"Maybe you should get a dictionary and look up the word 'paranoia,'" Jerry suggested. "Sure, the cops swept his dust up with all the other dust, and it's all mixed up together. How could anyone tell what's left of Dracula from what's left of Van Helsing and all the others?"
"It isn't normal dust," Malcolm countered. "Remember, it didn't blow away in the wind a hundred years ago on that road in Transylvania, but it should have if it were just ordinary remains. Why should we assume that the demon can't separate Dracula's dust from everyone else's when and if he wants to?"
"Malcolm," Rachel said gently, "I know you've been through a lot. We all have."
"No shit," Jerry muttered.
"But don't fall prey to foolish fears. We know that Dracula only forced three living people to drink his blood: Lucy Westenra, Mina Harker, and Renfield. If he had done it to anyone else, there would have been lots of legitimate reports of vampirism over the years, and there haven't been. We know that Lucy never had children. We know that Renfield was a young, unmarried, childless madman who was killed in Stewart's asylum and embalmed before burial. And Mina's descendants—"
"Still have Mina's blood in their veins," Malcolm finished for her. "You're right, I know, about Lucy and Renfield. And I know that there aren't any other vampires, at least none of Dracula's bloodline. But damn it, Rachel, I'm not going to take any chances. No kids for me. The sacrament every week. Embalming when I die." He paused. "And you two should do the same things, just to be safe."
"Is kosher wine on the Sabbath good enough?" Jerry asked.
Malcolm turned to see the grin spreading over his friend's face, and he laughed despite his depression. "Jerry, you're such a jerk."
"Hey, come on, I can't handle all this flattery."
Malcolm smiled at him warmly. "And you're a good friend."
"So are you, Mal," Jerry said. "But hey, with friends like you …"
They both laughed and then continued the drive in silence. Malcolm looked out the window at the sunset. Night's coming, he thought. I wonder how long it will be before dusk stops making me nervous? If ever.
I know they're right, he thought. Dracula is dead, the bloodline ends with us, the dust is just dust and can never be separated from all the other dust. It's all over. We're safe now, all of us—me, Jerry Rachel, the human race, all of us. We're safe. We're free.
Malcolm struggled to convince himself.
He could not.
Three thousand miles away, in London, England, Dr. Michael Thorpe was greeting Dr. Edward Fitzgibbon with a handshake and a gesture inviting him into his office. "I'm so grateful that you were able to get away like this, Teddy. I have to admit that I'm a bit out of my depths with this child."
"I find that very hard to believe, Michael," Fitzgibbon said as he seated himself in the chair in front of Thorpe's desk. "You're one of the finest child psychologists I know. You're certainly as skilled as I am."
"I may have skill, but I don't have your insight," Thorpe said. "I haven't been able to make any progress with her whatsoever."
Fitzgibbon pulled a pipe and a tobacco pouch from his pocket. As he filled the pipe, he asked, "Dogs, was it?"
"Cats," Thorpe corrected him. "Kittens, actually. It was the headmistress of her school who contacted me."
"And her parents?"
"Her father is the only parent. Mother died a few years ago."
"Killing and eating cats," Fitzgibbon mused. "Bizarre aberration, what?"
"It seems to be a bizarre family," Thorpe said as he opened the file folder that lay on the desk. "Let me review the case with you …"
"Wait, Michael. I'd like to see the child first. I prefer having a face to hang the facts on before I start working on a case."
"Oh, certainly," Thorpe said. "She's in the playroom right now. It's this way."
He led Fitzgibbon out into the corridor, and as they walked from the office to the playroom, Fitzgibbon asked, "What's your child-to-orderly ratio?"
"Ten to one."
"And child-to-doctor?"
"Fifty to one."
Fitzgibbon shook his head. "That's much too high, Michael, much too high."
"I agree, Teddy, but try telling that to the government. Whenever I petition for more funds, all I get are pep talks about retrenchment and lower taxes."
"And the children get lost in the red tape."
"Yes," he replied, then added, "Oh, we do a good job with most of them, because few of their problems are complicated. Child abuse is the most common source of the emotional distress, and we and the police together can deal with that. But in cases like this … yes, you're right, she needs more attention than I can give her. That's why I'm especially happy you could work this into your schedule."
"And I suppose I should forward the bill for my consultation fee to the prime minister?" Fitzgibbon grinned.
"Best of luck to you in that," he said, and laughed. They reached the playroom and Thorpe held the door open for his colleague. He entered to see a dozen little children, not one of them over the age of six, playing with blocks and wagons and coloring books, all under the watchful eye of a disinterested middle-aged woman dressed in white. "That's her, over there," Thorpe said softly, pointing to the far corner.
She was sitting by herself, hugging a doll tightly to her chest, rocking back and forth on her haunches, staring off at nothing. The faded dress she wore did not fit well, leading Fitzgibbon to conclude that the institution had provided her with the clothing. Her stringy hair was light, brown, her skin was sallow, her large, sad eyes dark and sunken. Fitzgibbon turned to Thorpe and whispered, "Autistic?"
"No," came the quiet reply. "She's responsive enough. Rather observant and quick, actually."
Fitzgibbon nodded, looked again at the child, and then said, "Let's go back to your office. Tell me everything you know."
As the door closed behind them and they walked back down the corridor, Thorpe said, "Her name is Constance Sheldon, five years of age. Her father is Thomas Sheldon, unemployed stevedore. Her mother's name was Bridget Duffy."
"You said the mother was killed?"
"Yes, murdered four years ago, when Constance was still an infant."
"And she's lived alone with her father since then?"
"Yes."
Fitzgibbon nodded contemplatively. "Any indication of child abuse?"
"None. Her father isn't what I'd call a dutiful parent, but there's nothing out of the ordinary about him."
"When did the behavior pattern first become evident?"
"Last year. Her teacher saw her and a few other children catching insects and eating them."
"Not uncommon among four-year-olds," Fitzgibbon pointed out, "even if it's a bit unappetizing."
"That was the teacher's reaction," Thorpe agreed. "She reprimanded the children, frightened them with all manner of horror stories about illness, and that should have been the end of it."
"But it wasn't," Fitzgibbon said.
"Not for Constance, no. She continued to eat insects, then was found in the playground eating bits of flesh from a cat which had been hit by a car."
Fitzgibbon shook his head. "No chance that we're dealing with simple malnutrition here, is there?"
"No, none. The teacher reported the incident to the headmistress, and before any action was taken, the child had drowned two stray kittens and had started to eat them. That's when the father was called in, and he agreed to place her here for observation. That was six months ago, and … well, Teddy, I'm stumped. Her behavior doesn't fit any of the patterns."
"You've interviewed her, of course."
"Of course. She insists that she was following orders she received from the bogeyman."
Fitzgibbon nodded understandingly. "Guilt displacement."
"Of course." They returned to Thorpe's office and resumed their seats. Thorpe opened the file and said, "Let me give you the family background first."
"You just told me—"
"I just mentioned the parents, but there seem
s to be a pattern of family pathology here. I obtained most of this information from her father, and the rest of it from the police records. Her mother seems to have been a part-time prostitute, and she was killed by one of her clients. The child's grandfather was in and out of prison for most of his life. Her grandfather was also illegitimate, by the way."
"Hmm," Fitzgibbon mused. "Illegitimate children sometimes grow into maladjusted adults and create life patterns for themselves that affect their children."
"And through the children, the grandchildren," Thorpe agreed. "I know. I suppose that Hitler's father is the best clinical example of that syndrome."
"Any details on the circumstances of her grandfather's birth?"
"A few," Thorpe replied. "I imposed upon my cousin at Scotland Yard to dig up the old records, and he found some interesting things."
"Scotland Yard! Michael, pregnancy out of wedlock isn't a crime. It never was."
"No, but the woman involved, Mary McCormick, Constance Sheldon's great-grandmother, reported a crime and filed a lawsuit."
"Against the father?"
"No, against St. Anselm's Asylum in Whitby, Yorkshire, and against a man named"—he glanced at the papers in front of him—"named Dr. John Stewart, the physician in residence. She was employed as a chambermaid at the asylum, and she claimed that her pregnancy was Stewart's fault."
"But she didn't claim he was the father?"
"No. The lawsuit was dropped and the complaint listed as a false police report. The woman must have gotten pregnant by a lover, panicked, and then tried to shift responsibility onto someone else."
"But if she didn't maintain that Stewart was the father, why did she try to sue him?"
"Because he was in charge of the asylum, and was therefore presumably responsible for the safety of the staff. She claimed that while she was working for Stewart at St. Anselm's, she was"—he glanced again at the papers—"ah, here it is. She claimed she was raped by an inmate named Renfield."
Constance watched the ant laboring to carry a tiny crumb of cookie back to the crack in the baseboard of the wall. She looked over at Mrs. Griffin to make sure the woman's attention was elsewhere, then she grabbed the ant and popped it into her mouth.
"Hello, Constance," said the soft voice which spoke to her from inside her head.
"Hello, Bogey Man," she whispered. She knew that she had to whisper, because she was the only one who could hear the Bogey Man, and their conversations were very, very secret.
"You've been such a good girl, Constance," the voice said, "You've made me so happy."
"I don't like this place, Bogey Man," she whispered sadly. "I want to go home."
"Yes, you must go home very soon, my dear child," the voice agreed. "I told you to eat the insects and the animals just to see if you were a good, obedient little girl, and you've proven to me that you are. So now you must not do those things again. You must do whatever the doctors and the nurses tell you to do, and soon they will let you go home."
"You said you were going to give me presents, Bogey Man."
"Oh, and I shall, my dear Constance, I shall. As soon as you leave this place and go home, I shall begin to give you gifts such as you cannot even begin to imagine."
"I want a puppy," Constance whispered, "but I don't want to have to eat him."
"You shall have your puppy," the soft, seductive voice said. "You shall have whatever you want. You shall have nice clothes, and lots of rings and bracelets, and you shall travel all over the world to do favors for me."
"Can Bonnie come with me?" Bonnie was her best friend.
"Of course Bonnie can come with you," the voice agreed. "And maybe, if I find that I like her, Bonnie can be my friend, too. And when time has passed, and you are all grown up into a fine lady, and you have gone all the places I tell you to go and have done all the things I tell you to do, then I shall give you the greatest gift of all, a gift of which most little girls only dream."
"What, Bogey Man?" she asked eagerly. "Tell me, please!"
The child was too young and innocent to detect the subtle hint of malevolence. "You, my dear sweet Constance," the soft voice answered, "shall be the bride of a prince.…"
THE FURY
By John Farris
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The Fury is a work of fiction. I felt free to take certain liberties with actual locations in and around New York City—you won’t find Sutton Mews or the Washington Heights Hospital on any map of the city. Paragon Institute is imaginary. Although my characters are as real as I can make them, fortunately none of them exists outside the pages of this book.
For Kathy
1
If the doors of
perception were
cleansed, everything
would appear to
man as it is, infinite.
—William Blake,
The Marriage of Heaven and Hell
2
On his good days
he was eerie. He
could make the rest
of the human race
feel obsolete.
—Mrs. Roberta P. Edge
3
Self-interest is the
only constant in
life, and murder
is always
preferred to impotence.
—Childermass
4
What they did would do them in.
—Anne Sexton,
The Book of Folly
Chapter One
Lately many of the girls Gillian went to school with seemed to be going through some sort of morbid crisis or startling personality change. Most had already turned fifteen, with Gillian the laggard in her class; she wouldn’t be fifteen until the fourth of February, halfway through the school year. Anne Wardrop, the poor klutz, had suffered a bona fide nervous breakdown precipitated by a really terrifying laughing jag during the Verdi Requiem at St. Bartholomew’s. Gillian shuddered when she heard the details, but Anne had been through three stepfathers and a change of analyst every few months for the past two years, and everybody knew she was bound to come unwrapped. On the other hand, Carol Dommerick, she of the bright blue stare and whispering shyness, had discovered sex and was carrying on a precocious affair with a twenty-three-year-old seminarian at General Theological. After four and a half months of acute anxiety Bo Crutcher’s parents had traced their daughter to Mexico and retrieved her from a hovel by the sea, strung-out, yellow as a pumpkin and full of pinworms: Bo wouldn’t be returning to Bordendale this year. Sue Noyes, who had always cared a great deal about how she looked, now had to be sternly reminded to bathe and use a toothbrush, and she was letting the strong dark hair run wild over her body. Then there was Wendy Van Alexia—horse bum and free spirit—who had taken a running dive into the existentialist philosophers and the more cheerless nineteenth-century Scandinavian playwrights. Wendy didn’t smile often any more, and Gillian missed that smile.
Bright girls, rich girls, privileged children of New York, a city that has too much of everything and is hard on tender psyches—was it the pressures of the city itself or the insupportable neuroses of their parents that was getting so many good girls down? Gillian, who had always lived on an indescribably expensive plot of ground known as Sutton Mews, loved city life, and she also knew some pretty disturbed kids who lived in Plandome and Pound Ridge. But it seemed obvious that in the city the process of natural selection was harsher, accelerated.
Gillian’s father, an amateur anthropologist, had expounded on the lack of ritual, the coming-of-age rites that scarcely exist in an industrial society (except as spontaneous and frequently destructive variations on archetypal forms). In tribal cultures, regardless of the complexity of the environment, it is ritual that provides an orderly and firm sense of transition from childhood through pubescence. There is wonder in it, he said, and dignity, and a sense of fulfillment. One has lived up to the expectations of the group. One is accepted. It was quite a lot for Avery Bellaver to say, even when you got him
started on a Favorite Topic.
“But in the so-called advanced civilizations, where taboo is breaking down and family groups are fragmented, acceptance and approval are concentrated in highly structured peer groups where the rules are constantly changing, dictated by fashion, by the, ah, soul-destroying perversities of our merchandisers. Except in the case of the orthodox religious among us, there are no guidelines for the young. Communication is faulty, expectations blurred. Eccentric standards of maturity are imposed on ten-year-olds by irresponsible media and disenfranchised adults. The demands change so capriciously it doesn’t astonish me to see very young school children standing on street corners with bulging satchels and utter blankness in their eyes, as if they are about to scream. What do they want? What do I do now? There are those few, I suspect, for whom it doesn’t matter, children who have the inherited stamina and self-focusing qualities necessary to survive. For the many the failure to be informed of their status is excruciating. Eventually emotional seams give way and our shamans appear unequal to the task of integrating the frail and the fallen into what is, essentially, a societal madhouse.”
He blinked and was pleased with himself, but then he looked warily at his daughter.
“You’re not cracking up, are you?”
Gillian was so surprised she had to laugh, which hurt his feelings.
To make up for it she kissed him lightly and quickly, with a blush of sympathy and love for this aging, lonely man who could be so astute about the human condition and so totally unable to cope with the few demands that life made on him.
“I’m fine, but some of my friends aren’t.”
“Oh, yes. So many new faces around here. That delicate and lovely child who trembles sometimes, all over, for no apparent reason. You handle them all well. You’re good to them. You listen.”
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