. . . And he laughed as he pressed Mina Harker's terrified face to his bleeding chest, laughed at her idiot husband who lay unconscious upon the bed near the window . . .
"Flesh of my flesh," he murmured to the woman, "blood of my blood, kin of my kin . . ."
And then suddenly there was darkness and bumpy, jostling motion, and he felt the rough interior walls of a wooden box scraping against his hands as he passed from his deep sleep of death to undead wakefulness, and in an instant he knew that he was back in his homeland, that his Gypsy servants were rushing to bring him back to the ruins of his castle, that he was being pursued by Jonathan Harker and Quincey Morris and the Duke of Wellington.
And he knew that a choice needed to be made, a risk needed to be taken.
He felt the box being pushed by eager, frenzied hands, heard the sounds of gunfire and the shouting of voices, felt the wooden box being shoved roughly from the wagon to the ground, squinted against the dying rays of the sun as the lid was ripped away and the faces of Jonathan Harker and Quincey Morris bore down upon him. He made his decision in an instant.
"Ordogh!" he muttered as the knives of Harker and Morris plunged into his throat and chest.
Malcolm screamed. In the instant between the last moment of Dracula's memory and the first revival of his own consciousness, he felt the cold blades tear into him and felt the incredible agony of disintegration as flesh began to collapse into dust. And then he was again in Holly's apartment, lying on the floor in the empty room. Holly was gone.
He jumped slightly as the harsh ringing of Holly's telephone shattered the silence. He crawled over to the small end table upon which the phone rested and picked up the receiver. "H . . . hello?" he said, his breathless voice trembling and weak.
"Mal?" he heard Jerry Herman say. "Malcolm? Is that you?"
"Jerry" he said desperately. "She's dead. Holly's dead, worse than dead. Lucy got to her, killed her, turned her into . . . turned her into . . ." He could not bring himself to say the words.
Jerry took a moment to react. "Christ!" he whispered. "It can't be!"
"It is," Malcolm said, his voice breaking. "She called me to come over here so that she could help wake up the blood."
"Mal," Jerry interrupted him, "you can tell me about it when you get here . . . I mean, I want you to tell me about it, everything about it, but you have to get over here right away."
"Over where? Where are you?"
"I'm at the hospital with Rachel. Your grandfather is sinking fast. The doctor says he won't last the night."
Malcolm dropped the phone and ran to the door. He was motivated by two desires, the one being a frantic hope to be able to be with the old man when the time came for him to leave this world. But there was another motive, a motive more urgent and more compelling.
Rachel had glimpsed part of the truth, and Malcolm had also been aware, dimly, that there was indeed a plan, a plot, a terribly significant fact which was as yet not understood. In the moment of dissolution, as the immortal body of Dracula succumbed to mortality beneath the attack of Morris and Harker, Malcolm's blood memory had detected a smug satisfaction in the mind of the Count. He did not know what it was for, what plan had been set into motion on the cold Carpathian road a century before. But he knew that it had something to do with the blood. It all, always, had something to do with the blood.
If old Quincy Harker died before sunrise, he had to be there to keep the blood from asserting its power over the dead man's flesh.
Malcolm burst out of the apartment building and began running toward St. John's Hospital. The silent laughter of Dracula echoed in his ears as he ran, the vindictive, triumphant laughter which had been the last thought of the evil mind at the moment of destruction a hundred years before.
DRACULA
You think to baffle me, you—with your pale faces all in a row, like sheep in a butcher's! You shall be sorry yet, each one of you! You think you have left me without a place to rest; but I have more. My revenge is just begun! I spread it over centuries, and time is on my side. Your girls that you all love are mine already; and through them you and others shall yet be mine, my creatures to do my bidding and to be my jackals when I want to feed . . .
—from Dr. Seward's diary, in Dracula by Bram Stoker
Chapter Eighteen
Panting, trembling, almost faint from his exertions, Malcolm pushed open the door to the lobby of St. John's Hospital and ran over to the admitting desk. "Harker, Quincy Harker," he said in a loud, demanding voice. "What room?"
The desk nurse peered at him over the rim of her glasses and asked, "I beg your pardon?" in an irritated tone.
"My grandfather, Quincy Harker," he repeated. "I got a call that he's getting worse, that he may die. What room is he in?"
"Oh, yes, I'm sorry," she replied, suddenly all business. She ran her forefinger down the patient list on the clipboard in front of her and then said, "Room four eighteen. You follow the blue line from this corridor to the . . ." but Malcolm had already run from the desk and was heading toward the stairs.
When he reached the fourth floor, he looked around wildly, seeking some directional sign. When he found it, a yellow arrow on a blue field pointing the way to rooms 400 to 432, he walked at a somewhat slower but still brisk pace in the proper direction. Finding room 418, he took a deep breath, then entered.
The old man was lying on the bed semiconscious, tubes entering his arms and his nostrils. The room was redolent of the ubiquitous institutional disinfectant that so ironically seems associated with disease and death, and the silence was broken only by the irregular beeping of the heart monitor. Rachel sat on the edge of the bed beside her grandfather. Jerry stood off to the side, his hands folded in front of him in an oddly, and uncharacteristically, respectful manner. On the opposite edge of the bed, facing Rachel, sat Father Henley, who was speaking to old Quincy Harker in a low, soothing voice. Malcolm noticed that the priest's portable communion kit was opened and resting upon the chair beside the bed. Malcolm sighed, realizing that the priest had been administering the last rites to the old man.
Hang on, Gramps, Malcolm thought to himself as he glanced at the clock on the wall. It's still night. It's going to be hours before dawn. If you die after daybreak, we can have the blood out of you and the embalming fluid in your veins before the blood can awaken you.
"Don't die yet, Gramps," he whispered. "Hang on. Don't die yet."
Father Henley heard the whispered plea and looked up from his aged and dying parishioner. Misunderstanding Malcolm's words entirely, the priest rose from the bedside and walked over to take Malcolm by the hand. "We all come to our appointed ends someday, Malcolm," he said gently. "Your grandfather has had a long and full life, and his end is blessed and peaceful." He looked back at the deathbed. "Go and speak to him, Malcolm. I don't know if he can hear you, but he may be able to. It may be a comfort to him."
Malcolm nodded as he walked over to the bed and sat down on the edge. He and his sister looked at each other, their eyes communicating a shared but unspoken thought, a hope that their grandfather would not die before dawn. Malcolm took his grandfather's hand and said, "Gramps? Can you hear me? It's Malcolm, Gramps." He leaned forward, putting his lips close to his grandfather's ear. "Hang on, Gramps, hang on. Can you hear me, Gramps? It's night, it's still night. Hang on until daybreak." He thought for a moment that he could feel his grandfather's hand squeeze his own slightly, that he could see the aged eyelids flutter. "You've beaten him all your life, Gramps. Don't let him win now. Fight, Gramps, fight. Don't die now, don't die yet. Hang on until dawn."
Rachel rose from the bed and stepped back to where Jerry was standing. "Come out into the hall," she muttered. He followed her out of the room, and after closing the door behind them, she said, "Malcolm is right in what he's been saying to Grandfather. The remains are somewhere in our house, and their presence has stirred the blood in our grandfather. If he dies now, before sunrise, he may rise undead."
Jerry nodded.
"I know. I understand."
"I have to stay here. I have to be with him, I want to be with him."
He nodded again. "What do you want me to do?"
She sighed. "Go out to the dumpster behind the hospital. Find some wood, a board, a stick, anything we can use as a stake if he . . ." She stopped, shaking her head. "You know what I'm saying. We can't let another creature like Lucy Westenra loose in the city. One is bad enough."
"Two," Jerry said softly. "I couldn't tell you before, with the priest in the room with us, but Malcolm told me on the phone that Lucy killed Holly. She's one of them now . . ."
Rachel pressed her fingers to her eyes. "The poor child. The poor, poor child."
"Yeah," Jerry muttered. "I'll go and find something."
Rachel watched him go before she turned and went back into the room. And you also, you poor man, she thought. Our curse is your curse as well. We are like carriers of a plague, spreading our foulness and our filth everywhere we go.
She sat back down upon the edge of the bed and took her grandfather's other hand in hers, listening as Malcolm continued his soft exhortations.
The door opened and a doctor entered. This young man, to all appearances a Pakistani or an Indian, like so many of the health workers in New York City, said with a clipped and precise accent, "Good evening. Has the patient stirred at all?"
"No," Father Henley said. "He's been motionless."
The doctor shook his head as he walked over to the bed. Rachel moved aside so that he could examine the old man. Malcolm continued to speak to his grandfather in low, soft tones as the doctor made a superficial and, Rachel assumed, perfunctory examination. After a few canned comments of hope and comfort, he left.
Malcolm looked up at the clock. One o'clock. A good five hours until sunrise. "Hang on, Gramps," he whispered urgently. "Hang on!"
The hours passed slowly. Two o'clock, two-thirty, three. Jerry Herman returned and winked at Rachel. He held his left arm stiffly at his side, and he turned his hand slightly to the side so that she could see the edge of the piece of wood that he had hidden along his arm beneath the sleeve of his shirt. She nodded, then turned her attention back to her grandfather. They remained motionless in the room as the hours moved slowly past, Rachel on one side of the bed, Malcolm on the other, Jerry standing near the door, Father Henley standing off to the side, praying silently. Only the beep of the heart monitor and Malcolm's urgent whispers intruded upon the still deathwatch.
The beeping ceased at four A.M.
"Damn!" Malcolm muttered. He began to tremble as he rose from the bed and looked at his sister. "Rachel, we have to . . ."
"I know what we have to do," she said softly. She turned to Jerry. "You do it, Mr. Herman. I can't."
Jerry nodded as he drew the wooden stake forth from his sleeve. "Long enough?" he asked. "It's all I could find. I think it's part of a fruit crate from the hospital kitchen."
"It's long enough," Rachel replied. "It will pierce the heart. That's all that we need to do."
Father Henley stepped forward, his furrowed brow expressing his perplexity. "Rachel, what are you talking about?" His mouth fell open as Jerry walked forward and placed the tip of the wood against the motionless chest of the old man's body. The jagged edges of the hastily fashioned stake pressed down upon the clean white hospital gown. Henley rushed over and grabbed Jerry's hand. "What in God's name do you think you're doing!"
"Don't interfere, Father," Malcolm said as he took the priest's hand away from Jerry's with a firm yet somehow gentle grip. "He's doing what has to be done. He's doing what needs to be done."
Father Henley said, "What is the meaning of this? What's going on here?"
Malcolm brushed away a tear. "It's a long, long story, Father, and I doubt that you'd believe it."
"Jerry," Rachel said with quiet urgency, "hurry up. There's no time to delay."
"What should I use for a hammer?" Jerry asked. "I didn't have time to find one."
"You don't need a hammer," she replied. "Put your weight behind it and stab it in."
"Just a moment here!" Henley said in a loud voice. "What kind of nonsense is this! You, get away from there! Get away from him!" As he spoke, the priest disengaged his hand from Malcolm's and grabbed the wood from Jerry.
"Father Henley, do not interfere!" Rachel snapped. "This is hard enough for us. Please, just leave."
"I'll do nothing of the kind!" Henley shouted. "What is wrong with you people?"
Malcolm grabbed hold of the wood and pulled it roughly from the priest's hands. "I'll try to explain later, Father. Just stand back."
"Malcolm, for the love of God!"
Malcolm handed the stake to Jerry, saying, "Rachel's right, Jer. I don't think I can do it either. You'll have to."
Father Henley once again grabbed hold of the piece of wood, but this time Jerry kept his grip tight and refused to allow the stake to be taken from him. "Stop this nonsense immediately!" the priest demanded. He stood on one side of the bed and Jerry stood on the other, their hands stretched out over the corpse, their eyes locked as they engaged in a motionless contest for possession of the wood.
A third hand reached up and entered the contest. Quincy Harker's dead eyes snapped open and a low chuckle rumbled forth from his lips as he ripped the stake from their hands and threw it across the room. He sat up in bed and allowed his eyes to drift lazily from face to face as they all gazed at him in silence, Henley with shock, Jerry with fear, Malcolm and Rachel with sorrowful regret.
Father Henley placed his hand upon Quincy's shoulder and said softly, "Mr. Harker! Please lie down and rest!" He smiled. "We thought for a moment that we had lost you."
Quincy laughed, his eyes flashing red in the muted light of the hospital room. "I appreciate your concern, Father."
Then he grabbed Henley by his white Roman collar and pulled him forward. The clerical ring tore free from around the priest's neck, and in that instant, as the old man lost his grip on the priest, Malcolm lunged forward and pulled Father Henley back from the bed, causing him to fall roughly into a corner of the room.
Quincy Harker leaped up from the deathbed, and the speed and agility of his motion was so out of keeping with the weak, shuffling old man they had all known that they were momentarily stunned. Their brief immobility was sufficient to allow Quincy to reach Father Henley, grab him by the shoulders, pull him forward and bury his teeth in the priest's throat.
Malcolm and Rachel tried in vain to pull the creature that had been their grandfather away from the priest, but Quincy seemed as heavy as granite and as strong as iron. Henley dangled from Quincy's grasp as if he were a rag doll, his legs kicking and jerking spasmodically as Quincy sucked the life from him. When at last the blood had been drained from the priest, Quincy allowed him to drop onto the floor, where he lay white and motionless. Quincy took the hands of his grandchildren in his and cast them easily from him, then stepped back and faced them. "Go home and go to sleep," he said, smiling darkly. "Sleep and dream and rest."
Malcolm sighed and shook his head. "Oh, Gramps," he muttered. "Why couldn't you hold on until dawn."
"Grandfather . . ." Rachel began, and then stopped. She had nothing to say, and this creature was not truly her grandfather. Quincy began to move toward the door and Rachel stepped in front of him. "No," she said. "You may not leave."
"I may not!" He laughed. "I must wait until the sun rises and then allow it to destroy me, I suppose?"
"I'm sorry, Gramps," Malcolm said, moving to his sister's side. "You must understand. There must be a part of you, the real Quincy Harker, who understands. We can't let you leave here."
"And you two will stop me?" he asked, his voice dripping with amusement. "You two, and that cowardly little fool over there in the corner?" He shot Jerry a disparaging glance. "You say that I must understand, Malcolm? No. It is you who must understand. It is pointless to resist. You cannot win."
Rachel shook her head. "We are on the side of God. We cannot lose." Her face w
as an impassive mask, and only the single tear that ran down her cheek bespoke her emotional turmoil.
"God's side!" Quincy laughed. "God's side! I see, my dear. You are more religious, a better Christian, more beloved of God than I was!" He began to move toward his grandchildren. "How comforting that must be for you!"
Malcolm reached out to hold Quincy back, but the old man pushed him away, sending him thudding against a wall. He kicked open the door and ran out into the corridor, laughing insanely as he shoved a bewildered orderly aside and made for the stairs. Malcolm and Rachel, followed by a shaking and hesitant Jerry, ran after him.
Quincy seemed almost to fly down the stairs. He was through the main entrance of the hospital before his three pursuers had reached the bottom of the stairwell. Malcolm rushed out onto the street, tensed and ready for a continued chase, but as he looked up and down Queens Boulevard, east and west, he could find no sign of his grandfather. Malcolm did not know whether Quincy had used his inhuman speed to run so fast or used his vampiric powers to disappear into mist or change his shape and flee as an animal. In any event, he was gone.
Malcolm, Rachel, and Jerry stood silent and motionless upon the dark early-morning sidewalk. In a very few moments they heard the sound of a police siren.
Detective Mario De La Vega sat pensively behind his desk at the 110th Precinct police station, tapping his pen softly on the desktop, staring at the three people who sat in front of him on the hard wooden chairs. At last he sighed and said, "Well, I really don't quite know what to say to all this, folks."
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