Reassuringly, the man’s posture altered suddenly, as if he hadn’t until this moment understood why she was sitting on the ground. His reaction seemed purely one of concern as once more he leaned slightly toward her. “Of course. Which ankle is it? But maybe you’d better just sit still for a minute. What happened?”
She pointed to the throbbing limb. “Twisted it, falling out the window.” That one of the damned kidnappers should be concerned about her welfare seemed perversely offensive, and grated on her nerves. Baring her teeth, she indicated the exact location of the injury. “What do you think happened?”
“Sorry about that.” The apologetic attitude seemed quite genuine. Then the mask turned, scanning right and left. ‘Where did Mr. Radcliffe get to?” But the question sounded casual, unalarmed.
“How should I know?”
Several other masks were now approaching, from different directions, and in a moment the newly formed group of rubber-faced monsters had begun a conversation among themselves. June, fearful but defiant, felt relieved and wept when her captors seemed to take the uncertainty about her husband pretty much in stride.
No one hounded her with questions regarding Phil’s whereabouts. Presently two of the men, moving with the care if not the skill of ambulance attendants, picked June up and carried her solicitously back into the little house.
In the living room, Connie lay stretched on the sofa, dead to the world. Ignoring her, the volunteer medics set the injured woman in a chair.
June noted with mixed feelings that Connie was alive—the dark-curled head had turned a little to one side since the Radcliffes went out the window. But the gypsy woman slept on, her crunchy plastic bag beneath her as if she might be afraid someone was going to steal it. None of the renewed activity in the room disturbed her in the least, and the masked people in turn paid her no attention. If she had indeed fallen into some kind of coma, they evidently considered the condition in her case nothing out of the ordinary.
One or two of the masked guardians hastily searched through the other rooms of the small house. At last the group began to murmur among themselves on the subject of Radcliffe’s absence. Then one hurried toward the other building as if to pass along the news.
The rubber images of Hollywood horror who remained in the room with June stood facing her in her chair, but the postures of their bodies gave no clue as to what they might bethinking.
* * *
Roused with some difficulty from his own trance in the other house, Vlad Dracula heard the news of Philip’s escape. Obviously it came as no surprise.
“And the tracking device, Joseph?” he inquired.
“It’s in place, and we’re getting readings.”
The almost microscopic transponder earlier attached to Philip Radcliffe’s trousers was still faithfully emitting a signal when electronically prodded. A rotating antenna which had earlier lain concealed had been erected on the roof of the second mobile home. Inside, another breather, mask now off, was seated at a small desk, tracking Radcliffe’s location on a green-tinged screen.
* * *
Among Vlad Dracula’s breathing helpers, Joe Keogh, at least, would almost certainly be in on any trick that was being worked. Joe thought that over the years he had earned that right.
Joe Keogh on taking off his rubber mask stood revealed as a man in his mid-forties, his fair hair turned half gray. He was of average size, and sparely muscular, with a tough-looking face. Eyeglasses, acquired in the last couple of years, added a scholarly touch to his appearance.
John Southerland, missing the little fingers on both hands, was the same height as Joe, a little under six feet, but twelve or thirteen years younger. Maskless, John appeared strong-jawed and sturdy, with light brown hair beginning to be touched with early gray and showing a tendency to curl. John in fact looked slightly older than Mr. Graves, whom he once absentmindedly addressed as “Uncle Matthew.”
Even while John had been wearing a mask, either of the prisoners might have noticed that the little finger on each of his hands was missing. John had considered wearing gloves to avoid that problem, but gloves could draw attention too, especially in hot summer weather, and stuffed glove fingers would not look particularly natural. So far the gamble had paid off; eyes drawn continually to the mask, neither of the Radcliffes had yet noticed his mutilated hands.
Everything in the conversation between Vlad and Joe Keogh, who now removed his mask and wiped sweat from his face, confirmed that it had deliberately arranged, with Connie’s connivance, for Philip to get away and for June to be left behind,
Joe, reluctant to put on his rubber mummy-mask again after making his report—they were the devil to wear when it got hot—rubbed his fingers through his sweaty gray hair, and looked at himself in a nearby mirror—Mr. Graves did not object to the breathers’ having them in their residence—and wondered whether he himself was maybe getting a little old for the rough stuff. The prospect of some very tough action indeed was looming ever closer.
* * *
Joe Keogh, out of curiosity and because he thought he had the right, dared to ask a question about Radu, and the origin of the bitter hatred between the brothers.
Vlad, reminiscing while they waited for other matters to be organized, recalled with bitter anger the circumstances of his own youth, his rivalry with his brother Radu, called the Handsome, their lives as hostages in the power of the sultan, and their early estrangement.
“Have I ever told you about my brother, Joseph?”
“Something about him, yes.”
“A cautious answer to what was, I fear, a poorly phrased question. What lies between us began in the fifteenth century; and how many more centuries it will go on, I do not know.”
Joe Keogh nodded.
But Vlad Dracula was not looking at him, only gazing into the distance. “I see two young boys, young princes, sons of old Vlad Drakul, or as the historians will call him, Vlad the Second. His two offspring held hostage by the Turks to guarantee their father’s good behavior.
“Two princes in a tower that was very different indeed from the Bastille.”
“Yes, I bet it was.”
“My lifetime’s allocation of fear was entirely used up, before I was old enough to grow a beard.” Vlad was calmly stating a fact.
“I believe you,” Joe Keogh said.
“Radu did not, does not believe me. He has always thought that I am lying about that, that my fearlessness depends on some hidden magic.”
Vlad sighed, a faint reptilian hiss. “It was always so with him, I think. Determined that there must be some hidden trick in everything, a key of magic, available only to the elite. Radu the Handsome. Always he has welcomed men, as well as women, eagerly into his bed—in truth I believe that he prefers children, of either sex, to adults. Anything human, provided it is young, and … but in this case I accomplish nothing by becoming angry. I think perhaps that my brother was transformed into one of the nosferatu by one of his Turkish bed-partners, when he was hardly more than a child himself.”
“It sounds like he’s a sadist, then,” said Joe. “I mean, a genuine, compulsive…”
Mr. Graves nodded. “Despite the common misconceptions regarding the nosferatu, this affliction is about as rare in vampires as it is in breathers. But I have no doubt that my brother is one.”
Joe was silent, as often he was when in this man’s company.
His companion appeared to be lost for a time in memory. Then he added: “Whether or not Radu ever became a Moslem is more than I can say. But I am sure that any oaths he swore in matters of religion were false, for the truth is not in him, and has never been.”
Keogh, shivering as he listened to Vlad’s smoldering anger, was extremely glad that it was not directed at him. Joe had now known this man for almost twenty years, and for most of that time had called him friend. But he had never entirely ceased to fear him.
* * *
June was once more left alone and with no one paying her close attention.
Glowering at the peacefully sleeping Connie, she thought that she would try to take the shoe off the painful foot and see if that helped. It was a natural reaction. Though the ankle still hurt like blazes, at least it wasn’t noticeably swollen. But she hesitated to try to take off the shoe. She feared that the ankle would swell and keep her from putting a shoe on again—damn it, she couldn’t put up with being a helpless cripple!
Joe Keogh, masked again, came to see how the patient was doing, and looked carefully at the enchanted shoe.
“Let me help you get that shoe off; I think it’ll feel better.”
June winced involuntarily when the kneeling man gently began to take off her shoe. Once the laces were loosened and the innocent-looking encasement of leather and plastic was removed from June’s foot, the pain disappeared with amazing rapidity.
Hesitantly June wiggled the foot, then stood up. She set the foot down flat on the floor, and then gradually shifted her whole body upon it. Hesitantly she took a turn around the room. The pain had vanished, like some kind of an illusion, leaving not a trace behind. Nothing was wrong now.
Her masked attendant, who squatted watching her, with his head a little on one side, did not seem at all surprised.
For some reason she felt defensive about the cure. “It really was hurt. But now…”
“I believe you.” He nodded sagely. I’ve seen things like this a few times before, when Mr. Graves is in action. Let me tell you, lady…”
“Tell me what?”
A benevolent chuckle came from inside the mask. “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”
* * * * * *
On the dot of sunset, the moment the last direct rays of the sun had vanished from the western windows, Constantia woke up, yawning and stretching catlike on the sofa in the mobile home.
“Good morning,” said June, who was sitting in a chair nearby, there being not much of anywhere else to go. She threw down the magazine she had been trying to read.
The gypsy only looked at her sleepily, and murmured something about being afraid that she hadn’t done her job well enough.
“What job was that? Guarding us?”
“Something like that.” Connie sat up and looked around. “Is hubby back yet? No, I don’t suppose he would be.”
June stared at her. “How do you know he’s gone?”
“Oops. Little Connie’s talking too much again!” One red-nailed hand went up to Connie’s mouth, covering an impish smile.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Today’s crowd in the Place de la Revolution, Radu noticed, was of only moderate size, no more than four or five hundred people. A few of them, mostly sitting or standing in the best locations, he could recognize from the numerous other times when he had attended. They were the regulars who did their best never to miss a beheading, rain or shine. A couple of the women, the notorious tricoteuses, who brought their rocking chairs and knitting to the performance, were as usual jealously occupying the very best spots close to the platform, on the head-side of the knife. There was Madame Defarge, who seemed to have made herself their leader. When she glanced in Radu’s direction, he bowed lightly. She might someday have information that could be useful.
Too bad, thought the younger Dracula, that they would not hold these events at night … a few of those new Argand lamps would illuminate the scene well enough to satisfy the breathing rabble. He would have to try to find some way to exert influence…
Outfitted in a new disguise, one that as usual included a broad-brimmed hat, Radu had unobtrusively taken his place among the onlookers waiting to witness the day’s official violence. He had already noticed that not all of the younger Sanson’s usual assistants were on the job today, and in fact Gabriel had only one man with him on his high workplace.
But that was really nothing out of the ordinary; normally there was a heavy turnover and rotation among the crew, and some variation in their number. Nor did it seem so strange that a different set of workers, adopting a slightly different routine, had piled some extra baskets and other equipment about them on the platform.
Early this morning, Radu had received a short note scrawled by Gabriel Sanson himself, assuring him that the wooden blade had been installed and would be put to work today.
The sunlight, stabbing out with fierce intensity between rain showers, was bright enough to bother Radu more than a little, and to dull his senses somewhat, even to pose some danger. But he pulled his hatbrim down a little more and stayed where he was, in a good position on the head side of the lunette, the little window, despite the fact that he was not close enough to have an ideal position. Backed up to within a pace or two of the edge of the crowd, he had his line of retreat open behind him, should it prove necessary.
There was one beheading on today’s list that for him was very far indeed from routine. One execution that he would not miss, not for all the sweet young red blood in the world. Because this one meant the humbling defeat of his arrogant brother.
The first tumbril had arrived, stuffed with more than a dozen arm-bound, crop-haired men and women, and the day’s work for the crew on the platform got briskly under way. Radcliffe was not in this shipment. Well, then he would be in the next.
Radu turned frequently from side to side, shooting suspicious glances into the crowd in all directions. He was considering several possibilities regarding the present whereabouts of his brother. Of course Vlad was not going to give his enemy the satisfaction of being here to experience his humiliation at first hand. That Vlad was dead had to be counted a remote chance. More likely the elder was preparing some truly monstrous counterstroke of punishment for his rebellious little brother. But even if Vlad should succeed in that, there was nothing, nothing in the world that he could do now to prevent Radu from savoring this triumph.
Still, it bothered Radu that he had no way of telling whether Vlad might be nearby, concealing himself among the crowd.
He was not surprised to glimpse Constantia in a distant part of the crowd, and beckoned to her. But the gypsy only looked flustered, and tried to pretend she had not seen him. Which again was not surprising.
One or two of Radu’s other associates, lesser vampires, were at no great distance, and he allowed himself to take some comfort from their presence. Not that anyone at whom Vlad’s anger was directed could really feel safe anywhere.
Again a feeling of uneasiness returned to nag at him. He would not be free of it until he knew exactly where his brother was…
* * *
Meanwhile, up on the platform, matters seemed to be proceeding according to the somewhat variable routine. Everyone was now accepting as standard practice the absence of the patriarch of the Sanson clan. The chief executioner’s health had been failing for some time. Radu remembered hearing that the old man, Charles, had not long to live—his difficulties being purely natural, not political. Over the centuries Radu had noted that if any class of people were truly safe from changes in political leadership, it was that of the executioners and torturers. Their jobs were secure no matter what.
* * *
Today’s session was one of those when the crowd’s view from the sides, on the “body-side” of the little window, was partially screened off as if by accident. Today the executioners, as they sometimes did, were arrogantly refusing to heed the occasional shouted demands for a better view. They had, no doubt inadvertently, created obstructions by piling a couple of extra body-baskets, along with spare parts for la mechanique, on either side of the platform.
But Radu, along with the great majority of the audience, was not in the least inconvenienced. As the tumbrils began to unload, and the slow one-way parade started up the stairs in single file, he still had a perfectly clear view of one head after another, coming through the lunette, then rolling, with no more dramatic flourish than a potato dropped by a kitchenmaid, into the waiting basket. No doubt even a breather would soon get used to it, if he were here every day attending the show. And yet, where else in Paris, or in the world, was there anythi
ng like this to be seen? One raw neck-stump after another spurted blood, then was pulled away to make room for the next, all to the accompaniment of raucous and rhythmic cheering by the crowd.
Had Radu been writing a critical review of the event for the newspapers (he had considered doing that, if the business could have been managed anonymously), he would have been forced to inform his readers that today’s level of technical skill was not of the highest. The two workers on the high stage mishandled more than one of their victims, depriving each of whatever last moment of dignity he might otherwise have been able to attain. And here came Radcliffe at last, face pale with prison and the terror of death, hands bound and collar torn open like the rest, short dark hair surrounding a small white bandage, clumsy and stumbling in his terror—or quite possibly, thought the observer, he had been given strong drink as he climbed into the tumbril, in an effort to numb his awareness. A petty effort to spoil Radu’s triumph, perhaps—and now the man in his fear, or his drunken stupor, had fallen to the platform—but the two workers, demonstrating strength and dexterity for once, had their client up again in a moment, and were putting him on the plank.
Radu’s pink-lipped mouth hung open in anticipation, as if he were about to kiss some morsel of human flesh. His eyes drank in his triumph as Radcliffe’s dark hair, showing the little bandage in the midst of the close-cropped scalp, was pulled and pushed through the little window. For a moment, regrettably but inevitably, the body of the assistant who was pulling on the ears largely cut off the audience’s view of this process. Then the wooden lunette slammed closed, and the executioner moved out of the way.
As always, the machine was disconcertingly quick. Whoever was ultimately in charge of these events, the original designer no doubt, had really little sense of drama. The peak of Radu’s triumph came and went so swiftly that if he had blinked, he might have missed it.
A Sharpness On The Neck (Saberhagen's Dracula Book 9) Page 27
