by Lara Parker
Jackie watched in amazement as Quentin lifted up the backseat of the Duesenberg and stowed more bundled booze next to the floorboards. To her surprise, the wounded man was gone.
“What happened to that man who was back there?” she asked Quentin.
“The bulls took him for a ride.”
“What?”
“Afraid he didn’t make it, Baby.”
Jackie felt faint. He was the man who had died in the car. She had felt it that night with David when they had parked next to the graveyard. David. Where was he? Anxiety flooded through her. As engrossing as this pantomime of smuggling was, somehow she had to shake it off and get back to him. The longer they remained in the past, the more dangerous it became.
Quentin walked around and filled the leather satchel hanging on the back with several more bottles. One of the workers got in the front seat with Quentin, the girls climbed in back, and, with the top down, the Duesenberg took off behind the hearse. As they drove off across the lawn, Jackie looked back and saw the body of the man lying beside the road. Suddenly the air in the car turned to water rushing through her ears.
From the backseat Jackie watched the speedometer creep up from sixty to seventy-five as the car hurtled down the road, the shadows of trees flying past, the night air thick with moisture, a rank humidity that created a palpable heat. The moon was a white bowl, rough along the fading edge as though it were filled with shaved ice. Jackie watched Liz’s face in the moonlight, the wind ruffling her golden white waves of short hair. Her skin was as luminous as the moon, and her determined expression made her seem incredibly brave.
They were both thrown forward with a lurch when Quentin cursed and stepped on the brake. The car shuddered and swiveled as it slowed to a stop behind the hearse, and Quentin turned around and said under his breath, “It’s all right. Just stay very quiet, and let me do the talking. Pray they’re not bluenoses. And look sad. A few tears of mourning from the girls would be a welcome embellishment.”
Though the windshield Jackie could see a row of motorcycle policemen in a straight line blocking the road, the brass buttons on their uniforms punctuating the darkness, their headlights splaying in the dirt, and their engines blaring in a high-pitched whine.
The worker in front leaned in to Quentin. “Them some a’ your guys?”
“I certainly do hope so,” said Quentin, but his voice sounded strained and Jackie saw the glint of a revolver in his lap.
Three policemen in the barricade dismounted and walked by the hearse, swiveling their lights over the carriage. They tried to shine their beams inside, but the curtained windows were covered with the black cloth. One of the cops walked back to Quentin’s side of the Duesenberg and nodded in deference before he spoke.
“Evenin’, Mr. Collins. Where you owls off to this time of night?”
“Yes, hello, Officer. Isn’t it obvious? We’re on our way to the cemetery.”
“Ain’t it a little late in the day for a funeral?”
“Couldn’t have the service any earlier. Interrupted by a raid. You boys have been hard at work tonight. Doin’ a fine job.”
The policeman expanded a little at the compliment but remained suspicious. “Seems like this could wait ’til mornin’.”
“The wake was a long one. Two days. The casket needs to go in the mausoleum tonight, if you get my drift.”
The policeman shined his light in the backseat where Liz and Jackie sat with heads obediently bowed.
“Wife and sister of the deceased,” said Quentin, and the policeman nodded.
“My condolences,” he said to them, then back to Quentin, “You don’t mind if we take a look inside your van, do you? See everything’s on the up and up?””
“If you like. You might be interested to know the deceased was John Carpenter. Bureau of Prohibition. Died in the line of duty.” And Jackie caught a glimpse of a wadded piece of green in Quentin’s hand that he passed to the policeman. “Would you be interested in viewing the body?”
“Oh, that won’t be necessary, Mr. Collins.”
Quentin got out of the car and opened the back of the hearse. The cop splayed the light around inside and it bounced off the gleaming wood of the casket. “What’s under the black coverings?”
“Just the flowers.”
“Poor bastard,” said the cop.
The motorcycles’ barricade pulled back and let them through. They drove slowly, like the funeral procession they claimed to be, somber and respectful under the moonlight until the row of cops was left far behind. Then they turned into the cemetery.
Lights flickered off the gravestones; some were shiny new marble, some decaying granite, and a mist swirled between the markers just above the ground, flowing like the ghost of a stream. As the men disembarked from their vehicles, arms loaded down with whiskey, a disapproving owl hooted twice and the cicadas whinnied their raw chorus, all singing the same piercing note. A ruffled cloud flew across the moon and there was the warning rumble of far-off thunder.
Liz and Jackie slid out of the car and followed the men who carried lanterns aglow in the mist. The door to the Collins mausoleum was bolted shut but one of the workmen pried it loose, and pulled off the vines entwined around the entrance. They entered the vault and the bright light of the lanterns fell across the stone walls and the dirt floor of the interior, and bounced off the coffins.
“Gimme my own still in the woods,” said one of the men who had a missing front tooth. “Copper kettle and copper coil.”
“Hell, they’ll get you by the smoke.”
“This sneakin’ around is for the birds.”
“When I saw them cops, I thought we was done for.”
“Aw, those guys are just starters, they don’t pay ’em anything, just give ’em a badge and a gun and send them out with no trainin’. They’re more scared o’ us than we are o’ them.”
When the first coffin lid was raised, the peculiar odor of dust and decay filled the space and Quentin said, “What’s the deal? They were supposed to be empty.”
Inside was a skeleton, its white shroud wrapped loosely around the bones. Lit by the lanterns, the grotesque skull glared at the intruders.
“It’s desecration of a corpse,” whispered one of the men.
“Ah, she won’t mind,” said the other, who had already approached with several bottles of whiskey. “A bit o’ booze to enjoy in eternity!”
“It’s a sacrilege to disturb the dead,” whispered Jackie, taking Liz’s hand and backing away.
“Right. So no one will be looking here.” The man with the whiskey handed her several bottles. “Scoot them in beside the others.”
Quentin intervened with a scowl, pushing Liz back. “No, you girls keep out of the way.”
Liz bit her lip and looked around, her eyes dark. For the first time since Jackie had met her she looked tense and unhappy. “Hurry up,” she said.
“Open the other one?”
“Why not?” said Quentin, although he seemed nervous, moving restlessly between the car and the chamber, carrying the whiskey. He went to Liz and put an arm around her, pulling her to him. “Sorry,” he said. “I know it’s awful. We’ll be gone soon enough. Back to the house.” When he kissed her, Jackie’s eyes sprang with tears.
The second coffin was opened. Again there was a body, wrapped in burlap, reeking of rotted flesh.
“This one ain’t so old, Capt’n,” one of the man called to Quentin. “There’s worms.”
“He’s dead, isn’t he? And he was a Collins, so he won’t be adverse to carrying his load.” Again the casket was stuffed with liquor, Liz assisting with the unloading mostly for the purpose of finishing, nervous about being there, turning her face away when she approached the coffin.
But Jackie hung back in the shadows. She knew this mausoleum. She and David had been inside it earlier in the day, searching for the portrait. But like everything else in this decade, it was oddly unfamiliar. There were four caskets instead of two, the floor was not
ankle deep with dry leaves but smoothly swept, and the candelabras were not piled in the corner in a discarded heap of metal, but arranged around the caskets, fully tapered.
The dancing shadows from the lanterns and the smell from the coffins were making her dizzy and she knew she was losing her bright clarity. The voices in her head were coming back. Icy fingers crept under her clothes and her breath turned shallow. Her vision blurred and her chest grew tight as she tried to breathe, but some foreboding crept into her mind, a dark dread swimming like an underwater creature through her consciousness. The lanterns swung and the shadows jumped from the floor to the ceiling and back again as the men carried the bottles and the kegs from the car like zombies moving in and out of the lamplight.
The mausoleum was a cave, the humid air like grit in her mouth, and something was crawling across her scalp. She realized she was staring at the back of the vault where she could see a lion’s head hanging above a portal bricked over from within. The lion held a brass ring in its mouth.
The last casket was slammed shut. “That take care of it?” asked Quentin.
“Hell no, there’s still more, much more. Shall we seek out another crypt?”
“What’s back here?” Quentin said, pointing to the arched doorway.
Jackie spoke without knowing, the words floating from between her lips and when they came, waves of darkness entered her. “It’s not … no, not that,” she whispered, and one of the men, whose name was Jake, followed her gaze.
“There,” he said, “pull that ring.”
“This?” Quentin reached up and gave it a tug. Just as Jackie had known it would, the stone in the step moved to one side and the portal slid open.
“Aha!” Jake said. “A secret compartment. And so brilliantly disguised. How’d you know about that, Duckie?”
But she had said nothing. It had not been her.
“It’s a perfect hideaway. Shall we stow the rest of it in here and then scram?”
“Well, we can’t take it back to the Blue Whale.”
Quentin smiled at her for the first time. “Lucky guess?”
She trembled and shook her head. “I didn’t mean … I don’t think—” But they had already gone back to the van for more booze. Quentin stayed, waiting for her to finish.
“Something wrong, Sweetheart?” His voice was gentle.
“I don’t think they should.”
“What, dear?”
“Go in there.”
“But we need to hide the whiskey…”
When they took the lanterns in the inner sanctum, they were shocked to find another coffin against the far wall draped in a blanket of thick dust and wrapped in chains.
“God Almighty, that’s been there a long time. Why the irons?”
“Must have been some ancient ceremony. It’s an old cemetery,” said Quentin. “Just leave it. There’s enough room in the vault.”
But one of the men, the one with a missing tooth, couldn’t resist pulling on the chains. “Christ,” he said, “they’re almost rusted away.”
“Won’t be anything left but bones turned to dust.”
“Yeah, but chains? Must have been a reason. Maybe there’s something in there besides a body. Something valuable.”
Quentin looked at Jackie and she shook her head. Her eyes were flooding. He turned to the men. “Let’s get out of here before the police change their minds. We can come back in a week after all the turmoil has quieted down.”
But the other man was whistling under his breath, “Could be … money … or even gold.”
“Come on, Jake,” said Quentin; and reluctantly, two of the men followed him back to the car.
But it was too late. The last man had already broken the chains and was lifting the lid. There was a greedy grin on his face when he hoisted the lantern and shone the light into the box.
His cry of alarm ripped the night shadows, and hearing the call, the entire group ran back to the mausoleum. They saw the chain at his feet and the lid pushed back. The man was staring into the coffin, eyes bulging.
“What’s eatin’ you?” said one.
“I— I don’t believe it,” he said, shaking his head. His hand holding the lantern was jerking so hard his fingers were twitching, and he was hovering over the casket, mouth agape.
“It … it don’t make no sense.”
The others approached slowly.
“He— he ain’t dead. He’s smooth … he’s perfectly preserved. His clothes ain’t even got any dust on them.”
“Cover him back up!”
“No. We can’t do that. Christ, you sap. He’s been buried alive!”
“Don’t go near him,” said Quentin.
“What? No…”
“Don’t look at him.”
Liz moaned and drew back, afraid for the first time, and hung by the door. But the men pulled forward, drawn by a morbid curiosity. Quentin moved near as well, his hand over his mouth, and looked down. “It’s true,” he said in a harsh whisper. “His skin is white as a corpse, he smells of death, but … wait … he seems to be breathing…”
Dragged by some deep foreboding, Jackie inched closer, and when she looked in the coffin her skin erupted with a prickly rash. She knew the face, as pale as porcelain except for the eyes red-rimmed and the lips tinged with blood. “Barnabas,” she whispered under her breath. “It’s … Barnabas.”
But the name meant nothing to the others, and they simply stared in disbelief.
The lanterns swinging over the corpse flickered on his tailored suit and scarlet cravat and cast shadows across his face. His hands were folded over his breast, and he held a cane in his right hand with a handle shaped as the head of a wolf. He lay stretched out on a full-length black cape within the folds of a coffin lined in red satin. His face was framed by a collar of white cotton, his skin held a pallor, greenish and deeply shadowed, and his black hair curled flat on his forehead. Then his mouth moved slightly and the men gasped as one and drew back, but not before they had seen the two sharp incisors emerge from under his lips.
“A vampire!” cried the man with the missing tooth. “Oh, God in heaven! He’s a vampire!”
“Oh, don’t be a damn fool, Jake, there ain’t no such thing.”
Then one of the men whispered, “His eyelids are fluttering. Oh, Christ, no! He’s— He’s waking up!”
“Yeah, he is! Look— Look at him! I— I gotta get outta here!” And he turned and scrambled for the door. Some fled with him, but others remained enthralled, held by a fascination deeper than fear.
The sleeping corpse opened his eyes.
They were bloodshot and rimmed with red. His cavern of a mouth fell open and revealed long canine incisors slick with saliva. In a frantic eruption the men leapt away, but not before the vampire’s arm shot up like a sprung trap and his fingers snapped around the throat of the nearest man, who screamed with his eyes bulging and flailed in the air. Then slowly, making a sound that was a groan and yet more of a growl, the corpse raised himself to a sitting position. His captive squirmed in his grip but was helpless to free himself, his throat encased in the monster’s paw. The creature made another guttural noise, and he swept his gaze over the room, his eyes shining in demented confusion.
The man in his grasp screamed again as the vampire lurched heavily to his feet, and stood up inside his casket, towering over them all, his black cape billowing out behind him. He lifted his victim with one hand, held him aloft, feet dangling, body limp like a doll’s, and with grunts that sounded almost pleasurable, he opened his mouth further, leaned in, and tore the man’s flesh from his neck. Screeching, the terrified crew scrambled for the door.
Jackie froze in terror, afraid to move or speak. Waves of darkness tumbled over her like a rushing river and she knew she had been there before, at this moment when the vampire awoke, the moment before her own death.
You have become one of the living dead. All who love you will die.
Then do you love me, Angelique? Did you know you wou
ld be the first?
All the others had run for their lives. She was left alone. Barely able to move her lips, she whispered, “Barnabas…”
He turned to her, his mouth swollen and bloody, his eyes lit like coals. His voice was hoarse as if his throat were scarred by knives. “Who are you? Do I know you?”
“Don’t you remember?”
“Angelique?”
She hesitated. “Yes.”
“The curse … one of the living dead…” He looked down as he released the wretched man from his grasp. “I am a monster.”
“Hey, Duckie!” It was Quentin’s panicked voice. “What’s the matter? Come on out of there!” She took a step back.
“What have you done?” Barnabas cried. “Are you my maker?” He glared at her with a hatred that made her limbs freeze. She knew she would die again, as she had once before, the victim of her own curse. He would drag her into his coffin and strangle her. “You,” he breathed, “you have done this to me.”
Newly awakened and disoriented, his powers were still not fully aroused, and Jackie saw her chance. She pushed with all she had, forcing her mind into a vortex of resistance, thrusting her will against his, keeping him at bay. Finally, she found her voice. “You must remain here,” she whispered. “You must stay in your coffin. You must not leave this place.” She pulled away and reached for the ring in the lion’s mouth. “Try to remember she loved you. She will always love you.”
“Witch! It was you who cursed me!”
With all her strength, she jerked down on the ring. For a moment nothing moved. Then Barnabas leapt from the casket and lunged for her, his arms grabbing at the air, but his feet landed among the rusted chains that snaked around his ankles and caught him for the moment it took for the door to slide shut.
