I look alright like this, or should I change my uniform?”

“You look fine.” Milliardo assured him. “But actually. I didn't really come for the interview right now.”

“Not?” Bonaparte gave him a surprised look. “Then, why did you come?” He gestured for his guest to take a seat.

“It's about the accident that happened on the interstate this morning,” the reporter explained. “The two young women that were killed... I knew them. I met them yesterday evening; we spent the night together...”

“You what?”

“Sorry, not the way you think.” Milliardo suddenly realized that the statement didn't quite come out the way he intended. “Maybe I should explain from the beginning,” he suggested. “Yesterday evening, shortly after sunset I met the two women. They had car trouble and I offered them a ride into town. But along the way my car stalled as well. We noticed some lights in the distance and ended up walking about a mile and a half till we got to a mansion. The owner was nice enough to invite us in and let us spent the night...”

“This morning you were sleeping in your car. “Otto pointed out.

“I know,” Milliardo sighed. “And I have no idea how I got there. I realize this sounds crazy, but...” I don't really understand it myself. “I just know that I was together with Sylvia Noventa and her friend, Hilde... something. We spent the night at that house... and something is defiantly wrong.”

The sheriff and his deputy exchanged a long look. “Mister Peacecraft, did you drink anything last night.” Bonaparte asked.

“I didn't... well actually I had a glass of wine.”

“Just one?”

“Yes, just one.” The journalist was almost offended by that question. “If you are suggesting that I was drunk, you are wrong. And I'm not loosing my mind either.” Milliardo had no idea why, but talking with Dr. Po at the diner had triggered some memories in him. And suddenly, like a large puzzle, pieces started to fall into place; the address tag in the trunk of his car, even the red wine stains on his jeans made sense now. But it was obvious that the sheriff did not see if that way.

“Alright, so you don't believe me. Fine, I don't blame you. But at least send someone out to talk to the owner of that mansion. I believe his name was Khushrenada, Treize Khushrenada.”

The two other men exchanged another look. “That would be rather difficult I'm afraid; unless you know someone who can talk to the dead.”

“Excuse me?” Milliardo frowned in confusion.

“Treize Khushrenada was indeed the last resident of Deerwood Manor; however he died nearly 50 years ago.” the sheriff explained.

“But...”

“It was a hunting accident. Deer season had just started and some out-of-town hunter who was tracking a stack got onto the Khushrenada property and accidentally shot the poor man when he was walking his dog. It was a big story back then; I still remember it. I must have been five or six years old.”

“Then who is living on the property now?”

“Nobody,” the sheriff shrugged, “Except for a groundskeeper, hired by the Khushrenada family to keep the estate in order.”

“Hmm...” After a few moments of thoughtful silence Milliardo looked up. “Then maybe, knowing that the mansion is abandoned, someone broke in and pretended to be a rightful owner, last night.”

“Let me get that straight you are suggesting that someone entered the property not to steal anything, but to wait for some poor travelers who might have car trouble, just so he could play the good Samarian? With all due respect, don't you think this sounds just a little too farfetched? In any case, you will have to excuse me now; I have an investigation to continue. However if you drive back into town in sure you will find a lot of people willing to listen to your little `mystery'.”

Milliardo's frown turned into a scowl. “Sheriff, I...”

“Deputy, would you please escort Mr. Peacecraft outside.”

#

The journalist was still fuming when he steered his car toward Deerwood.

Fine, if he doesn't want to investigate, I'll do it myself. There are still a few questions I'd like to have answers to; like how I got back to my car and why I had no trouble starting it this morning, even though it wouldn't move an inch last night.

Milliardo had barely passed the city-limits-sign when he noticed flashing lights and sirens behind him. Oh great, what now? He pulled over and came to a stop.

Deputy Otto pulled his patrol cruiser up directly next to the Ferrari, but made no efforts to get out. Instead he ordered. “Get into my car.” 

“What did I do; drive too slow?” Milliardo's voice was laced with sarcasm. “Am I arrested?”

“Don't be silly. I just figured, since we seem to have the same destination, we might as well carpool and do our part in protecting the environment right? You are on your way to Deerwood Manor, are you not?” The deputy reached over the passenger seat to open the door.

The journalist blinked “What about my car? You really think its okay to just leave it here?”

Otto snorted. “This is Victoriaville. People here still leave their houses unlocked when they go to church on Sunday. The biggest crime that happened since I moved here five years ago was two hungry cats raiding a bucket of catfish at the annual fish-fry.”

Milliardo smirked as he locked up the Ferrari and slipped into the patrol car. “So, then you were not born here?”

“No.” the deputy shook his head. “Drove through town on my way south, saw a sign that they were looking for a deputy, applied for the job and never left.”

“What did you do before?” The reporter buckled his seatbelt.

“Homicide detective.”

“Wow; that must have paid a lot more.

“Yeah,” Otto confirmed, “but it was also a lot more stressful; odd hours, overtime...”

Milliardo nodded understandingly. “Good point. So, your drive to Deerwood wouldn't have anything to do with my visit at the sheriff's office, would it?”

“Actually, I made these plans already earlier. I need to talk to the person who called in the accident.”

“The 'groundskeeper'?”

“Bingo,” the deputy confirmed. “You have won the first, prize, a roundtrip in a real life police car.”

Milliardo grinned. “I'm glad to hear that it is a roundtrip. But seriously, the Khushrenada family isn't exactly poverty stricken, are they? I mean not only can they afford to leave this kind of estate sit empty for half a century; they also pay someone to make it look nice while it is vacant.”

“I wouldn't really know much about that. But the historical society should be able to tell you more about the family. One of the people who founded the town was a Khushrenada.”

“Is that so?” He mentioned that his great, great, great grandfather built the Deerwood mansion. Maybe he was the same person who helped to create the town as well. But why would he choose to put his own house at such a remote location?
One of the reasons why my ancestors built the estate here and not closer to town is that we prefer to have our privacy...
Or could it be that they had something to hide?

“Hello…?!”

“What?” Otto's voice ripped the reporter from his thoughts.

“I was asking how long you are going to stay in Victoriaville.”

“Until Friday. I'm sorry I was...”

“Spaced out? Yeah, so I've noticed.”

The deputy pulled into a narrow road and a few minutes later they stopped in front of a large wrought-iron gate. Milliardo got out of the car to open the gate; it was heavy and squeaked in its hinges, as though it hadn't been used in a very long time.

“Is that why you took me along?” he asked as he climbed back into his seat. “So you didn't have to get out and open the doors yourself?”

The other man grinned. “And here I thought blonds weren't supposed to be smart”

The journalist huffed.

“One thing though. When we get there, I'll be doing the questioning. Is that understood?”

“Understood.”

The police car followed the road past the main house and about half a mile further, until they came to a halt in front of a small cottage. The groundskeeper's cabin, Milliardo assumed. He waited for Otto to get out and followed him to the front door. They had to knock several times. Inside the house dogs were barking, but the reporter was beginning to think that no one else was home when they finally heard footsteps.

“Who is it?”

“Deputy Otto; we talked on the phone earlier today. I told you that I was going to come by to take your statement.”

“Oh, right.”

They could hear the clicking of a key in the lock and then the door opened. Milliardo almost took a step back in surprise as he stared at the young man who was holding a large, shaggy dog by the collar. “You?!”

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T.B.C.

 

Author's Note: