Blood Groove

by Alex Bledsoe

  “Hey,” Olive said suddenly, “where is this David dude?”

  “I told him to walk home and not talk to anyone or I’d rip his balls off,” Fauvette said with a little smile. “He lives in Ellendale; it’ll take a while.” She looked at Zginski, hoping this would impress him. He had not even noticed.

  “My friends,” he said at last, “this has become more dangerous than even I anticipated. If the man behind this plot is who I believe it to be, then not only is he capable of destroying us all, he will have anticipated our presence here.”

  “Colby would have to be dead by now, wouldn’t he?” Fauvette said.

  “One would assume,” Zginski agreed. And on his first day in this world, ensconced in the university library, the final fate of Sir Francis Colby was the first thing Zginski had researched. The sources told him Colby died in his sleep in 1950, at age eighty-five; were he alive now, he would be a staggering 110 years old. Yet if any man could cheat death it was Colby, with his arsenal of arcane tools, spells, and rituals. Perhaps he was merely hanging on to life until he could finish off Zginski once and for all. But that made no sense: he’d had Zginski under his power since that day in Wales. Was this an elaborate scheme of torture, then? An old Victorian cat playing with his vampiric mouse?

  “So who is this guy?” Leonardo asked.

  “A man wiser, cleverer, and more ruthless than you can imagine,” Zginski said.

  “How do you know?” asked Olive.

  “Because, my dear, sixty years ago he destroyed me.”

  CHAPTER 29

  EXCEPT FOR THE music pounding through the walls from the show, the room was silent. Finally Leonardo pointed out the obvious. “But you ain’t dead. The real kind of dead, I mean. The kind where you don’t get up.”

  “No. At the time, he chose not to eliminate me totally. Believe me, it was not a kindness.” He had no specific memories of his time in the void—it was a void, after all—but the sensations of isolation, ennui, and despair still hovered on the edge of his consciousness. “And after more than half a century, he may have changed his mind.”

  Another moment of silence passed. Someone in the planetarium called out in awe, “I think it’s God!” followed by applause. At last Mark said, “So . . . let’s go find out if it’s the same guy. Then we’ll know, right?”

  They all looked at Zginski. He neither moved nor spoke. In fact, he turned away and walked not toward the auditorium or the passage into the museum itself, but toward the doors to the outside. He stopped with his hand on them.

  Another silent moment passed. A long, drawn-out “Dude” came through the wall.

  “Wait here,” Fauvette said. She moved to stand beside Zginski and said quietly, “You’re afraid, aren’t you?”

  He kept his eyes straight ahead. The door showed him an embossed vista of space. He tapped it with his finger. “This is a vacuum. Like the place into which Colby sent me. It is not somewhere I wish to return.”

  “It may not be him.”

  “But it may. He defeated me before. A moment or two of circumspection before I face him again seems appropriate.”

  “He’s an old man,” she pointed out. “A really old man.”

  “Perhaps,” he agreed. “But consider this: human beings rarely live to be older than a century without some sort of extraordinary aid.”

  She frowned, then understood his meaning. “You think he’s become a vampire?” she whispered.

  He shrugged. “I will not know until I encounter him.”

  “Was he the kind of guy who’d turn himself into something he hated just to get revenge?”

  Again he shrugged. “The answers you seek will not be found in discussion.”

  “Then like Mark said, we should go find out,” she said. “He’s a danger to all of us, remember?”

  Through clenched teeth he said, “If it is Sir Francis, he is a greater danger than you can conceive.” He looked back at the others, who now appeared pathetically fragile to him with their blasé concern and thin bravado. “You would do well to take your friends, flee this city, and resume your scurrying, darkness-seeking lifestyle somewhere far away.”

  Fauvette was not about to be baited. “You made fun of that, remember?”

  He smiled mordantly. “Perhaps that was an error.”

  She stepped closer. “I won’t go.”

  He looked into her eyes and saw not the silly infatuation he expected, but something deeper and harder to define. He suddenly felt an emotion he had not experienced in a century: embarrassment. If this child could exhibit the courage she’d shown, how could he, Rudolfo Zginski, show fear? He managed a smile.

  “You have taught me something, Fauvette,” he said. “I thank you.” He turned to face the others.

  “We going into the lion’s den?” Leonardo asked.

  “Indeed,” Zginski said. “If the man behind the gray powder, and your friend’s death, is the man I suspect, he will have many tricks and traps at his disposal. When we encounter him, do not let his elderly appearance catch you off guard; he was nearly fifty when he first defeated me. Be aware of everything around you, and if I give you an order, please follow it without question. Explanations can only be given to survivors.”

  “But if he kicked your ass once,” Olive pointed out, “what makes you think you can outfox him now?”

  “There are no guarantees,” Zginski agreed. “But this time, I am forewarned. Let us hope that also means I am forearmed.”

  The short hallway from the planetarium to the museum was empty, and the doors into the main building had the same AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY notice. They were also locked, but a simple push popped the latch and forced them open. No alarm sounded. Zginski was not surprised; Colby would not want interlopers like the police interrupting his revenge.

  The museum’s great central hall, three stories high and the length of the building, stretched before them lit only by security lights carefully arranged so as not to damage the artwork. The walls were covered with paintings, tapestries, and hanging objects, each accompanied by a small informative sign. Entrances into smaller sub-galleries presented dark spaces where someone or something might await its chance to attack.

  “Lots of places to hide,” Leonardo said softly as they stood in the doorway. “Want me to go check it out first?”

  “No,” Zginski said firmly. “Separating us, picking us off one by one, would be easiest. We shall stay together.”

  “I wouldn’t just walk into a damn trap,” Leonardo protested. “I’m not some retard.”

  “Then do not mimic the behavior of one,” Zginski said flatly. “In a situation where you have the most experience, I will follow your recommendations. In this one, please follow mine.”

  They entered the hallway. Mark closed the doors behind them and bent the latch back into place.

  The huge canvases almost felt like windows through which the painted subjects peered down at them in disdain. Large objects like swords, shields, and various weapons took up the spaces between the artworks. While plain to their vampire eyes, they still seemed dangerous and mysterious in the silence. In fact, except for the thudding of bass from the planetarium behind them, the building seemed deathly quiet.

  Zginski led them down the center of the hall. He stood tall and tried to project a calm he most certainly did not feel, although why he cared what they thought was something he’d have to ponder later. Common sense told him to flee, but if he did so, he would spend the rest of his existence looking over his shoulder, wondering where Colby—it must be Colby, who else could it be?—might again show his face.

  He looked up at the portraits lining the walls. Many were in the gray uniform of the Confederacy, the losing side in the American Civil War. The men all had the same gaunt, haunted look, especially one with a slender, aristocratic face and white hair, resplendent in his uniform and identified by his plaque as COLONEL VINCENT DRAKE. Zginski smiled to himself; Drake knew when he posed for this that his side would lose. It was wri
tten in his eyes.

  “What the hell . . . ?” Leonardo said softly. He stepped away from the group until Olive’s hand stopped him.

  One of the sub-galleries had been redone as a replica of the first Higgledy Piggledy store, now a national chain of groceries headquartered in Memphis. The exhibit featured shelves stocked with period boxes, freezer displays with fake meat, and all the accoutrements of a small country grocery store, according to the sign. This was the first Higgledy Piggledy store, opened by Thomas Bosenell in Three Tree, South Carolina, in 1910.

  “It ain’t right,” Leonardo muttered. “That back door over there should have a ‘Colored Only’ sign on it.” He looked back at them. “I used to come here, to the actual store, to get things for a nice little old white lady who lived near us. First white person I ever met who didn’t call me ‘nigger.’ They made me come to that damn back door every time. No porch over it, either, so if it was raining, I got wet.” He snorted. “Seems like it rained a lot back then. Otherwise . . .” He looked around in mild disbelief. “They got it pretty close.”

  Olive pulled him back to the group. “Don’t you be getting deep on me, too.” Then she said, “Hey, what’s that?”

  A door stood slightly open, and a faint light glowed across the main passage’s floor. A sign proclaimed CURATORS OFFICES and listed several names, all with degree initials after them. None were Sir Francis Colby or any obvious variation, but Colby would be too smart for that, anyway.

  “Trap?” Mark asked quietly.

  “We will not know until it springs,” Zginski said.

  “That sound like the way a rat thinks,” Leonardo pointed out.

  Zginski pushed the door open all the way. Carpeted stairs descended into the basement. The light came from a single small bulb on the landing halfway down. There was also a sound he couldn’t identify, a harsh metallic hiss that came at irregular intervals.

  When they reached the bottom, another corridor lined with offices stretched in either direction, running directly beneath the main gallery above. All the doors were closed except one at the far end, the source of the faint light. The hiss continued, louder and sharper.

  Zginski suddenly felt cold. He was so seldom aware of temperature that this caught him off guard and he shivered, as if his lifeless blood could be warmed by the activity. Fauvette saw it, and wanted to squeeze his hand reassuringly, but thought better of it.

  “Think he’s in there?” Mark asked, nodding at the open door.

  “Someone sure is,” Olive said. “What’s that sound?”

  “Some kind of breathing machine,” Leonardo said. “Maybe the dude so old he need one of those iron lungs.”

  Zginski led them toward the open door, aware that this might be among his final actions on this earth. Depending on who or what awaited them, he might be experiencing his feet hitting the ground for the last time. Each movement registered in the kind of detail mortals experienced just before impact in a crash.

  He stopped at the line where the shaft of light cut across the corridor floor. The hiss was so loud now it had an almost painful edge to it, like fork tines dragged across a plate. Three rapid bursts were followed by silence, and they all remained immobile in the darkness.

  Zginski held up his hand for them to stay put, and flattened himself against the wall. As he inched toward the doorjamb the final moments of Vanishing Point flashed in his mind: the Polish driver heading toward certain doom, his automobile at top speed as if he could somehow pass through the solid bulldozers if he went fast enough. If Colby did wait inside, if he had lured him here simply to finish him off, he would see no fear in Zginski’s eyes, just as none had showed in the Pole’s.

  He stepped through the door.

  The room before him was long, with a low ceiling and two narrow tables. Gooseneck and adjustable lamps were clamped to the edges, ready to shine down on various artifacts being prepared for display. The lights were all dark except at the far end of the room, where a lone figure sat in a small, golden bubble of illumination. Zginski walked toward him, making no effort to hide himself.

  The figure was indeed an old man, his back bent and long, wispy white hair falling around his shoulders. He wore a white lab coat, and an array of small metal objects lay scattered on the table before him. He was using compressed air to clean them, the source of that periodic hiss. He did not notice Zginski’s approach until Zginski put a hand on his shoulder.

  Startled, the old man jumped and whirled, the air nozzle held ready like a weapon. When he saw Zginski his complexion went from pale to almost purple, and then a big grin split his face.

  “At last,” he said. “At bloody last.”

  Zginski just stared. The face was withered and distorted by time, but in his mind he had seen it merely days before, and so had no trouble recognizing the man. Knowing his identity explained very little, however.

  The two stared at each other. The others carefully crept up behind Zginski and stood silently until, at last, Fauvette said, “Is it Colby?”

  Zginski said, “No.”

  “Who is it, then?” Leonardo asked.

  Zginski shook his head in wonder as he answered. “Signalman Reynolds.”

  CHAPTER 30

  THE CROWD FILED out of the planetarium in their usual lethargic, vaguely zombielike way. The conversation was sedate and low-key, centered around muted expletives like “wow” and “awesome.” They dispersed to their cars, and as engines started across the parking lot, the music of Led Zeppelin’s “Living Loving Maid” grew in intensity as the radios, all tuned to Rock 103 FM, blared out the windows into the summer night.

  Three young men approached a white Ford LTD. The first to arrive tried the handle on the back door, which was locked. He leaned his back on the fender and looked up at the sky, studying the stars visible through the city haze. “You know, it’s just not as cool out here as it is inside,” he said.

  The driver unlocked his door. “That’s a sad thing to say, man. That’s the real sky.”

  The third man, waiting for the passenger door to be unlocked, suddenly tossed his long blond bangs from his eyes and squinted into the dark. “Hey,” he said, and pointed. “Ain’t that my car?”

  The driver followed his gaze. “Sure looks like it. I thought your sister borrowed it and never brought it back.”

  “She did,” he said, his brow knit with confusion. “Did you see her in there?”

  Both shook their heads. “Only about four girls in the whole place, and two of ’em left early. That hot little hippie number and the black girl.”

  “What the fuck,” the blond man said, and stalked across the lot toward the other car. When he peered inside, he saw Lee Ann asleep across the front seat. He tried the door, found it locked, and pounded with his palm on the roof. “Hey!”

  Lee Ann did not stir. She was in the middle of that same dream, dragging herself up through the dirt toward the air, the light, and something that promised to be wonderful. She did wonder why she’d been buried alive in the first place, but in dream-logic all that mattered was getting to the surface.

  He grabbed the door handle again and yanked on it until the whole vehicle rocked. “Lee Ann! Goddammit, Lee Ann, wake up!”

  Lee Ann’s eyes opened slowly, and she looked momentarily disoriented. She jumped when she realized someone was watching her, then sighed with relief when she recognized him. She sat up and said, “Chris, holy shit, you scared me.”

  “Open the fucking door, Lee Ann!” he demanded, and slapped the roof for emphasis. “Right now!”

  She did and emerged into the night, swatting at the mosquitoes drawn to her. Once again her hair was matted with sweat into a strange configuration. She yawned as her brother said, “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Sleeping,” she said, and added petulantly, “is that okay with you?”

  “What the fuck are you on?” he said. He turned her arms toward the nearest streetlamp, checking for needle tracks. “Smack? Acid?”

&nb
sp; She yanked them away. “No!” she snapped.

  He pushed the hair back from her neck. “What’s this, then?”

  She shoved him back. “It’s a heat rash!”

  The high from the planetarium had thoroughly faded by this point, and Chris was in full big-brother mode. “Give me the keys, Lee Ann,” he said seriously. “Now.”

  “You’re too stoned to drive.”

  “And you’re too . . . too . . . just give me the keys!”

  “No.” She looked past him, where his two friends waited outside the LTD. They waved uncomfortably, unsure exactly what was going on. “Go on with your friends. I’ll bring the car over in the morning.”

  “No, Lee Ann. Give me the keys. Who are you out here waiting for?”

  “No one!” she practically screamed. “Now just go away!” Suddenly her heart began to pound, as if emotions not her own were affecting her. She could barely breathe.

  “It’s my car!” Chris insisted petulantly, falling back into their lifelong rhythms.

  A shudder went through her. She turned toward the museum building, and her eyes opened wide in terror. “Oh, God,” she whimpered, clasping her hands to her face. “Oh, no, sweet Jesus . . .”

  Her distress was so sincere her brother said with concern, “Hey, what’s wrong? Lee Ann?”

  She pressed the keys into his hand. “Just go, Chris. I love you.” Then she ran toward the museum entrance.

  Chris stared after her, then shook his head. Lee Ann was always doing weird shit, like skipping awesome concerts to go to work. This shouldn’t surprise him. He waved to his friends and climbed into his car, smiling as the motor rumbled to life and the Zeppelin song segued into Yes’s “Round-about.”