"I hang up." And he did.
* * *
Selene looked up as Jamey returned from the bedroom awkwardly unfolding a map of Monterey County. "Sounds as if he's got all his bases covered, doesn't it," he drawled.
"Oh for crying out loud, Jamey," she snapped back. "Could we can the understatement for once?"
"Okay." He took the handset from her, and holding the mouthpiece in one hand and the earpiece in the other, snapped it in half like a dog biscuit. "We're fucked." He dropped the broken receiver in the general direction of the cradle on the parquet coffee table. "There. Is that what you wanted to hear?"
"Actually, I was hoping for something a bit more engage." But Jamey's outburst had, paradoxically enough, strengthened her own resolve. "To start with, what do we know now that we didn't know before?"
The earpiece of the phone, dangling by wires over the edge of the coffee table, began emitting an eerie death rattle of an off-the-hook signal. Jamey yanked the cord from the wall, then perched on the edge of the loveseat. "Building 'em better than they used to." Then, at an under-the-eyebrow look from Selene: "For one thing, he's Romanian—that bit about the striga and the strigoi?"
"I was wondering about that. Strega is Italian for witch."
"Yes. But striga, that's Romanian. So is strigoi. Strigoi vii, actually. Living vampire. Quite esoteric. Everyone knows about the nosferatu—that's the export version, Dracula and all that. The Romanian tourist board has made quite a little cottage industry out of it. They turned an old Customs station into Bran Castle, and built a rather garish hotel at the Tihuta pass. But strigoi—that's the real deal. The word itself is a derivation of striga. According to the legend, the strigoi were originally created by witches. When a striga and a vampire work together, their powers are said to be enhanced a thousandfold. Folk literature's full of tales of striga and strigoi finding each other, losing each other, searching for each other." Jamey finished up impatiently, then glanced down at his wristwatch and hopped off the arm of the sofa. "Let's go."
"But we're not supposed to leave yet."
"If we follow his instructions to the letter," said Jamey quietly, "then all three of us—you, me, Martha—we're all dead." He waited for Selene to disagree; when she did not he went on. "We've got to disobey him at some point—I think our best chance is to get there before he's expecting us. Thanks to you, we know the lay of the land—let's see if we can gain any advantage with surprise. Perhaps he won't even be there; perhaps he was calling from another location, and that's why he needs the extra time—to return."
"But he said he'd kill her if we left early." Selene was stalling while she tried to decide how this new development fit her own plans. "What if we're being watched?"
"Getting cold feet, Mademoiselle Engagée?"
Selene decided she'd have to make it work. She stood up, slipped on her black blazer, and jerked her thumb toward the open sliding door. "Could you get us down that way?"
Whistler stepped out onto the balcony, glanced up at the celestial configuration known as Venus in the New Moon's Arms, then peered down over the edge of the railing. "I'd be a piss-poor strigoi if I couldn't, m'dear," he drawled.
* * *
Selene's internal rhythms had finally adjusted to Pacific standard time, but now that her body clock was working she was dismayed to discover that her thermostat had gone on the fritz—a little reminder from the Fair Lady, no doubt. She thought about asking Jamey to do something with the temperature controls, but decided not to bother him, inasmuch as he currently had the Jag screaming down Highway 1 at eighty-five miles per hour on the occasional straightaways, taking even the most murderous curves at a suicidal sixty.
When the Westmere sign came into view on the left, Whistler hit the brakes hard and cocked the wheel sharply; the Jag spun through a tire-squealing hundred-and-eighty-degree turn across the highway; centrifugal force threw Selene against the shoulder harness like a crash-test dummy.
Jamey yanked the emergency brake; the Jag shuddered to a stop facing north, at the mouth of the old road that led to the Westmere ruins. "It's got to be over that hill there."
Selene unsnapped her seat belt. "I'm going with you."
Jamey glanced at the dashboard clock and shook his head. "Doesn't make sense. It's already nearly eleven-thirty. On blood I can be over the hill and back in minutes—with Martha, if he's left her unguarded. If not, there'll still be time to work out a plan—and more information to work with—before Aldo's deadline."
"You need me, Jamey. He's a drinker too, remember? And younger than you, and in better shape, and probably more experienced at this sort of thing. When was the last time you even had a fistfight?"
He raised an eyebrow. "And what exactly are you planning to bring to the party?"
She reached into the inside pocket of her blazer and pulled out the sewing packet containing the zombi-paste pins. "These, for one thing."
"Potions and lotions aren't going to cut it, m'dear. Aldo's not going to let you within arm's length of him, after what you did to my father and his housekeeper."
"I have the mashasha."
"Same argument. Listen, we're wasting time. What I need here is your blood, not your advice." He reached into the pocket of his denim jacket and pulled out his utility knife.
Thanks for making this so easy, thought Selene as she took the knife. She started to loosen the nut that held the blade in place, then stopped, as if something had just occurred to her. "At least take one of the pins—you might be able to get close enough to use it." She put the knife down in her lap and carefully removed one of the pins from the packet. "It's called zombi paste. It will induce a state indistinguishable from death for twenty-four hours."
He appeared to be thinking it over. Finally, reluctantly: "Good idea. Thanks." He reached out his hand, holding the tips of his thumb and forefinger together loosely to receive the pin. "And thanks for listening to rea—"
Selene jammed the point straight into the center of his palm.
"—son." He looked down uncomprehendingly at his hand, which was frozen into the "okay" mudra—thumb and forefinger circled, three fingers sticking up into the air. He saw brown leather rising to meet him as he toppled facedown onto the seat, then a rather astonishing sight: his own lifeless body viewed from above as he floated up through the Jaguar's roof.
CHAPTER 6
« ^ »
For Martha it had been almost a pleasant feeling, lying naked as a baby on the tarp spread across the floor of the other cabin, the one they'd first slept in. Almost pleasant to be bobbing in and out of consciousness to the smell of witch hazel and the soft swipe of moist towelettes as Len patted her down with Wash'n Dri's after she'd nearly drowned in her own vomit. She did try to stop him when he began to work his way down her lower belly toward her private parts, but her arms, though untied, hadn't enough strength. And besides, as Len explained to her so patiently, she was the one who'd been a naughty girl and gone and wet herself before—he was just cleaning her up.
Afterward he helped her sit up, and when she complained of the cold he helped her climb into his sleeping bag. Her arms were starting to work a little better now, but her hands were still numb. She did okay with a chicken leg, but Len had to help her with the potato salad. He let her have only a few sips of the Pepsi, explaining that he was going to have to tie her up again soon. "Not for long I have to call your father and godmother, tell them where to come pick you up. But we don't want you pissing yourself again in the meantime, do we?"
"You're not going to put me back down"—she still thought of it as her grave, there under the floor of that other cabin, but couldn't bring herself to say the word—"under again, are you?"
"I'm afraid I'm going to have to. But you'll be safe there."
From what? she thought.
* * *
"You get some rest now and I'll be back soon," Aldo whispered tenderly, as he replaced the last of the floorboards over Martha's tightly shut eyes. Nor was he being insincere.
Stowing her away like this was giving him a warm feeling, like when he used to hide a piece of hard candy under his mattress to enjoy after lights out at the Orfelinat. He tightroped back across the floor, then hurried out to the Toyota he had parked in the clearing down by the cypress grove. One more visit to that quaint little phone booth at the quaint little gas station. Seventeen minutes up, the call to the Marriott…
… and seventeen minutes back. Aldo drove through the cattle gate at 11:14 and turned the Toyota around, then backed another twenty yards or so up the narrow rutted road. When he had the distance right he began edging the car forward and backing up again, making minute adjustments in positioning until the headlights were shining directly downhill onto the gate. Shutting off the engine but leaving the headlights on and the driver's door open with the window rolled down, he balanced Nick's revolver on the windowsill, then walked back down to the gate and stared up into the blinding glare of the high beams. Perfect—he could scarcely tell that the door was open, much less spot the gun resting on the windowsill.
Satisfied, Aldo returned to the car, pocketed the pistol, cut the lights, closed the door firmly but silently, and trotted up the curving dirt road, until it ended abruptly at a stand of towering cedars. Beyond the cedars, the path he'd worn going back and forth to the car through the tall sea of grass that surrounded the cabins was still visible, the bent and broken blades reflecting the starlight at an oblique angle, cutting a silvery ribbon through the dark grass. As he came around the corner of the first cabin Aldo swept the surrounding grass with his eyes and noted with satisfaction that there were no other ribbons of bent grass leading down from the top of the hill, or up from the ravine: if Whistler had attempted to approach the property during his absence, he'd have known it.
Just to be sure he checked out each of the three cabins in turn. The first was only a stripped skeleton; a quick sweep with the narrow flashlight beam told him it was empty. The middle cabin also appeared empty at a glance. If he hadn't put the girl under the floorboards himself he'd never have known she was there.
The third cabin was undisturbed as well. Aldo took a sip from his thermos. No sense conserving—soon he'd have all the blood he needed, and when he was done with them there would still be enough blood left in the striga and the girl to refill his thermos and his jars. Besides, now was when he needed a picker-upper, and perhaps a Perc too, as his hand was starting to throb again. He washed down one pill on his way out, then a second on his way over to the middle cabin. He had one more decision to make: bring Martha down to the gate with him, or leave her under the floor? The latter would be safer, less work, and easier on his injured fingers, but they might well demand to see her before getting out of the car. And he needed them out of the car if he was to get a clean shot at Whistler.
So: bring her. He had started to screw the cap back on the thermos, but changed his mind and left it uncorked on the floor beside him, sipping from it occasionally as he set to work prying loose the floorboards one last time. By the time he had the sleeping bag uncovered Aldo was dreadfully ripped—feeling no pain, as they say in America. Carefully he pried the lumpy bag out from between the narrow beams, then unzipped it to reveal a stirring sight: the slender body of a young girl, stark naked save for the silver tape that bound her wrists and ankles and covered her mouth.
He took a few seconds to let the sight burn itself into his memory. For if ever there had been one image that summed up everything that made life worth living for Aldo Striescu, this was surely it, this bound and naked child-woman staring up at him with gray eyes gone all soft and quiescent. Only one thing missing to make this a truly defining moment in Aldo's life—La Divina. He glanced down at his watch. 11:44. Not enough time to fetch his Discman. Oh well, perhaps later, he thought, slinging the warm, naked body over his shoulder.
On his way down the hill Aldo amused himself by selecting individual arias for each of his victims. Possibly Norma for the girl. The "Casta Diva." Or perhaps something a bit more romantic. Romeo et Juliette. "Je veux vivre dans ce reve." And definitely the mad scene from Lucia for the striga. But as for the strigoi—no Callas for Jamey Whistler. Just the "Serenada de Vierme"—the worm serenade.
* * *
Aldo set Martha down in the passenger seat of the Toyota bound, gagged, and naked, then reached in and sliced through the tape at her ankles. "Start trying to work some feeling back into your feet—I may need you to stand up and show yourself."
As he wiped his scalpel with his pocket handkerchief to remove the sticky tape residue from the blade, the idea began sounding better and better. As soon as the two of them were out of the car, he decided, he'd shove Martha out into the open. Even if she only managed a step or two, she would almost certainly distract their attention long enough to give him time to take proper aim. Especially if she was naked. The strigoi wouldn't be able to tear his eyes away, even if it was his daughter.
Kneeling behind the open door of the Toyota, Aldo removed the pistol from his pocket and balanced it on the windowsill again. He wondered whether he ought to chance a test shot, check the gun's rudimentary notched sight as well as the windage and angle of the downhill shot. Decided against it—the less gunfire the better. He would aim the first shot midpoint between Whistler's navel and sternum, the way he'd been trained, thus giving himself maximum leeway—a foot above and below for an average-sized man, and six inches to either side; a makable shot even without sighting in.
Aldo unscrewed the top of the thermos, popped the plug, took a swig. Soon he could see well enough in the dark, hear acutely enough, that there was no way even another strigoi could sneak up on him. Still the doubts beat like moths around his head as the minutes wore on. Anything might have gone wrong. They could have called the cops. An armada of helicopters might appear over the hilltop at any moment. Or trackers and dogs. Or—
Another pull on the thermos. Aldo tried to beat the fear back with sarcasm: Or what? Villagers with flaming torches? Ha!
On the other hand, an instinct for self-preservation might keep them from coming in the first place. Certainly would have kept him away from such an obvious trap. But in that case, what was the worst that could happen? He'd remove the girl somewhere, peel her out of the sleeping bag, slip on the earphones, and have at her to the tune of "Casta Diva." He fantasized about covering her face with the pillow he'd been saving for her godmother, suffocating her until he came, then reviving her and doing it all over again. And again and again—she was a young strong thing—might last through quite a few go-rounds.
And by tomorrow his hand would be healed enough that he could remove the stitches and bandages. Then he could go striga and strigoi hunting again, unencumbered. Not bad for a worst-case scenario.
But as he screwed the cap back on the thermos Aldo heard the whine of an engine ascending the dirt road in low gear; a moment later the dark shape of a classic Jaguar saloon crept into view, headlights dimmed. "Good for you," he muttered softly. No worst-case scenario this time.
But neither were they following the scenario he'd laid out. The Jaguar stopped according to instructions, and as best as he could tell through the glare of the Toyota's headlights off the Jaguar's windshield, it was indeed the striga behind the wheel. But she appeared to be alone. Aldo kept the pistol trained on her. He almost squeezed off a shot when she briefly disappeared from view—then the passenger door of the Jaguar opened and a body tumbled out onto the dirt.
A moment later the driver's door opened and the striga climbed out slowly, her hands in the air. "Aldo?" she called, stepping around to the front of the Jaguar, peering up into the blinding beam of the Toyota's headlights.
"That's far enough," he called back. "Now what's all this? And who's that?"
"It's Jamey," she called out boldly. "He wouldn't cooperate. Wanted to leave early, sneak up on you. I had to kill him."
"Hold it right there." She'd started to lower her hands. "Keep 'em up where I can see 'em." John Wayne would have been proud. "Dead, you say?"
"Not just yet, thanks." But the body by the side of the car still hadn't moved, and it was crumpled into a distinctly unnatural position. Aldo was confused. He began to wish he hadn't taken those last two Percodans. "What the hell is going on here?"
Selene shrugged. "I'm a striga. I need a strigoi. This one here"—she jerked her head contemptuously at the body crumpled in the dirt beside the car—"has been washed up for years."
"And why should I believe you?"
"I killed him for you, didn't I?"
About what he'd expected her to say. Not that it mattered; he was only stalling, trying to think this through. Of course he knew about the legendary connection about the striga and strigoi; he'd certainly used it to his advantage with Jonas. But beyond the basic etymology and the folktales, he'd never known a strigoi who actually worked with a striga. Until…
Until this one. Could there be some truth to the old legends? "Killed him?" he called. "We'll soon see about that. I want you to drag him up here, lay him out in front of my headlights, then lie down beside him on your stomach."
It took Selene several minutes to drag the limp hundred-and-seventy-pound man through the gate and up the hill by the collar of his jacket. Toward the end she could tug him only a few feet at a time before stopping to catch her breath. "How do you want him?" she said, panting, when she had hauled the body within yards of the Toyota's headlights.
"Pardon?"
She wiped the sweat out of her eyes with the sleeve of her blazer. "You said you want me on my stomach. How do you want him?"
"On his back."
She knelt by the body, flopped it over unceremoniously.
"Now you—but a few feet farther back."
When she was lying on her belly with her face in the clodded dirt of the road, he came around from behind the door of the Toyota, keeping the pistol trained on her. "First to move gets the first bullet," he announced loudly. Then, over his shoulder: "This means you too, Martha."
SHADOWS Page 29
