Suburban Vampire: Redemption, Book II: Leviathan

Epilogue

FROM THE JOURNAL OF DAWN RHINEBECK-CAMPBELL:

"The worst case of religious violence in years," they called it. "An act of terrorism to rival 9/11". According to them, the followers of Bobby Starr rioted, then rampaged through Central Oregon, leaving hundreds dead in their wake. The media announced that the name Bobby Starr would go down in infamy alongside those of Jim Jones, David Koresh, Marshall Applewhite, and Shoko Asahara. Of course, the media kept the incident alive for months afterward, wondering how the Bobby Starr movement went so terribly wrong. It was all a fiction, one which I had a part in creating, a somewhat reasonable fiction that hid the truth and allowed people to draw incorrect conclusions. But I knew the truth, because I was there.

I can't tell you which was harder, the funerals or all the questions from my co-workers and media colleagues. The funerals were, naturally, difficult – I could not keep myself from crying at either Kevin's or Laura's services. Kevin was buried with full law enforcement honors, with bagpipes and color guards. When the American flag was presented to his widow and children, I just about lost it. Likewise, at Laura's funeral, I almost lost it when her father stood behind the lectern and spoke about how he wished he and Laura had been closer. Of course, neither Kevin's nor Laura's families knew the full story behind their sacrifices, nor could they. They can never know the truth behind their sacrifice and heroism, and that may be the saddest thing about this. Lies were told, lies that were comforting and reasonable-sounding, lies that had some morsel of truth, but were still lies. I was raised to believe that lying was wrong. However, I can't say that those lies we told the families and friends were anything but acts of kindness and mercy. Things that I once felt were so black-and-white are now varying shades of gray, and sometimes it's hard to tell what is true anymore.

Of course, the inquisition I had at the hands of my coworkers and competitors was no easier. An old hand at journalism once told me that it is easy to catch a liar unless that liar is either well-practiced or psychopathic. I must be well-practiced. I hope I'm no psychopath. Mary Brown was the first to try to get me to speak about the things I saw in Central Oregon. I didn't even respond to her. I just walked away. Her camera operator later approached me. "I saw the look on your face when Brown tried to grill you," she said. "I was in Iraq. I saw the same look on the faces of soldiers who had just come out of combat. They call it the 'thousand-yard stare'. I don't know what you experienced, Dawn, but maybe I don't want to know."

She was right, of course. There are things in this world that decent people do not want to know about. And yet, they exist. I know this. I've seen these things. I've lived through them. I am one of the rough men (or women, in my case) who does violence so that decent people can sleep at night. When I was younger, I thought I knew what this life was all about; now that I'm older, I only know that I know very little about it.

Scott says I'm different these days. He says I'm harder, more cynical. I know I've changed. We've both changed. We both carry the scars of life, scars given through loss. These scars run deep and can never heal. You can find some temporary salve, or learn how to cope, but those scars remain. The best you can do is to learn to appreciate the good in life – a sunrise, the song of a bird, a toaster that doesn't burn your English muffins. And the greatest gift of all, the gift of love. Without love, without hope, without faith, what else is there? What are we fighting for, if we do not have those?

On an early fall morning, I awake to see the sun rise over Mt. Hood. I watch as the mountain hides the warming rays, which then burst forth in glorious triumph over the dark. I think of all those we've lost, and I remember not how, but why they died, and I resolve never to forget them. They will live on, in stories, in pictures, in our hearts. The more I think of it, that's the best any of us can ask for in this life – to be remembered. I remember, and I am thankful.

*

The Campbells usually celebrate Thanksgiving with their families; the last few years, they would go to Dawn's parents and bring Scott's mother along. Scott thought that she deserved a rest from all the cooking and baking. That didn't prevent her from lending her services to Dawn's parents. This year, however, they decided to host Thanksgiving for their friends. Their little dining room was packed – Kitty, Bernie, Tim O'Neill and his wife Ellen, and Grace Montoya were all in attendance. Pastor Larry briefly stopped by with a pumpkin pie baked by his wife, but he could not stay long. Kitty and Bernie brought a tofurky with vegan gravy, of course. Dawn was the primary cook for the meal, and she made frequent phone calls to her mother for tips. The turkey was large and moist – Scott was jealous that he couldn't have any, even though he was the one tasked with carving the bird. But before they could eat, Scott called for toasts to be made, in honor of those they'd lost.

"Here's to mom," he said as he lifted his glass of wine. "I really miss you. I wish you were here. And to Laura. I loved you, once. I thought our divorce would be the end of me, but it wasn't. And because of it, I got to marry the greatest woman ever."

Grace rose and lifted her glass. "To Kevin. The best damn partner a cop could ever have."

Dawn lifted her glass. "To Vijay Amble. You were a great cameraman, and a good friend -- until you became a vampire, that is."

Scott lifted his glass once more. "To Jack. My sire. My nemesis. My hated adversary. There's redemption for everyone, and I hope he found it."

Kitty lifted her glass. "To Jeremiah! Okay, he's not dead, but I wish him my best, where ever he's gone. Jeremiah!"

After the toast, and a brief saying of grace, Scott carved the turkey and they tucked into a fine Thanksgiving feast. As they were eating (and Scott was drinking) there was a knock on the door. Scott went to answer it.

"Elizabeth? What are you doing here?"

"I just stopped by, you know, to see how you guys were doing and wish you a happy Thanksgiving. You know. That kind of stuff."

"That's nice of you! So, it's true about Father? He's really leaving?"

"Yeah, he's leaving. Retiring, he calls it."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"No, you're not."

"Yeah, I really am. Hey, why don't you come in? There's plenty of turkey, not that you or I can eat it."

"Oh, no, thanks, Scott. Thanksgiving isn't a vampire thing. I mean, except for you. Beside, I've got to get back to the House. Father has this tradition on Thanksgiving day. Some of us sit around the table in the dark and drink blood, in total silence."

"Wow, that sounds cheery."

"Yeah, well, I got to go. Thanks, Scott."

"Okay. Happy Thanksgiving!"

"Yeah. You too."

Elizabeth then left. Scott returned to the table where he sat with his friends and family. For the rest of their night they talked, sang, played games, and laughed.

*

Elizabeth returned to the House, where Father's traditional dinner had already commenced. It would be his last dinner as Father of the House of Portland. Almost no other vampire had shown; most of the others had to keep up appearances and attend other events. Phaedra, the soon-to-be Mother of the House of Portland, was there, of course. Elizabeth took her seat without saying anything, because that was the tradition. They sat around the table, taking drinks of blood from fine crystal. Elizabeth quickly downed her glass, then sat it on the table. She looked around the room, and at Father and Phaedra. She knew the tradition included silence, but she thought that since Father was retiring it was time to break with tradition.

"So," she said, "what are you guys thankful for?"

SCOTT CAMPBELL WILL RETURN

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