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The white foam of the waves spilled onto the pale, moonlit sand, giving Vachon's weary mind the illusion of a snowy field viewed from miles above. In the distance, spread over the hills like constellations across the sky, sat houses bedecked with the white and multi-colored lights of the season. Only the warm, west winds coming in off the Pacific spoiled the mood. That, and the occasional couple walking past him on the old Huntington Beach pier, wearing nothing but shorts and T-shirts, or the occasional bathing suit. From somewhere in the distance, probably some bar along the Pacific Coast Highway, Vachon heard an electric guitar -- playing a solo, pseudo-Beach Boys version of "Let It Snow" -- and it made him wish he had brought his guitar from home. "Home. Yeah, right," he scoffed. Was it his home? he wondered. Toronto? The condemned church? Some home, if that's what it was. A few candles. A couple of wine crates filled with some clothes. A handful of odds and ends he had picked up here and there. His guitar. Still, it was in Toronto where his eternal life had forever changed; the Inca was dead, and Vachon had nothing left to run from. Yet he had run anyway, hadn't he? But from what? From the memories of Screed, Vachon had tried to convince himself as he had been packing to leave. But there were too few of them together in Toronto and too many of them in all the other places in the world. Even here, in LA, where he had never been with Screed, there were still things which reminded him of his old friend. Brushing the strands of dark hair off his face, Vachon turned and crossed to the lee side of the pier -- the wind blocked by the old boarded-up restaurant at the far end. He stared north, toward Long Beach, toward the harbor where the R.M.S. Queen Mary was now permanently docked. He remembered her in her day: the most luxurious ocean liner to sail the waters between America and Europe since the R.M.S. Titanic. The Queen Mary had been running for eleven years before he and Screed gotten around to book passage in December of 1947. For Vachon, it had been the nearest he had come to experiencing the pains of Hell since his two previous trans-Atlantic crossings. The first time, he had chalked it up to having been a mortal still in possession of his land legs. The second time, he had blamed his new immortality and all the strange and wondrous things which came with it. But this time, this time, he had finally been able to admit the truth: the Queen Mary rolled, from side to side and back again, and Vachon's stomach went with it. It had been her one irredeemable flaw, and his -- though hers was eventually masked, Vachon only ever managed to avoid his, and from that avoidance a love of aircraft had bloomed. But despite Vachon's misery at the time, Screed had loved every minute of the ocean voyage. He had loved the roll, the salt air, the sea spray on his face, the abundance of rats in the hold. He had even loved the art deco decor and the gaudy Christmas decorations. But most of all, Vachon believed that Screed had loved getting thrown out of the swimming pool. Never having been men of much financial means, the cost of their passage had not included the first-class swimming pool, but that had not stopped Screed from indulging himself. He had been fascinated by the irony of it -- water floating on water. Somewhere, Screed had dug up an old pair of swimming togs and he would just waltz right in as if he owned the very water itself. He had proceeded to have the time of his life, which involved lots of jumping, splashing, and carrying-on, much to the disturbance of the other occupants. Vachon turned away then, the sadness coming upon him again despite the happy memories. Or, rather, because of them. Four hundred years. That was the brimming vessel of memories he had of Screed. And still it was not enough. "I've buried a lot of mortal friends," he had told Tracy, and it was true. That was the price, he had learned, of his immortality; not that that realization made it any easier, but all those losses were still incomparable to Screed's. How could he even begin to explain the difference to her? How could she even comprehend what it was like for him? Why did she even have to try? With his hands buried deep in the pockets of his jeans, Vachon headed slowly down the boardwalk towards the Pacific Coast Highway. In the back of his mind, he followed the music still emanating from one of the clubs, but his chin was nearly on his chest and he paid little attention to the people he passed. He paused in front of the gate blocking the stairs which led down to the beach; it was after curfew and the beach was closed, but to Vachon that meant only a lack of people. After surreptitiously checking for unwelcome observers, he slipped unnoticed around the fencing and crept down the weather-worn steps. But walking along the shoreline only reminded Vachon of Screed, of standing over his grave with the salty air blowing his hair as he said his good-byes. He never planned to go back there, to Cherry Beach. It was Screed's right to some privacy, and it was necessary that no one notice an unmarked grave out at the point. Yet he had gone back. Vachon had gone back because she had asked him to take her. Tracy. He had told her no. And she had let it go. But he had not been able to. Three nights later -- the first moonless night -- he had taken her out there. Vachon had been relieved that the off-shore breezes had settled the soil about the grave, yet he was also disappointed: no one would accidentally discover the grave, but then no one but him would ever know precisely where Screed's bones lay. Not that anyone else really cared. "How long had you known him?" Tracy had asked in the still of the darkness. "A really long time," had been his reply. Again, an inadequate response, but again she had let it go, which only made things worse. Tracy had wanted to sympathize and he had wanted to let her, but Vachon knew she was limited by her mortality. He knew that she had wanted him to explain it to her so that she could understand, but he possessed neither the words nor the energy for it. Instead, he had stared across the Inner Harbour at the lights of Toronto and silently cursed the winds for erasing all traces of his friend's memorial. When he had returned to the church, Vachon found the flowers Tracy had brought, the ones he had taken from her and tossed aside. They were dark-pink carnations, and Screed would have hated them. "In case ya 'adn't noticed, pink ain't me best colour, girlie," he would have told Tracy had he still been alive. They never had understood each other, but their sparse interplay had always amused Vachon, so this thought should have made him smile, but it had not. He was still too angry that Tracy had been foolish enough to bring flowers at all, foolish enough to think that she would have been allowed to mark Screed's grave with them. But he was even more angry that she had not been allowed leave the flowers, that he had not been able to leave any either. He had picked up the carnations, intent upon throwing them into the rubbish bin, but, instead, he had brought the flowers to his nose to inhale the subtle, earthy scent of the pink blooms. Maybe Screed would have liked them after all, Vachon had thought, as tears began to well up in his eyes. It had taken him more than five minutes of rummaging about the abandoned church to finally find a container -- an old apple-juice bottle -- in which to put the flowers. If Tracy could not mark Screed's grave with them, then the least Vachon could do was mark his best friend's memory by keeping the flowers at the church, he had reasoned. And that reasoning had soothed him, stopping the tears from their final escape down his cheeks. Tracy had not come by after that, and, with only the soulful strings of his guitar to ease his heart, Vachon had spent his time alone. Alone, until Urs had come. She had tried to drag him from the mire of his mourning, but he would not go. He simply could not see things her way: "I don't take death as lightly as you do, Javier," she had said to him only a few months before; however, he had come to realize, she did not feel it as deeply as he did either. His young progeny had tried to soothe him with words of release and peace, but they both knew that Screed had not seen death that way any more than he did. But Tracy understood this -- the vitality of life, of living -- and he had finally wanted to talk to her. He had wanted Tracy to come back. But he had not known how to ask her. He had almost called her, three or four times, but had always hung up before his fingers even touched the dial. Still, he could not stop thinking about Screed. Why had he died? Why had that infernal rat crossed his path? And, in the end, Vachon could only blame himself: he was the one who had first gone to Toronto; he was the one who let them follow. Sheer irony had allowed Urs to escaped the plague, and Bourbon's chance visit to Montreal at the time had been his saving grace. Yet, they easily could all have been dead because of him. Because he had run here from the Inca. Because he had miscalculated and stayed too long, allowing the Inca to find him. Because he then just stayed. Because he was tired of leaving. When Tracy had finally turned up at the church again, about a week later, Vachon could not have spoken to her even if he could have found the words. Night after lonely night, day after sleepless day, until just being there, in the church, in Toronto, had hurt too much to bear a minute longer. He had been packing when she arrived. And she had asked him difficult questions he could not answer: "Where are you going?" "Are you coming back?" After he had decided to leave, Vachon hoped not to see her again. He did not want to have to say good-bye to anyone else, ever again. And when the moment had come, with Tracy standing there before him, he had found that the words to explain simply did not exist. Finally, afraid of what would happen if he did anything else, Vachon had just left, with the sound of her voice, calling his name into the night, echoing behind him. Against the traffic signal, Vachon crossed the Pacific Coast Highway, then walked slowly past the storefronts on Main Street. About halfway up the block, he found the source of the music he had heard all the way out on the pier. It was a bar, a typical bar, called Perqs. Actually, it sounded like a coffee house -- it sounded like a place Tracy might have chosen out of the phone book and then been sorely disappointed once she had gotten there. Vachon went in and headed directly for the bar to order a beer. Once in hand, he took the glass of dark-brown liquid and headed further into the sparsely occupied, festively lit room, finding a small, empty table against the wall, not too far from the stage. A small band was playing; they looked like locals and probably had cassettes they sold out of the trunk of their car after the show. The guitar player turned out to be a young woman -- slender, wearing cut-off jeans and a green halter top, with a Santa hat on top of her head. The lead singer, a guy who looked like he probably went to Pepperdine University during the school year, was now in the middle of a passable imitation of U2's version of "Baby, Please Come Home."
They're singing Deck The Halls This should have reminded Vachon of Urs: they had spent nearly a hundred Christmases together, all over the world. Still in Tornoto, she was probably trying to convince LaCroix to let her sing Christmas carols at the Raven. Maybe she was even singing this song and thinking of Vachon. But all Vachon could think of was Tracy. He wondered if she was working on some new, bizarre homicide and might want his help. He wondered if her car might have gotten stuck in the snow and maybe she thought of calling him. He wondered if she was as particular about how she decorated her Christmas tree as she was about everything else -- were the ornaments coordinated, were there just the right number of each color and type, did she put up garlands instead of tinsel because they were so much neater? Was there to be an unclaimed present under her tree with his name on it? Vachon shook his head to rid himself of the thoughts and took a gulp of his bitter beer to make certain he washed them completely away. He then tried to concentrate on the band. The drummer looked young -- probably too young to be in a bar as anything but a performer -- and he wondered if he was the kid brother of one of the others. There was an electric keyboard off to the side, but no one was playing it and Vachon wondered if the guy singing did double duty, or if their regular pianist was just taking a break. Then his eye wandered over to the guitarist -- she played a Hagstrom, a brand Jimi Hendrix was known for playing. It was a rare guitar these days, and he wondered if this girl appreciated what she had right there in her hands. He watched her fingers move deftly over the strings until the song was finished; when he looked up, Vachon was surprised to find her staring down at him. He did not smile, but instead gave a slight nod of acknowledgment and appreciation of her skills. A moment later, the singer was thanking the small audience for listening and Vachon found he had a companion at the table he occupied. "Tremolo," he stated in lieu of a salutation. "Excuse me?" "Your guitar. It's a Hagstrom Tremolo, isn't it?" She nodded, as she took the Santa cap off her head and allowed her long, blonde hair to finally fall free. "That's a unique guitar." "You're telling me?" she laughed. "Jimi Hendrix once played that guitar, not in a concert or anything, but at this studio where my uncle met him once." "Wow," was all the encouragement from Vachon the girl needed to continue her story. "My uncle said it was the first Hagstrom guitar Hendrix had ever played, and my dad says that if that's true then Hendrix must have run right out and bought the next one he saw because he was playing a Hagstrom bass in a concert not long after that." Vachon smiled as he thought of the picture he had once seen of Jimi Hendrix, leaning into the bass like he was milking out every last drop of sound the instrument was capable of producing. "May I?" The girl raised her pale eyebrows in question. "What -- see my guitar?" She then narrowed her eyes and stared at him before deciding, "Sure, I guess." Vachon watched her walk back over to the stage and noted that her shorts were rather lacking in material for December, but, then, this was LA and it never did get that cold here. He wasn't even wearing his leather jacket -- just a Henley with the long sleeves pushed up above his elbows. She brought the guitar back, but before handing it to him, she finally introduced herself, "K.C. -- like, 'And The Sunshine Band.' My family has this thing about music." Vachon nodded before introducing himself. "Vasquez," he said, shaking the hand she held out-stretched. "Jake," he amended, instinctively choosing to keep his real name from this one. She then handed him the guitar. "My uncle left it to me when he died," she said quietly, as Vachon gently ran his fingers over the strings and quickly fingered a few chords against the neck. He pulled the pick she had left tucked into the head and swept it down the strings. The sound was so sweet -- different in tone quality from his own guitar. His Gibson had soul, but this baby was all heart. To K.C.'s wide-eyed astonishment, Vachon's fingers suddenly flew over the strings, picking out a song he had once heard an orchestra play; he thought it might be called 'Christmas Eve,' but he was not sure. He did not know the lyrics, but even if he did he was too intent on playing to sing. When he was finished, he clamped the strings still with the palm of his hand. Only then did he look up at K.C. "Oh my god. That was incredible. What was that?" "Something I heard once." "Once? You mean...?" Vachon nodded. It was a skill he had honed over the last few hundred years, an ear for music. He could not even remember the last piece of sheet music he had looked at -- maybe something of Urs's? "You want another beer?" she asked. "I get free drinks here -- in lieu of payment. Nice trade-off, huh?" She signaled the bartender with an up-stretched arm without waiting for Vachon to reply. "So, you home for the holidays?" Vachon stared at her for a long moment before answering. "No. I'm actually pretty far from anywhere I'd call home." "But, you're on break from school?" This made him smile -- it always did -- the age-old deception of his kind: 500 years of existence, yet she took him for a college boy. He shook his head, and she nodded. "I've got one more semester up at USC." "Music major?" She smiled, and an image of Tracy quickly flashed into Vachon's mind, but then was gone. "You'd think, huh? My mom teaches music and my dad works for RCA, so everyone just assumed I'd do something musical for a living. But, I don't like when people assume things about me. I'm studying film. I'm gonna be bigger than Spielberg, you just wait," she assured him. Vachon wondered if these things were really hereditary -- here this girl was denying that her future lay in music, yet she was spending her Christmas Eve performing in a bar, and she played that guitar like it was made for her. He wondered if Tracy had been like this, back when she had been in college -- intent on being anything else but finally finding herself unable to turn a deaf ear to her true calling. Somehow he knew, without ever having tasted her blood, that Tracy had been born to be a cop and, with a sinking feeling in his gut, he also knew she would die a cop. "What's the matter?" K.C. asked Vachon with deep concern in her voice. But Vachon shook his head. "Nothing. Sorry." "So, you must be a musician, huh?" "No," he said, almost without speaking. "I'm ... between things right now." "You're a musician," she pronounced with a wry smile on her lips. "I've been around 'em along enough to know, and that's a typical musician's line. But you're good! You'll get a gig soon, if you're looking." "I'm not really." "Well, you're welcome to sit in with us, you know, if you wanna kill some time or something." "Thanks," he said, before draining the last of his beer and standing up. "I'm gonna take a walk." Then, when K.C. raised her eyebrows alluringly, Vachon decided to make an evening of this: "Care to join me?" Anything to keep his mind off Screed. K.C. stood and he took her hand without even meeting her eyes. He led her past the stage, where she left her guitar and picked up a light jacket, then outside and back to the Pacific Coast Highway -- it was only four lanes along this stretch and there was little traffic at this hour. They crossed and headed north. K.C. talked more about her uncle and Hendrix, and Vachon just listened as they made their way towards the park on the bluffs overlooking the ocean. Ignoring the "Park Closes At Sunset" sign, he hopped the short fence onto the grass, and, without waiting for his assistance, K.C. followed Vachon over then continued on towards the swingset. When she reached it, she swung around the support pole to look back at Vachon. Laughing, she asked, "Push me?" She then turned toward the swings. In an instant, Vachon was behind her. He grabbed her around the waist and turned her in his arms, then pressed his lips to hers before a startled scream could even leave her throat. As he ran his fingers through her long strands of hair, Vachon thought he would kill this one. He would kill her and he would forget all about Toronto, all about Screed, and Urs. And all about.... "Tracy," he whispered as he broke their kiss, though K.C. failed to notice his mispronunciation. That was when he decided: he would keep killing until the unfamiliar blood purged them all from his system; then he would start over, somewhere in the world he had never been, somewhere that did not hold any memories. And this time he would make it all turn out right. Vachon let the change take him, but in the darkness the girl did not see his yellowy eyes, nor his white fangs, and she could not know what awaited her as she kissed his throat and ran her hands up underneath his shirt. She did not know what pleasure Vachon was about to take from her when his teeth broke through the layers of her skin and sank deep until they struck the sweet, red gold flowing inside her jugular. She could not know the pain she would take from him when he drank his fill of her. And she would never know the aching loss of being the one left behind. 'My uncle left it to me when he died' -- the words came back to him then, with a sobering effect. And he realized that she already knew. Unlike Tracy, this girl knew, to some small degree, what he was feeling. "Do you miss him?" he asked. "Who?" she mumbled between kisses. "Your uncle." K.C. stopped then and took a step back, staring into his brown eyes before answering. "I miss him every time I pick up that guitar." "So why do you play?" "Because I don't want to forget him. He was an incredible musician, but he was an even better uncle. He taught me how to play guitar, and bass. And he taught me how to surf. And he loaned my date his car for the prom. And whenever my dad and mom weren't there, for whatever reason, he was." Vachon just stared at her as she continued to speak, and he had the feeling, perhaps for the first time in his life, what it was like to meet a mortal with an old soul. "Why would I want to forget just because I miss him? He's part of who I am; trying to forget would be like trying to run away from yourself, and you can't ever do that. Why would you even want to?" Vachon had no answer for her. He had been running all his immortal life, maybe longer -- it was what he knew best -- though, he was hard pressed to think of a time when it had really done him any good. "One day, Vachon, one day you're going to have to stay and face up to your responsibilities. Eternity is a long time to keep running." Had Nick Knight been right all along? It really had nothing to do with the Inca, did it? Would he have run anyway -- from his master, if she had not walked into the sun? Even now, with no one chasing him, he was still running. "I'm glad you're staying, Vachon," Tracy had said. "Me, too," he had answered, but without thought, without conviction. Why had he stayed? He could have settled anywhere. Why Toronto? Finally, with the whole world open to him, why Toronto? "What's her name?" K.C. asked, interrupting his reverie. "What?" "The girl you can't get out of your head." Vachon quirked a half grin at her perception. "She's just a friend ... back home." K.C. nodded and he kissed her again, though this time it was gentle and brief. With a sweet smile, she lead him to a bench which overlooked the ocean. They sat together as the sliver of a new moon gently traced its arch across the infinitely-dark blue sky. He pointed out constellations to her, and she told him stories of her uncle until, in each other's arms, they fell asleep. The first real sleep Vachon'd had since recovering from the fever. But while this sleep was deep, it was not empty. Vachon dreamed. At first there was darkness, and he thought he had found the peace he had been seeking all along, but soon the darkness fell away in clumps. Far above him, Vachon heard voices. And he knew them. "'Ere's where I dug 'im in. Nice an' soft, the dirt 'round here. Should make 'im a right comfy restin' spot," he heard Screed say. "Are you sure he's dead?" It was Tracy's voice that asked, and Vachon wondered about whom she was talking. "I mean, how can you tell?" "Ya mean cuz he wuz a vampire? Well, ain't 'ard. Just look fer yerself." Vachon saw the two of them peering over the rim above him -- such an odd pair side by side, her in a dressed-for-court pant-suit and him in his never-been-washed second-hand clothes. "Sees?" Vachon was stunned to realize that Screed was pointing down at him. "'E ain't got no 'eart." I have a heart! Vachon tried to tell them, for he knew it by the aching. He even clutched at his chest to prove to them it was there, but his hands came away empty. "What happened to it?" the young detective asked curiously. In silent reply, Screed held up a stake with a heart impaled upon it. "It offended 'im, so 'e plucked it out," the Cockney sailor answered with an amused chuckle. "No!" she moaned. "He can't be dead. I-- I need him. I never told him ... how I feel." "'E knew." No, I don't know. Tell me now, Tracy, Vachon pleaded but the words remained his alone. Screed then put his arm around Tracy's shoulders and handed her the heart Vachon had never gotten around to giving her. "Take it. Ya ought ta 'ave somethin' ta remembers 'im by. So ya neva forget." Then, looking down into the grave again at Vachon's still form, Screed tossed in a bunch of pink carnations. "We had a good run, we did. And, don't ya worry -- I won't let no one 'oo knew ya forget ya. See ya, mate." Tracy looked down on him, too. "Good luck, Vachon. I'm glad you don't have to run anymore." She then sprinkled a handful of powdery snow over him before she and Screed turned away. As Vachon continued to stare skyward, light flakes of snow began to fall, to cover him in a warm blanket of icy crystals until all that surrounded him was a still whiteness. "NO!" Vachon woke up with the word caught in his throat. He then took a gulp of air before looking around him, trying to remember where he was and who it was beside him who stirred. "What time is it?" he asked, his eyes still heavy from sleep. K.C. yawned before answering. "Oh, it'll be dawn soon." "I have to go." The girl nodded as she leaned over to hug him. "Will I see you again? Will you come play with us at the bar?" "No," he said, but again the sound caught in his throat. "I have to go home. I wanna be home for Christmas." "You're too late. It's already Christmas," she reminded him. "Then I'll be home by New Year's." He smiled as he caught her up in his arms and kissed her like he wanted to kiss Tracy. Vachon then pulled back and stared at his new friend. "I won't forget what you said." K.C. looked at him quizzically, with pale eyebrows raised. "Bigger than Spielberg," he reminded her, and she smiled. "I'll be keeping an eye out for your movies." "What about you?" she asked. "Should I be listening to the radio for a big hit from you?" This made him smile again. But he shook his head, "I don't think so. But I will come play with your band sometime." Vachon then got up to leave, but she caught his hand before he could go. "You won't forget, will you?" And, as he brought her hand up to his lips, he promised, "I won't ever forget." |
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Inspired by "I'll Be Home For Christmas" written by Kim Gannon, Walter Kent, and Buck Ram. Lyrics quoted from "Christmas (Baby Please Come Home)" written by Phil Spector, Jeff Barry, and Ellie Greenwich. Thanks go to Amy Rambow and Nancy Warlocke for their most valuable comments. And thanks to James Parriott for not only creating these characters but for letting us use them in this profitless forum. Snippets of dialogue borrowed from the Forever Knight episodes "Black Buddha," "Hearts Of Darkness," and "Fever." Finally, I just want to take a moment to remember a beautiful German Shepherd who deserved a long, healthy, happy life and an easier death. I won't forget you, ever.
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(December 1999)