I have sometimes wondered whether it might have been some hint, or even stronger indication, of that darker worship showing itself among his colleagues, which induced Robespierre to formulate his cult of the Supreme Being—but that was to come later.
* * *
Whose face were the women working on? It was only logical for me to satisfy my curiosity by asking. They murmured something, being evasive; I did not press the point.
After a thin coating of oil had been applied to the subject’s face, it was time for the plaster of Paris, the latter swiftly mixed in a handy bowl or basin.
They had recently been working on a woman’s head, which now lay discarded and forgotten again, and the process suggested some ghastly beautician’s work. Thinking back a century or two, I recalled having seen breathing women subject themselves to mudpacks and the like.
To me the younger of the two breathing women, who had not spoken a word to me as yet, was the more attractive and therefore the more interesting. Though her face remained in shadow, as seemed only fitting for one engaged in black magician’s work, darkness gave no protection against inspection by a vampire’s eyes. Hers was a striking face that stayed easily in my memory. As did her voice.
But at the time, my thoughts preoccupied with other matters, I didn’t even bother to learn her name. That would come later…
“I have no need to ask what you are doing,” I remarked. In this, as we shall see, I blundered seriously on the side of overconfidence. I thought I knew essentially what was going on, though some of the details were unique in my experience, strange enough to make me curious. Whatever thoughts I had of the two women in that hour were confined to the universe of magic, and of evil. In my defense, I can only plead that ascribing such motives to whomever I encountered in that place, and at that time, was a natural mistake.
She was unperturbed by my question. “We have perfectly valid business here, citizen. Have you?”
“It is the business of my life.”
“Your home lies near here?”
“Very near.” I gestured vaguely. “It is at most times a peaceful neighborhood.”
Chapter Seven
Generally the Radcliffes’ masked guardians spoke to the gypsy girl with an air of wary respect. One or two of them called her Constantia, while others more casually used the name of Connie; the woman answered indifferently to both names. A few minutes after her master, Graves, had completed his first visit, she dropped in on the Radcliffes uninvited, apparently with nothing more complicated in mind than a simple chat. None of the breathing, rubber-masked guardians were quite so intrusive, but continued their self-effacing ways.
Later on the first day of the Radcliffes’ confinement, Connie once more entered their quarters approximately at sunset, and remained until the two prisoners, who had had only a couple of hours of sleep out of the last thirty-six, showed unmistakable signs of giving way to exhaustion.
She gave them a sly, suggestive wink, and said she knew that they were on their honeymoon. No one tried to explain that they had passed that stage several months ago. And on the second day, Connie was in and out at intervals, along with several of the masked attendants.
Connie, when bidding the couple good night on their first evening in the makeshift prison, had assured them that they would enjoy undisturbed privacy in the house until morning. They could latch their doors, front and back (“… and your bedroom door too!”), and Mr. Graves wouldn’t mind. In fact he preferred it that way. Barring emergencies, no one would intrude on them.
To Philip it seemed silly to try to lock out the jailers—the hardware available to defend the prisoners’ privacy, unlike that which kept them in, was cheap and flimsy, no doubt original equipment with the mobile home. But, he thought, why not at least make the gesture, show that they wanted to discourage intrusion as much as possible?
So now, as on their first night here, Radcliffe, with June trailing after him (they were rarely out of each other’s sight now), went around latching all the doors and windows. As he snapped the last catch shut, he told his wife: “At least we’ll hear them if they break in.”
“Right.” Barring tricks, he couldn’t help thinking, and secret passages. A few days ago, a mobile home with secret passages would have seemed a crazy idea. But a lot had happened in the last few days, and everything else about the situation was crazy, too. Neither of the Radcliffes wanted to remind the other that they still hadn’t figured out how Graves had gotten into their car while it was in motion, even if the convertible top had been down…
Stumbling through the house, on the verge of falling asleep, Phil and June halfheartedly discussed the possibility of taking turns standing watch through the night. As they were trying to decide who would have the first shift, exhaustion intervened, putting an end to the discussion. This time they at least made it as far as the bedroom where both, fully clothed except for their shoes, slept like the dead until daylight.
* * *
On awakening, Phil quietly unlatched the bedroom door and looked out into a silent, sunlit house. Then in his stocking feet he tiptoed through all the rooms. There was no sign that anyone had even looked in on them during the night.
In a few minutes, Constantia appeared. As in their previous daylight encounters, she was wearing her dark glasses, and this time, in deference to the day’s full desert sun, had put on a broad-brimmed hat. Despite the growing heat, she was also wearing a kind of jacket, fringed in cowgirl-western style, with a high collar.
June was polite with Connie, but spoke to her more frigidly than she did to Graves when he took his turn at dropping in. Phil didn’t have to ask to know that his wife did not like the woman at all.
This morning, as usual, Connie was ready to talk on a variety of subjects. Frequently she chattered, though what she said did not always make sense to her distracted hearers, especially when she harked back to events they had heard described on the tape as having taken place in a previous century. But today Connie tended to lapse into periods of moody silence.
These usually began when she was looking at Philip Radcliffe. Connie would occasionally begin staring at him in a vaguely, unconsciously hungry way. The impression she gave, to June at least, was of a woman pondering whether she ought to seduce a man.
And in this case first impressions were exactly right.
* * *
After locking the door of the Radcliffes’ domicile behind her, Constantia strode like a moody teenager, scuffing the earth with her fancy, rodeo-lady cowgirl boots, the few yards to the other mobile home, where she opened the unlocked door and walked right in. A small group of guardians, giving their heads a rest from rubber masks, sat tiredly talking in the small living room; their voices fell silent briefly as Connie passed.
She made her way down a narrow hallway to the door at the far end. There in the smallest of the small bedrooms, a chamber heavily shaded and darkened, but already growing warm because it lacked a window air conditioner, Vlad was lying on his back on a folding camp bed, just about to go into a brief trance and get some much-needed sleep.
The dark man, stretched out on his plastic bag of earth, roused himself long enough to ask his long-time friend and occasional associate how the two prisoners were doing.
Connie, shifting to a language so old and rare that no one else in the Western Hemisphere was likely to understand, reported that they seemed all right.
Then she added: “The young man is quite attractive—at least I find him so.”
Vlad raised himself on one elbow, the dry earth crackling in the plastic garment bag beneath his body. “May I remind you, my dear, that this is business?”
“Of course.” Connie’s lower lip protruded, somewhat sulkily. She no longer appeared to be seventeen years old. Not quite fifteen, actually.
“You also found his ancestor quite attractive, two hundred years ago. And we both remember what came of that infatuation—do we not?”
“Of course, Vlad.”
“Of course.
The result was difficulty. Unpleasantness. We are not going to have a similar contretemps here, are we?”
“No, Vlad.”
“No, we are not. Now I require some rest.” And with a breathless little groan he stretched himself once more at full length on the crackling earth.
Letting herself quietly out of the darkened bedroom, going to the adjoining chamber where her own plastic bag of earth lay ready to afford her her daily rest, Constantia in the privacy of her own thoughts continued toying with the question of whether or not to begin the affair with Radcliffe. Now Vlad, for one of his fussy, honorable reasons, had flatly forbidden any such thing. And if she disobeyed him, his reaction, if he ever found out, was not going to be pleasant.
* * *
June read the other woman’s behavior more accurately than Radcliffe did, and June was not very good at concealing her feelings about anyone.
Once June had called Phil’s attention to Connie’s behavior, he took notice of it, and the way the gypsy girl looked at him started to make him nervous. But he didn’t want to admit the fact.
After Connie had gone rather sulkily out into the heat of the day, the two prisoners, alternately sitting in the living room and hunched over the kitchen table, talked things over in whispers between themselves. They agreed that Mr. Graves in contrast to Connie seemed a perfect gentleman— when he was not actually in the act of kidnapping people. He was also considerably more frightening.
Radcliffe said to his wife: “You know what the truly scary thing about these people is?”
“I can think of several.”
“What I had in mind is that there are long stretches when what they’re saying and doing almost seems to make sense. Or is it just me? Am I getting brainwashed? Junie, I tell you, minutes go by, even hours, when everything they tell us seems so reasonable, and they don’t sound like crazy cultists. I mean Graves has a way of putting things that makes them sound convincing. But if you listen close and think about what he says … especially on that tape…”
June was frowning. “Do you think that all this—all this about vampires and so on—can be only symbolic? I mean that we’re not meant to take it literally?”
Phil thought about it. But he didn’t have to think very long. “No. No, I don’t think that at all.”
* * *
While cleaning up the remains of another snack—so far the milk and cereal were holding out—the pair conferred between themselves. Now, with several hours of sleep behind them, it seemed at least possible that they would be able to think clearly about their situation, and maybe attain some useful insight.
But anything of the kind eluded them, at least at first.
“Phil, what are we going to do?”
“I don’t see what we can do, except watch their silly tape over and over again, and play along with their ideas. Next time we see Graves, well have to tell him we’ve seen the whole tape and we understand it. We’re ready to have discussions with him and believe anything he tells us. Meanwhile we look for a chance to get away, though it doesn’t seem likely that they’re going to give us one.”
* * *
This time they watched the whole tape, almost three hours of content, all the way to the end, in one continuous session. It was a sobering experience, but when they had completed the chore, they still didn’t know what to think. Except that Mr. Graves might know a lot about a great many subjects, but he was no ball of fire when it came to making a media presentation.
Just sitting around and waiting quickly became unendurable. Radcliffe, when he felt reasonably sure that no one was looking, stalked through the house, quietly testing the locks and heavy bars on both doors, then examining the grill-work on all the windows. He discovered no weak points. The only real result was that now, having proven to himself that he was in a small and doubtless not fireproof building with all the exits locked, he began to feel a touch of claustrophobia.
* * *
Once or twice, during the morning and afternoon of their second day of confinement, the two were invited out, by two or three of the masked monsters, for a walk. On these occasions they were always closely watched.
* * *
June was nagged by the idea that there might be some significance in the identities of the individuals portrayed in the masks most of Graves’s assistants had chosen to put on. They were plastic or rubber creations that covered the entire head, Halloween-costume imitations of various imaginary monsters of the Hollywood variety. Both prisoners got the impression that there were more masks than people, suggesting a deliberate attempt at preventing identification, for the same people didn’t always wear the same mask.
June could not entirely rid herself of the idea that some deep meaning might be found in the individual choices, and she began to jot down little descriptive notes on all their jailers. Then she decided this was a bad idea, tore up the sheets from the note pad, and burned them in the sink. Phil saw the assumed identities as purely accidental.
Then June turned away from the sink with a quick motion, almost a little jump. “Something just occurred to me.”
“What?”
“We’ve seen Frankenstein and the Wolf Man, right? And the Mummy, if I’m interpreting that funny-looking one correctly. I mean the one who looks like a bad case of sunburn, peeling.”
“Right. Plus a whole lot of others who I have no idea who they are. So?”
“Well, it just occurred to me—Count Dracula is missing.”
* * *
Connie appeared more restless than usual the next time she showed up, around noon on the following day. The gypsy-looking girl made little or no effort to conceal the fact that she found it definitely boring simply to sit around all night and all day, especially when she was forbidden to taste this young breather’s blood; she thought there ought to be some fun in this kidnapping business for her.
Then the gypsy girl wistfully asked June how her hair looked. Even as she asked the question, she was twisting the dark curly strands around her finger, pulling them forward while she frowned up toward them with her eyes crossed. “It’s not really long enough for me to see.”
“Why don’t you go and look in the mirror?”
Connie only giggled, as if the idea were somehow painful.
* * *
By this time Philip and June had had the idea of vampires thoroughly drummed into their heads by the videotape. Now June asked their visitor point-blank if she was a vampire.
Connie answered simply that she was.
The other woman pursued the point. “And when Mr. Graves on the tape talks about a woman named Constantia, who is doing all these things in France, two hundred years ago…”
“Oh, he means me. Oh yes, absolutely.” Connie smiled, a cheerful conspirator. “Not that everything he says about me on the tape is necessarily strictly true.”
The captives, not knowing how to respond to this declaration, looked at each other. It sounded to them like this girl really believed what she was saying.
“If you’re a vampire,” Radcliffe proceeded cautiously, “is there some way you can demonstrate the fact—I mean short of actually biting someone and drinking blood?”
“I could, sweetie. Oh, it would be very easy. But Vla … Mr. Graves doesn’t want me to do anything like that yet.”
Nervously Connie looked around. June was staring at her in an unsettling way. She was also afraid of Vlad’s anger, and admitted as much to the prisoners.
Spontaneously Connie added, in the manner of one impulsively giving good advice: “I wouldn’t make him mad at me, if I were you.”
Graves had never uttered any threats, but Radcliffe found himself in full agreement. “Is he really five hundred years old?” he asked on impulse.
“Just about.” Constantia smiled; her look had undertones of wickedness. “I’m years younger than ‘Mr. Graves.’“ This time she pronounced the name with more than a hint of mockery.
“Oh?”
With a giggle she delivered her punch li
ne: “Not a day over four hundred and eighty.”
June and Phil had gathered from the tape, where the identification was strongly implied, that Mr. Graves and the story character called Vlad Dracula were supposed to be one and the same—now and then Graves, narrating on tape, even slipped into the first person without appearing to notice that he had done so. But like any rational breathers at the end of the twentieth century, the couple had been resisting the idea.
Radcliffe wasn’t ready to give up on the subject. “How old is he, then? Really?”
“Oh-oh!” Her long lashes flickered at him flirtatiously. He couldn’t tell if the gesture was serious or self-mocking. “You haven’t been really studying your videotape, or you’d know.”
“That’s not true, we have been watching it. I mean really.” He looked at June for confirmation.
June nodded vigorously.
“Not the whole thing.” Connie was dubious.
“Yes, really.” June added her assurance to her husband’s. “We’ve seen it now from beginning to end.”
Their visitor shook her dark-curled head, marveling. “You see it and hear it, but you don’t believe it.” Now Miss Gypsy was about to pout. “We went to a lot of trouble to make that tape. I ran the camera most of the time.”
“I didn’t know.”
“Well, I did. And I know some folk who’d give a million dollars to have it. Even to know half of everything that’s on there. You’re being given it for nothing and you won’t even take it seriously.” Now she was really pouting. Maybe, thought Radcliffe, she was perturbed because she thought the tape mentioned her only in a slighting way.
A Sharpness On The Neck (Saberhagen's Dracula Book 9) Page 8
