“Ned?”
“Pam,” he said, leaning toward her quickly. “Pam, what did you just say?”
“You heard me very well,” she said, wanting to sound stem, sounding only fearful.
“That can’t be.”
“What?”
“Brastov. He can’t be.”
“Well, maybe he can’t be, but enough people saw him at Father’s party the other night to want to meet him again. And before you tell me it was their imagination, Jack Foxworth was among them. And that man has no imagination at all.” She waited. “Ned … Ned, do you know this man?”
He moistened his lips, took a long pull at his brandy. “No,” he said finally. “Not personally. At least … at least I don’t think so.” Another deep breath, another pull at his drink. “Pam, one of the first things we did the day after we found Jubal and Marty was check with the railroad. Pam, there was no one on that train that night. No one got off at the depot because no one was there to get off at all.”
“That’s impossible. Saundra was … I sent Horace to fetch her myself.”
“That’s not all.”
She heard a log split on the andirons and jumped as the sparks fled into the chimney.
“This man Brastov,” he said, slowly turning his glass in his hand. “He … that is, according to Rick’s books, he’s … ” He stopped, stared, suddenly slammed the glass down and jammed his hands into his pockets. “It’s stupid, Pam. It’s damned stupid and it has to be a hoax.”
“What, for heaven’s sake?”
“According to Rick, Count Brastov is one of the undead.”
“The what?” she asked, not sure she’d understood.
“The undead, Pam. It says in the book the man’s a vampire, and one way he gets around is by turning into a werewolf.”
Or a bat, he thought suddenly-and remembered the wings.
He wasn’t surprised at the total disbelief in her eyes, but at the same time he heard, back in his mind where the shadows began crawling, the sound of the wings soaring over his house, the sound of the silver-maned wolf stalking him in the park.
“Ned? Ned, what are we going to do?”
“Just what you said,” he told her. “We’re going to eat, and then we’re going to pay a visit to the morgue and have a talk with John Webber.”
“Wrong!” said a hearty voice from behind Pamela’s chair.
Ned scowled, and Pam turned quickly, her breath lodged in her throat until, with a tentative smile, she saw her father come round to the front. He was beaming, his face flushed and his eyes sparkling clear.
“You will eat, yes,” Grandon Squires said, “but you will dine with us, Detective Stockton.” He reached for Pamela’s hand and guided her swiftly to her feet. “We,” he announced, “are going to have a celebration!”
11
The steps leading into the cavernous cellar were carved from a single block of stone, and were worn smooth down the center from a century of use. Massive rough beams stretched darkly across the ceiling, and twelve-foot stone pillars were set evenly between them, the weight of the mansion full on their squared tops. The air was filled with slow-dancing dust, and the only light came from narrow slitted windows high on the outer walls. Ten rows of wine racks climbed floor to ceiling, blocking sight from the steps of a small wooden door set flush in the back wall. Beyond it was another room, little used, seldom visited. Here the dust lay in shroud on the damp stone floor, glittering cobwebs were thick, and in the far sunless corners the faint scrabblings of stirring rats.
A single window that darkened as the sun made for the horizon.
A dim patch of light that drew in upon itself, pulling the dark to it like an ebony blanket.
Then a rat crossed the light and paused for a moment; it was black, its tail hairless, and its tiny red eyes darted side to side while its nose tested the air. Suddenly a hand exploded from the dark and snared the back of its neck. It squealed loudly and struggled, its claws and teeth trying to gouge the fingers hard about its throat. A second hand joined the first, and there was a sharp twist and a grunt, and the sound of the breaking spine filled the room like a slap.
The rat twitched once, and died.
The hands drew it out of the light slowly.
There was silence.
There was waiting.
There was the tearing of raw flesh and the muffled sound of something feeding. It was loud, almost deafening, yet behind it was the groan of a wooden door being opened. Or a closet being closed. Or the lid of an ancient coffin rising slowly on its hinges.
A bootstep on the floor.
The feeding noises stopped, and a man on all fours abruptly scuttled into the light. He glanced around furtively, moved again until his back was pressed against the damp wall, the partially eaten rat held protectively to his chest. He was old, his lifeless white hair straggling across his furrowed brow, his gnarled hands liver-spotted and thin; the eyes were rimmed in red, and the mouth was the same. He jerked his legs to him, then, when a gleaming black boot joined him in the light.
“When you’re finished,” a voice told him. “I need to ride tonight.”
He nodded quickly a dozen times, brought the rat to his lips and lowered it again.
“And the lady?”
“I think not, Horace. Not this time, at least.”
Horace Bartlett peered awkwardly over his shoulder, up at the window. “It’s early yet, sir.”
“No,” the voice corrected. “I’m afraid it’s rather late.” The boot vanished, and there were footsteps marking time across the floor, through the dark. “This village will be mine, old friend, but it will not be as easy as I was led to believe.”
Horace buried his mouth eagerly in the rat’s belly, looked up with a grin and wiped the blood from his chin with a blood-stained sleeve. “Sir?” he said. “Sir, why don’t you just … ” and he flapped one arm in a parody of flying.
The voice laughed, and Horace cringed, the rat slipping from his fingers into his lap. When he reached for it, however, the voice stopped him cold.
“Leave it! Fetch the carriage! There is trouble out there, and I’ve no more time to lose.”
Horace scrambled to his feet after a sad look at his evening meal, dusted himself off as best he could and started for the door hidden in the back of the room. He had just reached the threshold when he turned with a puzzled frown.
“Sir? Where are we going that you have to ride?”
A silence that echoed and made the old man cringe. Then: “There should have been three out there last night. There were none. We’re going to pay a visit on Doctor John Webber.”
Ned was astonished. When the Squires Manor carriage pulled up at the porch the downstairs lights were all ablaze, Timmons at the door was in his livery, and the serving girls were all dressed in their best black-and-white. The dining room was filled with silver and gold candelabra, the tall white tapers giving the air a soft haze, like looking at sunrise through extremely fine gauze. Pamela dashed about as if she’d never seen the place before, from every bright comer shouting questions at her father. But Grandon only stood at the head of the linen covered table and nodded foolishly, every so often turning to Ned and grinning. Ned smiled back weakly; he had no idea what was going on, and the abrupt change in scene from discussing dead men returning to the opulence of the mansion had his head spinning.
They had not been there five minutes when Timmons answered the door and Jack Foxworth strode in, greeted Grandon effusively, shook Ned’s hand as if they were old friends instead of rivals, and took his place instantly at Grandon’s right hand. Immediately afterward, Saundra entered the room, and suddenly it was as if every candle had gone dim.
She wore a low-necked gown of midnight blue silk, the rouged swell of her breasts veiled by black Spanish lace. Her hair was brushed straight down to her shoulders and captured the light in faintly blue flares; her eyes were wide and black, her lips still a deep and gleaming red. While the others watched in amazed silence,
she walked up to Grandon and planted a firm kiss on his cheek. Squires flushed, and led her to the scrolled chair on his left. After a puzzled exchange of glances, Ned took the seat beside Jack, and Pamela beside Saundra.
As if at silent signal, the staff appeared with silver trays of pheasant and roast suckling, the finest of breads, the best of the cellar’s wines. Ned, though he was increasingly anxious to get back to his work, did not dare pass up a meal such as this. He had every confidence Mr. Squires would reveal the purpose for this surprise feast, but meanwhile he was going to enjoy it, his gaze on Pamela sending messages that had her blushing.
There was no conversation. Squires forebade it. He demanded they enjoy the meal first; purpose would come with the wine at the end.
An hour later it was done.
Squires pushed his chair back and held a crystal glass to the light. He smiled to himself, then looked to jack and Saundra.
“Daughter,” he said with a nod to Pamela, “and friends, I have a very special occasion here this evening. I am not, as you well know, without influence or connections here and there, in the best circles, and — ”
Pamela frowned her exasperation. “Father, please!” she scolded lightly. “Please don’t make a speech.”
Grandon almost lost his good humor, but the anxiety in his daughter’s face brought back his smile. “Very well. Without fanfare or elaboration, then, permit me to make two announcements. My daughter has no doubt mentioned, Mr. Stockton, that I have been behaving rather peculiar of late, and that Mr. Foxworth here has been my willing accomplice. Well, the reason for all that is quite simple: Mr. Foxworth and I have decided it would be best for both our firms if, as soon as is prudently possible, we merge into one. It will,” he said over Pamela’s horrified gasp, “be known as Squires and Company, and Mr. Foxworth shall henceforth be its executive officer.”
Jack leaned back and smiled quietly.
“But Mr. Squires,” Ned said into the stunned silence, “does that mean you’ll be retiring?”
“Indeed.”
“But you can’t, Father!” Pamela exclaimed. “You … you can’t!”
“But I can, my dear. And I shall. After all, I will want to spend as much time as I can with my wife, don’t you agree?”
This time the silence lasted much longer.
Ned wanted to groan, instead looked down at his lap when Pamela’s face reddened. Whether in anger or embarrassment or a combination of both he couldn’t say, but if her father had hoped she’d be delighted, he couldn’t have misjudged her more severely.
Then Saundra spoke for the first time that night. “Darling,” she said to Pamela, a delicate hand lightly on her wrist, “I did want to tell you a hundred times, believe me I did. But Grandon insisted we keep it a secret, at least until he and Jack finished their negotiations. Pamela, this is — ”
“Horrid!” Pamela snapped, throwing her napkin hard to the table and shoving back her chair. She rose and glared at her father. “I am the only family you have left, and I thought you trusted me.”
“Pamela, my child … ” Squires began, suddenly confused that his celebration had gone sour.
“No,” she said with a stamp of her foot. “No, I am not your child. I am your daughter, and I have worked for you and taken care of you and this is the way you repay me?” She looked across the table at Jack, who averted his face with a wince. “And my friend,” she said acidly. “So this was your great big secret, was it?, stealing away the firm that’s belonged to my family for generations? This was it? My god, Jack, what were you thinking of?”
“Pamela,” he said, smiling uncomfortably. “Not in front of the detective, please.”
“Oh, damn your precious sensibilities!” she said, very nearly shouting, and straining Foxworth’s smile. “What in heaven’s name possessed you, Jack Foxworth? You certainly don’t need the money or the backing, and you don’t need … ” Her eyes widened. “Oh no.” She shook her head slowly. “Oh no, Jack, you couldn’t be that low.”
“Darling,” Foxworth began, and sputtered to a halt in the face of her rage. There was a moment’s silence when Ned was tempted to speak, to remind them all he was there, but Pamela suddenly flared again.
“How dare you. Jack Foxworth. How dare you try to buy me!”
“Enough!” Squires roared. leaping to his feet as Saundra buried her face in a napkin, her shoulders trembling. “I will have no more of this in my house!”
“You’re right about that, Father.” Pamela said. “No more of it. Ned, you will take me to the Inn immediately. I shall have a room there.”
“You will do nothing of the kind,” Squires told her.
“I most certainly will,” she said. “And I will stay there until you come to your senses.” Then, abruptly, her rage brought tears to her eyes and she fled without another word.
“My,” said Jack Foxworth. “My, my, my.”
Ned. however. said nothing. It was bad enough he’d been forced to witness such a scene; now Pam had placed him in a miserably awkward position. Carefully, he squared his napkin on the table and rose, nodded once to Jack and Squires and headed for the door.
“Mr. Stockton.”
He turned. It was Saundra. Her eyes were not red, nor were there tears on her cheeks. And as Squires reached for the wine decanter and muttered angrily at Jack, she smiled. A humorless. cold smile that only he could see.
“Have a care,” she said.
“If you’re worried about your pet — ”
“My pet?”
“The wolf,” he said. “The park, remember?”
Squires turned suddenly, a puzzled look on his face. “What are you talking about, Ned? What wolf is this?”
Ned waited for her to answer, wondering what sort of game she was playing; but when she said nothing, he explained to the banker about the incident in the park and Saundra’s part in it.
“Saundra, is this true?” he asked.
“I saved Mr. Stockton from killing himself, yes.”
“Not likely,” Ned grumbled, looking over his shoulder as Pam came down the stairs lugging a suitcase bulging at the sides.
“Very likely,” Saundra contradicted. “I know wolves, you see. And you would have missed him. He’s a fast one, he is, and he would have been at your throat before you knew what had happened. Firing that shot in the air is what frightened him off.”
“My … god!” Squires said. “My god, Saundra, you could have been killed!”
“No,” she said, folding her hands on the table. “No, I don’t think so. After all, I did have Mr. Stockton to protect me.”
“Bravo, Ned,” said Jack softly.
Ned would have responded, but Pam called to him to help her, shouted for Timmons to have a carriage brought around. He nodded a farewell again and had just crossed the threshold when Squires stopped him with his name.
“I want you to know something, Ned,” he said firmly. “If you leave with my daughter, you’ll not be welcome in this house again.”
“Mr. Squires, I have no choice. What’s going on here is between your daughter and yourself. I’m leaving for work. If she wishes a ride to the Inn, I can scarcely deny her.” He turned away, suddenly turned back despite Pamela’s urging. “No. No, I’ve changed my mind. This isn’t between you and Pamela alone. Mr. Squires, you know I care for your daughter very much, very much indeed. So I’m making it my business to tell you I think you’re making a terrible mistake.” He looked to Jack pointedly. “On everything.”
“Thank you for your opinion,” Squires told him coldly. “but as usual, you’re wrong.”
“And Mr. Stockton,” Saundra told him as he hefted the bag and opened the door, “you’re wrong about something else. “
“Really?”
“Really.”
“The wolf, Mr. Stockton.”
“What about it?”
“It isn’t my pet.”
12
Small black clouds passed over the stars, their ragged edges silvered
by the reach of the full moon. A breeze was born with the death of the light, one that set twigs to quivering and dead leaves in the hollows to stirring like anxious dreamers. In the distance, in those places where the village had not yet reached, where houses were few, or where there were none at all, lanterns bobbed erratically in the dark, stabbing out shadows while dozens of men bundled for warmth and cursing their zeal jabbed poles and knives and long rifle barrels into depressions and burrows, into shadows and ghosts. Once in a while there was a shouting, a running, a convergence on a shrub that gained form with the light. And once in a while there was a shooting, and an echo, and every farmer in the valley barned his watchdog that night.
No one bothered to look up at the sky.
Richard Driscoll knew he was in trouble, bigger trouble than he’d ever been in in his life. By rights, the look Ned had given him that afternoon should have shriveled him to a cinder, and it was only the chief’s timely intervention that prevented what he feared would have been a bloodbath — not to mention a demotion. But he’d only been trying to help. Ever since he’d heard the name of Miss Squires’ other visitor he hadn’t been able to get it out of his head. He was positive he had heard it before, and not only because it was so obviously foreign. Instead of leading the hunt into the park himself, he had taken what he still believed to be the proper initiative and had raced home to Faith. He explained what had happened, what he had to know, and they had spent the rest of the night sitting on the living room floor, piles and stacks and scatters of books surrounding them until, just before dawn, Faith had tossed a brand new English volume into his lap.
It was coincidence, of course.
After he’d finished reading the chapter she’d indicated with a trembling finger, he knew it had to be coincidence.
But the more he thought about it, and the more Faith reminded him about what he had seen, what he had heard, the more he began to wonder if such terrible things could be true, could exist. And when he conjured an image of Jubal Pierson’s body jammed under the platform, and Marty Reston all in a heap behind that deadfall, and Adelle Bartlett in her kitchen … it fit. There was no other explanation.
The Universe of Horror Volume 1: The Soft Whisper of the Dead (Neccon Classic Horror) Page 8
