The Book of Common Dread

by Brent Monahan

  ***

  Simon had seen enough even before DeVilbiss had restored the room's lighting. He had turned from the window and strode up the alley that disgorged onto Park Place. Disgust overwhelmed him, disgust for Frederika, for the man she had visited, and for himself. Simon had watched what he could of the dining room display, filtered as it was by half-shut blinds and gauzy curtains. He had witnessed enough to see that the annoyingly familiar yet unplaceable Mr. Vincent DeVilbiss had gotten enough of Frederika's confidence to put his hand on her shoulders and work his fingers into the cloth of her jacket. He noted well that she had allowed it. He had seen the strange staring contest they had afterward and Frederika's mesmerization. But the thing that had finally driven him from the window was his revulsion at his own voyeurism. Within the space of one week, he had found himself standing out in the cold three times spying on her. He obviously had a problem no less pitiable than hers. Lynn was right after all. Reading about life and watching it was not going to get him anywhere. It was time to grow up.

  The walk across town to Hodge Road should have taken fifteen minutes. Simon did it in ten, coursing along the pavement with the drive of an express train, blowing similar steam in his exertion. He felt anger beating inside him like a second heart, and he was not even sure where it came from. He wanted to rip down the Christmas lights from every home he passed.

  When he reached the Vanderveen mansion, Simon was surprised to find Frederika's Mazda back in the driveway. The hood was expectedly warm to his touch; the engine still made cooling noises. He walked around the house and trudged heavily up the stairs to his room. After the door was closed, it occurred to him that he felt dirty. He stripped off his clothes and tossed them in a heap on the floor. He was tugging on his bathrobe when he heard a knock on his inner door.

  "Simon?" Frederika's voice came softly from the hall.

  For a moment he contemplated not answering, but when she called again he replied.

  "May I come in?" she asked.

  Simon opened the door. Frederika stood in the hall holding a plaid wool blanket. She thrust it forward, along with an engaging smile. "I was worried about you. It's really cold out."

  Simon heard her words clearly, but he took his time responding, studying the outfit she had so nimbly changed into. It was not the ratty bathrobe she wore the last time he saw her, but rather her infamous white capuchin robe. She had it cinched loosely enough so that it parted just above her knees, hinting that she again wore nothing beneath it. Because he knew what he was looking for, Simon detected faint discolorations of chalk on the robe's sleeves and dirt and grass stains on the lower hem. Gold slippers covered her feet.

  "It is cold out," Simon answered, his lingering anger overcoming the surprise that ordinarily would have left him speechless. "But the one you should be worrying about is yourself, with that cold."

  When he failed to accept the blanket, Frederika walked around him, undeterred. She dropped the blanket on the bedcover and turned. "But I'm much better." She took his right hand and put it to her forehead. "See? No fever."

  Simon nodded and took his hand back. "Quite a recovery. But it could return by morning. What was so important to get you from a sickbed out into this night?"

  The admonition produced neither the customary scowl nor the accusation of mother henning. "I was way behind in my Christmas shopping before I got sick; I couldn't wait any longer." Uninvited, she sat down on his bed. "I also came in to say thank you for going to the drugstore and for cooking for me. It's way beyond our agreement."

  "You're welcome."

  "Oh, and the Christmas tree! It's beautiful." She sat looking up at him, waiting.

  "That reminds me. I need to fresh-cut the trunk and get it into water."

  "Now?"

  "Someone has to do it, Frederika." Simon picked up his trousers, then stared at the beautiful woman on his bed, unmoving.

  Frederika looked nonplussed by Simon's actions. The smile left her as she rose. "There's a saw in the garage. You can call me Freddie, you know."

  "Do you have an extra blanket on your bed?"

  "Yes." When Simon said no more, Frederika walked to the door. "Good night, Simon."

  "Good night." He refrained from using her proper first name, for fear that she would insist on her nickname. He had no desire to become a member of that sad club. After she had vanished, he exhaled deeply and continued to stare at the space where she had been. He wasn't buying either her solicitous blanket or her expressions of gratitude as the real agenda of her visit, and that alone had preserved him from her awesome closeness. Bizarre as it seemed, he felt her crossing of the hall to him was somehow linked to her visit with Vincent DeVilbiss. Earlier, when Simon was making the trial advances to know Frederika, he felt in control of the danger. With her now approaching him, for friendship or more, he felt unsure. And yet he would not run from this.

  Simon slipped off his robe, buckled his belt, and bent for the rest of his clothing. He realized his anger had vanished. He also realized with a sudden revelation what his first act of growing up must be.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  December 16

  Evil does not always realize itself immediately; indeed sometimes it never realizes itself at all.

  -Max Picard

  The Rent-A-Wreck sedan coughed consumptively, sputtered, and died. DeVilbiss swore under his breath and turned the key in the ignition. The engine revived begrudgingly, backfiring once before it settled into a chugging rhythm. DeVilbiss anticipated the change of the traffic light, easing his foot onto the accelerator pedal. He had no intention of being in New Jersey any longer than was necessary, so putting out dollars for a long-term Hertz or Avis car rental made little sense. Especially with his funds dwindling rapidly. The trip from England the previous summer had taxed his resources enough, but he had been completely across the continent and settled in Seattle when news of the scrolls' resurfacing had broken. Bad enough to have to dispose of them; having received the extra duty of disposing of the scientist added insult to injury.

  For the ten thousandth time he shook his head at the popular romantic notion of his existence. Allegedly, all he needed was a coffin, a handful of native soil, and a nightly bellyful of blood. The truth was that he required clothing, food, and drink, shelter, transportation, entertainment, and a hundred other bothersome items, not to mention the cost of dragging around the props of his professional "front." His Undead life consumed much more than he found in the purses and wallets of his victims. And then there were the considerable expenses attached to funding his secret pharmaceutical research. Supernatural though he might be, he was almost as much a slave to the cost of everyday living as any normal human. At least, he mused with grim humor, he was spared health and life insurance.

  DeVilbiss followed the winding road over a bridge that vaulted the Pennsylvania Railroad's tracks, through the sleepy town of Plainsboro and back out to suburban sprawl. Across the midnight horizon loomed thousands of identical townhouses. Driving beyond them, he was confronted by hundreds of single family homes, stamped out as if by cookie cutter. DeVilbiss sighed. The current state of civilization. He made a left turn and pulled over to the curb. His memory had gotten him this far. He opened the folder that lay below the scribbled address and pulled out a map of the area, hoping it was recent enough to show all the streets. He hated such tracts, for their pseudogentrified names-invariably some image evocative of Merrie Olde England, such as Fox, Hunter's, Squire's, Heather, Willow, Coventry, Nottingham, or such, teamed up with an equally picturesque setting-Crossing, Landing, Walk, Run, or Chase, Hollow, Greene, or Glen. Such grandiloquence, for a collection of densely packed, unimaginative boxes erected on what was formerly a farmer's field! He hated these developments' winding, confusing roadways, which hindered escape. Most of all, he hated the owners' pet dogs-rarely dangerous but noisier than the proverbial hounds of hell.

  DeVilbiss consulted the map by the glow of a distant streetlamp, his amber eyes gathering light with owlli
ke sensitivity. The hour was just past midnight, and few lights burned other than forgotten Christmas displays. He closed the folder and steered the car around the corner and down the length of a block. Lettering on a standard steel mailbox informed him which house belonged to M. McCarthy. He drove three houses past it and parked behind a line of vehicles. A holiday party had yet to sputter out in one of the homes. He shut off the engine and reached over the seat for his indispensable greatcoat. When he had bought it years before, it weighed six pounds. Fully laden with his trick-pocket addition and tools, it now tipped the scales at twelve pounds, four ounces. DeVilbiss stepped out into the crisp, gelid night and slipped the coat on.

  The McCarthy house lay dark. DeVilbiss strode brazenly up the driveway and to the front door. By ambient light he found the clues he needed for easy entry. A sign stuck to the entryway window declared not only that the home had an alarm system guarding it but that the product had been created by Antisocial Security, Inc. Thanks to the gratuitous information, DeVilbiss knew that cutting power to the house would be purposeless: the alarm system had a battery backup. He also knew that the alarm was silent and worked by automatically phoning a distant security monitoring company, who called the local police. To defeat the security measures, he merely needed to cut the telephone lines.

  DeVilbiss carried one of the garbage cans around to the back of the house, climbed on it and leapt onto the garage roof. From there to the second-story roof required another leap, no challenge to his muscles. He tightrope-walked along the roofs ridgeline, found the phone line on the northern wall and quickly severed it with one of the tools from his coat. In less than a minute he was back on the ground, again digging into his pockets, this time for a suction cup and a diamond-tipped glass cutter. He chose the back door for his entry, applied the suction cup to one of its panes, etched around it and popped out the circle of glass. The door had a knob lock and a deadbolt. DeVilbiss slipped on a pair of plastic, disposable gardening gloves, undid the lock, then felt along the upper doorjamb molding until he located the deadbolt key. His slender fingers had no trouble fitting it into the keyhole and turning back the bolt. After DeVilbiss scanned the neighborhood, he entered the house. He found himself inside a utility room. He slipped off his coat and let it collapse into a blunt pyramid on the floor, then paused and listened. The house and household slept; even the heater had stopped blowing Btu's through the ductwork.

  The utility room entered onto the kitchen, which lay in a state of chaos. Dirty dishes were piled in and around the sink. Shopping bags stood gutted on the counters, their bottoms still packed with non-perishable groceries. A stack of pizza boxes leaned precariously beside the overflowing garbage pail. Seven vases of various shapes filled the table in the breakfast nook. Only one held flowers-the all-but-mummified remains of chrysanthemums. DeVilbiss inhaled the air deeply. Not more than a week earlier, the house had held many floral varieties.

  DeVilbiss glided toward the front of the house, through a formal dining room (in nearly as profound disarray as the kitchen), and into the foyer area. The second-story staircase ran parallel with the front door. On the wall directly below it hung many award plaques. DeVilbiss read with no surprise the national and international commendations of McCarthy's genius in laser optics. The only greater award McCarthy could garner now was the Nobel Prize. It was he who had made practicable the "Star Wars" laser for killing intercontinental nuclear missiles, prompting one reporter to call him "the Cold War warrior whose work broke the back of the Soviet military economy." Now he worked on matter and antimatter aspects of light waves, research that hinted at dimensions beyond those of normal human senses. How and how much this threatened the Dark Forces, DeVilbiss could only guess at. Perhaps if the Ahriman scrolls had not surfaced in Princeton, McCarthy might have been allowed to live, but it cost nothing for those who controlled DeVilbiss to tack a murder onto his trip. Most of the wall plaques, like the articles in DeVilbiss's folder, also held the name "Dieter Gerstadt." Vincent told himself he should be grateful that they hadn't ordered both scientists' extermination.

  DeVilbiss's attention shifted to the Parsons table under the awards. The table was filled with sympathy cards. He picked one up and read it. When he returned it to its place, he discovered a Mass card lying facedown. He brought it up to his eye level and strained to read the fine print in the near-total darkness. The name of the deceased was Kathleen McCarthy. Martin McCarthy's wife. By the dates not quite thirty-six, and dead only twelve days. Her image was captured in two framed photographs on the table-a wedding picture with Martin and a family portrait that must have been recently taken.

  DeVilbiss set the card down on the table and gazed up the stairwell, toward the upper hallway. Through the doors beyond slept a thirty-eight-year-old widower, twin eleven-year-old sons, and a seven-year-old daughter.

  DeVilbiss grimaced and swept back his hair in a nervous, repetitious motion. He lowered his hand and started toward the stairs. He stopped on the first step and looked back at the sympathy cards. This wasn't working.

  DeVilbiss retraced his path into the kitchen, but instead of continuing to the back door, he noiselessly entered the family room. He found a wall unit filled with high-tech consumer electronics and disconnected the compact disc player and a Nintendo game computer. Because he had cut the phone line, he felt the scale of the robbery had to be greater. He grabbed as well the family's camcorder, but made sure that he unloaded the tape inside it before he left. On the way out, he closed the door against the December cold.

  The stolen property was dumped carelessly onto the backseat of the rented car. DeVilbiss thrust himself behind the steering wheel and twisted the key in the ignition. The old Ford Escort whined and threatened to play dead. He smashed his fist into the door. The window crank snapped off and clattered to the floor. DeVilbiss winced and lifted his hand to his view. His middle knuckles were split open and bleeding freely. He watched without emotion as the blood staunched and scabbed and his severed flesh closed into smooth skin, all within the space of sixty seconds. He rammed the accelerator to the floor and turned the key again. The engine caught life and mustered strength. DeVilbiss pulled away from the McCarthy house as quickly as the motorized junkyard would allow.

  Vincent assured himself that there was no way he could have known from the other side of the country that Martin McCarthy's wife had died. It had nothing to do with shoddy intelligence gathering. The material he had collected in the folder informed him of every aspect of the man's educational background, his full professional achievements as recently as November, and even the fact that he was married and had children. Not that family mattered to those who controlled Vincent. The last thing that would motivate them was humanitarianism. For more than four hundred years, Vincent had refused to think about that. Lately, however, he thought about it more and more. And sometimes, as now, he acted. Because this time there was a way for the young father to live. McCarthy's partner, Dieter Gerstadt, could substitute as the sacrificial lamb. Truthfully, DeVilbiss felt pleasure in his decision to play Grim Reaper at Gerstadt's house instead. Reading between the lines of numerous journal, magazine, and newspaper reports, DeVilbiss had gleaned that the naturalized German was McCarthy's professorial mentor but probably not his equal partner in the team's dramatic scientific breakthroughs. Gerstadt was childless and in his mid-sixties and had shown little evidence of individual genius before taking McCarthy under his wing, first as a graduate student, then assistant professor. But the mentor had made himself the spokesman of the team, hogging the limelight and consequently relegating McCarthy to undeserved shadow. The valuable reputation Gerstadt had established for himself was the only reason Vincent could disobey with impunity the order for McCarthy's death. Pride goeth before a fall, Dieter, DeVilbiss thought with cold satisfaction, steering out of the housing development, never considering how aptly the adage might apply to him.

  ***

  Dieter Gerstadt might have lacked inventive genius when it came to physics, but
his talent for earning money was evident from the house he owned. It was a fair imitation of a Frank Lloyd Wright creation, thrusting out over a steep decline that plunged into Princeton's Carnegie Lake. Like Wright's Fallingwater, it was situated among dense woods and craggy outcroppings, two hundred feet from either neighbor. The view across the lake, to the canal and hills beyond, was spectacular enough to have commanded a premium price. Dieter and his wife, Greta, had occupied the place for more than twenty years and intended to die there some day. Except for a much accelerated timetable, Vincent DeVilbiss shared their desire.

  DeVilbiss parked the car out of sight of the house and walked back along the quiet street. He stared up into the cloudless sky and admired Orion and Cassiopeia. The constellations hardly twinkled in the cold air. With the moon below the horizon, even the fainter stars shone brightly. DeVilbiss drew oxygen deeply into his lungs as he strode. The more he thought about the night's change of plan, the better he felt. He pictured Gerstadt as a hyena, a scavenger who preferred to eat from the kill of nobler beasts but who was nonetheless deadly on his own. Proper prey for the King of Predators.

  When DeVilbiss entered the Gerstadt driveway, his smile vanished and his face hardened into a death mask. He removed his fur-lined winter gloves and substituted the plastic gardening pair. The white driveway gravel crunched under his step. He softened his tread, beginning a silent circuit of the house. Houses were easy hunting grounds for him; the arrangement of doors and chimneys and the placement and sizes of windows invariably betrayed the interior layout. This structure was a modified one-story, with a lower level created in the back by the land's sharp plunge toward the lake. The rear of the upper part was cantilevered out, leaving a sheltered space below, which had been finished with a wooden deck and barbecue pit. DeVilbiss crossed the deck and peered through the lower level's glass wall. Within the darkness lay a large study and recreation area, dominated by a regulation-size billiards table. Beyond stood two doors, which DeVilbiss supposed led into the utility room and either a bathroom or storage. Before he had put his nose to the glass, his amber eyes detected the infrared glow of an optical alarm system. Gerstadt had put his academic skills to practical use; several pencil-thin red beams crisscrossed the study. He had obviously intended the beams as a second line of defense, because the sliding glass doors onto the patio had a key lock, upper and lower bolts, and a stout iron bar shoved into the slide track for good measure. DeVilbiss's smile returned as he continued his reconnaissance; after his failure at the library he needed a kill with some challenge, to restore his confidence.