The Book of Common Dread

by Brent Monahan

  DeVilbiss stepped out onto the grass and shed his greatcoat. Unencumbered, he coiled his muscles and sprang with catlike strength and agility to the upper-level balcony, hands grabbing the rail tightly. He hauled himself over and surveyed his clothing. His sweater had snagged badly on the wood. He shook his head and retrained his attention on the rooms beyond the upper glass wall. Again he detected infrared beams, knifing across the expensively furnished living and dining rooms. Beyond, he could see part of the kitchen via a pass-through. A hallway led back toward the bedrooms. The upper sliding doors were as pickproof as the lower ones had been. Nor could he use his suction cup and diamond-tipped etching tools again; the misfortunes at the McCarthy and Gerstadt houses had to appear to be completely unrelated incidents. Here could be no indication of break-in whatsoever. Nothing he couldn't solve.

  DeVilbiss looked through the sliding door to the living room ceiling. Cut into it were a pair of skylights. He vaulted over the balcony rail, picked up his coat and retraced his path to the car. In the trunk lay his seldom-used equipment. The kills he made for his own sustenance rarely required more than speed and strength. But old Dieter was a hyena. DeVilbiss had decided to reequip himself. He folded the coat and dropped it into the trunk, pulled up his damaged black sweater, and strapped on the special equipment.

  Again, a garbage can provided access to the top of the garage. From there he surveyed the entire length of the house's flat rooftop. He noted four skylights in all-the two at the far end, which he had already seen, and two more just past the garage. DeVilbiss treaded noiselessly to the nearest skylight and stooped to peer through it. The plastic had weathered to a cloudy sheen. From what he had seen on the balcony he calculated that this skylight illuminated the back end of the hallway. The final skylight would surely not be located in a bedroom, where unimpeded sunlight might spoil an afternoon nap. DeVilbiss was confident it brightened a bathroom.

  DeVilbiss knelt beside the fourth skylight and felt around its fastenings, testing their strength, calculating how much power he needed to exert and how long its removal would take. His fingers found the tops of four round-headed screws. In his belt he had shoved a hammer and a cold chisel. He set the chisel against the first screwhead and gave it a hard tap. The head snapped off with a sharp, metallic noise. DeVilbiss put his ear to the skylight and listened. He heard nothing. He set the chisel to the next screwhead and swung the hammer again. This time, after the striking, he caught sounds from within the house. Wasting no more time, he clawed his fingertips under the skylight lip and wrenched upward. The plastic bubble tore away with the groan of a falling tree. DeVilbiss tossed it aside, peered down to orient himself, then dropped into the bathroom. The reek of stale cigarette smoke assaulted his nostrils.

  "Go, Greta, go!"

  The imperative voice echoed from the other side of the bathroom door. Hearing the muffled sounds of feet scudding across carpeting, DeVilbiss wasted no time in plunging through the doorway. He entered the dark master bedroom, quickly taking in its dimensions. The damned thing was the size of a squash court. He focused his attention on a small, bald-headed man who had boxed himself between the bed and the wall on the far corner of the room. The man had his back to DeVilbiss and was reaching into the open drawer of the bedside table behind him. He was dressed in flannel pajamas which failed to cover his lower back and upper buttocks. He spun around; his hand gripped a revolver. DeVilbiss recognized the pudgy face from several magazine photos. Dieter Gerstadt groped blindly behind himself for the bedside lamp's switch, unaware that he had nudged the telephone handset cockeyed on its cradle as he did. His face defined terror, eyes bulging from the effort of picking the intruder from the darkness. DeVilbiss surveyed the distance to his quarry and debated his next move. At the other end of the house an insistent alarm went off. Greta had interrupted one of the infrared beams. Dieter jumped at the noise and uttered a yelp of fear. The gun barrel traced an erratic figure eight.

  "I have a gun!" The professor's voice at least was authoritative and determined. The bedside light flooded the room. As Gerstadt's eyes involuntarily squeezed shut, DeVilbiss took his chance. He threw himself across the length of the chamber, keeping his chest on line with the weapon's muzzle.

  The revolver's report echoed sharply in the enclosed area; the bullet's flame flashed bright. DeVilbiss's momentum was vectored abruptly, so that he spun completely around, fell against the side of the mattress and collapsed to the ground. His left leg folded under him and his right arm came to rest against the wall, fingers curled down like those of the crucified Christ. His eyes stared up at the ceiling, unblinking.

  Gerstadt coughed lightly but seemed unaware of the acrid gunpowder smoke floating in front of him. He focused on the blood sprayed across the eggshell white wall and the elliptical hole where the bullet had dug in at an angle. The trembling of his gun hand redoubled.

  "Mein Gott!" the professor murmured, reverting in shock to his native language. "Mein Gott!" Having defended himself with obvious success, he thought next of escape and realized his choice was either over the high bed or past the corpse. He chose the latter, advancing slowly, with the gun pointed. He took one step and paused, making sure the body remained motionless.

  On Gerstadt's second step, DeVilbiss's free leg swung up fast and hard, catching the man's groin a glancing blow. Gerstadt's hand twitched and the revolver went off again. Lead flew into the meat of DeVilbiss's thigh. DeVilbiss screamed out his rage as he sat up. His left hand batted the revolver roughly from the professor's hand and his right grabbed the material of the pajama bottoms. He yanked down and took his prey's falling weight upon himself. The terrorized face came nose to nose with his own. Gerstadt's hands wind-milled feebly to fend off DeVilbiss's attack. DeVilbiss ignored them, grabbed a hank of the professor's white hair and drove his head hard into the wall. In spite of his pain and rage, he reined in his strength so that none of the professor's bones would be broken. When the man continued to struggle, DeVilbiss rammed his head again. Finally, his victim went limp.

  DeVilbiss tossed the body off himself and dived for the telephone. The instant he had the handset he swept his finger across several buttons. Then he listened. He heard it ring and prayed he had not been too late. He heard also the ragged breath of the woman who had made the call. On the third ring a connection was made.

  "Hello?" said a sleepy voice.

  "Is this the police?" Greta Gerstadt beseeched.

  "No." The answering voice had come awake enough to be angry. "You dialed the-"

  DeVilbiss dropped the phone, not waiting to hear the end of the conversation. With the bedroom handset off the switchhook, the woman could not hang up and redial. DeVilbiss pulled himself up and started doggedly toward the hallway. The phone book had listed only one telephone for the Gerstadt residence, but he knew that Dieter might have an unlisted business number. He redoubled his efforts, guiding himself by the hallway wall, hopping forward on his good leg and letting the wounded one drag. He longed to sit still and rest, to at least clean out the hole in his side. Bullet damage, to flesh or organ, took at least an hour to heal completely, but he had not a second to spare.

  The hallway opened onto the kitchen and dining area. DeVilbiss saw no one. He held his breath to listen. On the lower level the sliding door was being unbolted. He aimed himself at the top of the stairs and limped forward. The infrared alarm was an inside warning system; because of the distance between properties, the neighbors were unlikely to be awakened by its pulses. But DeVilbiss was quite certain that the woman's shrieks were capable of waking the dead once she got outside the house. Halfway down the stairs, he heard the scraping sound of the sliding door being shoved back. He worked his way lower and got his head around so he could see the door. The wife was stumbling out, unaware of his presence. The noise of the alarm had masked his clumsy advance. She paused for a moment, debating which way to run. DeVilbiss noted that, like her husband, she was dressed in pajamas. Hers were silk, and they swirled around her as she
halted. DeVilbiss swung past the newel post and lurched across the room. As he reached the open doorway, the woman turned and saw him. Her hand flew up across her open mouth. She made no outcry but concentrated her energies on pivoting around and sprinting away.

  DeVilbiss stopped favoring his leg. He came down hard on it, moaned in agony, and pushed off. As the night air hit him, he caught sight of the woman rounding the corner of the house, stumbling slightly over the ice-slick grass. He blocked out the agonizing pain and raced after her. With each stride, a neural explosion went off inside his wounded thigh. Halfway up the slope he caught the professor's wife and tackled her. Finally, she attempted to call for help, but the force of her landing had driven most of the wind from her. Clawing along her clothing, DeVilbiss drew his weight fully on top of her. She flailed wildly to turn over, but she lacked the weight and strength to succeed. DeVilbiss grabbed her as he had the husband, fingers clawing up a fistful of hair. He shoved her face hard into the cold, brittle grasses. She tried to scream again, but her sounds were muffled. She was still getting air. Montague snaked his hand around her face, found her nostrils and pinched them shut with his thumb and forefinger, using the heel of his hand to dam up her mouth. For a time the fighting became even more frantic. Then her muscles relaxed. DeVilbiss released his hold, wanting her unconscious rather than dead. He rested a moment, then stood up.

  DeVilbiss flipped the woman over, grabbed her again by the hair, and dragged her down the slope. Her foot caught in one of the deck step's open risers and had to be released. Then her pajama bottoms snagged on the doorway track. DeVilbiss kicked her inert form in frustration. He leaned against the glass and counseled himself back into control, then worked the body into the house, leaving it beside the open door.

  With the two occupants incapacitated, DeVilbiss turned his attention to the alarm. He found the reset switch in the utility room and reflected that the restored silence was golden indeed. DeVilbiss dropped himself into Dieter's tufted leather study chair to catch his breath. He gingerly lifted the sweater to examine his torso wound. It lay one inch under and half an inch to the side of his antiballistic Kevlar vest. Even his cautious measures had not protected him from a man too nervous to shoot straight. Over the decades, several of his victims had owned guns, keeping them in their houses, their cars, and even on their persons. Despite their precautions none of them had survived, even the swift and the sure of aim. None had anticipated dealing with the Undying.

  DeVilbiss guessed that the bullet had torn through his right kidney. He felt his back for the exit wound. His forefinger fit into the hole, which was already smoothing over. He didn't want to think how large the wound had been five minutes before. It would heal completely and undetectably in time; time itself had assured the fact, over and over. Neither time nor any other man, however, could teach him the limits of his invincibility. He was certain that there was such a thing as a killing wound, something as final as decapitation, for example. But he had a disquieting suspicion that death could be brought on by far less grisly insult. Perhaps a knife blade severing the spinal cord at the base of his neck. Or a bullet shattering his aorta, so the healing blood could not pump through the heart and make him whole again. Which was why he took state-of-the-art precautions such as his bulletproof vest whenever he anticipated a dangerous opponent.

  DeVilbiss tugged down his sweater and struggled out of the chair, groaning. Even if he were completely invincible, burns, punctures and even the scratches of frantic fingernails were as painful to him as to any other human. He had merely learned to master pain over the centuries. Once he knew it would pass quickly and his body would not be permanently scarred or disabled, he taught himself to block out injuries that would have shocked the ordinary man into unconsciousness within seconds.

  Greta Gerstadt lay faceup where he had left her. DeVilbiss was grateful for the linoleum flooring beneath her. The trail of dirt and blood could be easily cleaned. The woman's ruined and soiled pajamas were of no concern; soon they would not be in any condition for examination. DeVilbiss drew in several breaths, testing to see if he had regained enough strength to carry the woman back to her bedroom. He approached her and kneeled.

  The iron doorstop bar arced into DeVilbiss's field of vision as if from nowhere. Somehow, without making noise, the professor's wife had found the bar and concealed it alongside her length. Vincent thrust up his arm to protect his face, but she had picked another target. She had seen the bullet hole in his pants and swung the bar directly into the wound.

  DeVilbiss howled and fell over backward, grabbing his thigh in agony. Greta rolled away, clutched the handle of the sliding door and pulled herself up. Before DeVilbiss could dominate his pain, she had swung around the door and was out into the night once more.

  This time she did not reach the corner of the house before DeVilbiss had hauled her down. She flipped herself over, not about to have her face shoved into the earth again. As her attacker drew his weight over her, she came at him with a Harpy's fury. Her mouth yawned open, and she buried her teeth in his neck. DeVilbiss felt the clamp of her incisors and was struck by the irony of the act. This was one tough human, fighting with every fiber to save her life. He was the last man on earth to belittle her struggle; he had been doing the same for five hundred years, at people's throats with as great purpose. But her death was required for his life, and so their mutual rights devolved to survival of the fittest.

  The contest was over almost before it began. DeVilbiss drew the woman's mouth from his neck, clamped his hand again around it, twisted her body inexorably until he had her in a comfortable feeding position, then drove his incisors deeply into her throat. Her gushing blood tasted hot from her efforts, adrenaline sweet from her panic. He sucked deeply, until her struggles ceased. Regretfully he lifted his mouth. He had not opened a throat for a full week. But he knew that she must not be killed by blood loss. He lifted her unconscious form and carried her into the house and up to the bedroom.

  Dieter Gerstadt lay where he had been tossed. DeVilbiss studied the room. The bed was high and sturdy, covered with a thick eiderdown comforter. An armoire stood in one corner, despite a large walk-in closet. On the wall hung a mass-produced oil painting of a Bavarian chalet, with Alpine mountains thrusting up behind. The room looked like it belonged to the house in the painting and not as part of the imitation Frank Lloyd Wright extravanganza. The other rooms were contemporary Americana; this inner sanctum, it seemed, was the Gerstadts' last hold on their roots.

  DeVilbiss tucked Greta under the comforter, then pulled Dieter into place. The uneven sag of the mattress proved that the man slept on the side where the gun had been concealed. DeVilbiss checked in the open drawer and found the expected pack of cigarettes and matches. Camels. It was interesting, he noted, how a man who would kill another man to live smoked such a deadly brand. He lowered himself to Dieter's neck and tested his blood. Its tang was not that of the dreaded B type, which gave him an allergic reaction akin to hives. He drank his fill, assured that both the man and woman would now be too weak to rise from their deathbed. He fetched the revolver, methodically cleaned and reloaded it, and placed it back in the drawer. Then he went downstairs and cleaned the floor, relocked, bolted, and barred the sliding door, and repositioned the professor's chair. He paused on the main level to admire the Christmas tree. It was a blue spruce, at least nine feet tall. It was tastefully decorated with white velvet ribbons and beautiful crystal ornaments that caught even the faint light from the hallway. DeVilbiss wondered if the couple's predilection for crystal had anything to do with Gerstadt's dealings with optics. Under the tree lay mounds of presents, expensively wrapped. DeVilbiss lost count at twenty. He was not curious enough to see how many were meant for others. They should have been, he thought, as he looked around the living room. What more could the professor and his wife have wanted? They owned the best furniture, thick carpeting, magnificent brass lighting fixtures, handsomely framed out-of-date German posters. Within the wall unit, top-of-
the-line components bore the names Sony, Panasonic, Bose. The kitchen boasted every labor-saving device imaginable, including a trash compactor. On the counter sat an immense, seven-tiered Christmas candle windmill. But there was no sign of the Christkind anywhere.

  DeVilbiss retreated into the hallway, where he found the arming switch for the infrared alarm. He turned it on and continued to the main bathroom, where he found isopropyl alcohol for his wounds. Experience had taught him that it helped the mysterious healing process. His teeth clamped together at the sharp sting, but he did not cry out. He returned to the master bedroom. The eiderdown comforter proved a perfect material for burning. DeVilbiss first lit a match, transferred the flame to a cigarette, placed the cigarette between Dieter's unresisting fingers and touched it to the cover. Within thirty seconds the bed was aflame. For good measure, DeVilbiss trailed a terry cloth bathrobe from the bed to the drapes. Clutching a water-soaked washcloth to his mouth and nose to filter the smoke, he watched from the master bathroom doorway until the fire had crept into the carpeting. By that time, the professor's hair had already been consumed in flame. DeVilbiss climbed onto the sink counter and boosted himself up through the skylight opening. He shoved the skylight down tightly and bounded along the roof toward the garage. He smiled broadly; his leg and side were feeling considerably better.