The Origin of Dracula by Irving Belateche

bad targets or bad leads, you use ’em. Sooner or later, the tide will turn.” He looked over at me. “We keep going, and we’re gonna find the right trail.”
    “I need the right trail by Sunday,” I said. “What do you think your uncle would say about that?”
    “He’d have some story to tell you.”
    “What?”
    “My uncle made his points by telling stories.”
    I supposed that could’ve been the end of that conversation, since Lee didn’t go on. But he’d hit too close to home for me to not follow up. His uncle made his points by telling stories, and though stories didn’t necessarily mean novels, it was damn close. It was like Dantès was forcing my hand—so I followed this breadcrumb.
    I asked Lee about his uncle, wondering if there was a clue there, and Lee obliged my curiosity.
    “I spent a lot of time at his house,” he said. “My parents would drop me off when they wanted to go out drinking. Uncle Harry was in a wheelchair, so it was a two-fer: they’d get rid of me, and I’d take care of Harry so my dad wouldn’t have to. He was supposed to take care of him, but he always snaked out of it. He got my mom to do it, or one of Harry’s neighbors, or me—whoever he could rope in.”
    “Harry is your dad’s brother?”
    “Yeah, but much older. When he and my dad were kids, my dad worshipped him. Absolutely thought he was the greatest. Until Harry got his legs blown off. When Harry came home from Walter Reed, a cripple in a wheelchair, my dad didn’t like him so much anymore. And my dad was the one who had to take care of him. Their parents were in bad shape and were barely able to get around themselves. Problem was, my dad couldn’t even stand the sight of him anymore. Harry went from hero to zero for my dad. So when I was old enough, my dad started taking me over to Uncle Harry’s place and showing me how to wash him and change him and do all sorts of shit for the guy. I was the answer to my dad’s prayers. I’d take care of Harry.”
    “How old were you?”
    “Six.”
    Wow. That was an eye-opener—rough-and-tumble six-year-old Lee with this huge responsibility. “You never said anything to us back then.”
    “Why should I’ve?”
    “No reason, I guess.”
    After a couple of minutes without Lee volunteering any more information, and the lights of Tysons Corner—home to Lucy’s office—almost upon us, I piped up again. “Do you remember any of your uncle’s stories?”
    “Yeah—some of them. But the guy had thousands of them. War stories, civilian stories, stories about himself, stories he’d heard.” Lee turned away and stared out the side window. “You know, taking care of him was hard. Especially those first years when I was a little kid. But I liked the stories. He used to say that stories tell you all you need to know.”
    He stopped talking again, but this time I didn’t press him—I guess I thought he’d opened up more than he’d wanted to. I sure wanted him to go on; I sensed he was leading us down the right path—that he’d mentioned stories for a reason—and my instinct would turn out to be right. But the time had come to face my fear.
    *
    The building where Lucy had worked was almost completely dark. The only light came from the east end, from the vestibules where the elevators were located. I drove around to the back of the building and parked in the lot. I was within yards of the spot where Lucy had breathed her last breath and thought her last thought, which must’ve been about leaving Nate alone, forever, abandoned without the love of his mom.
    I looked up to the floor where Brown & Butler, Lucy’s old firm, was located. Not one light burned there tonight. Apparently this was one of the rare nights when no one was working late.
    Lee climbed out of the car and started toward the building, but I stayed put. When he saw I wasn’t going anywhere, he walked back.
    I swung my car door open, but still didn’t make a move to get out.
    “If you want,