The Mammoth Book of Vampires: New edition (Mammoth Books)

by Stephen Jones

  A single waitress was behind the counter, a middle-aged woman with her hair in an untidy bun. She squinted as if she needed glasses as Morton came up to the counter. “We don’t have much tonight,” she said, her voice unusually low and full of disturbing implications. It was a voice made of spices and madness, and it turned her from a frump to a femme fatale in disguise.

  “That’s fine,” said Morton with his best sincere smile. “I guess the rest have eaten.”

  She gave him a quick look. “You might say that.”

  Morton was more puzzled than ever. “Well, I’ve heard that some of these remote towns roll the sidewalks up early. Though you have lots of people out still.”

  “Uh-huh,” said the waitress as she got out some flatware and set it in front of him as if she were unfamiliar with the task. “It’s lamb stew – that’s with vegetables in the stew and biscuits with gravy on the side.”

  “Fine,” said Morton, who hated lamb. “That’s fine.” He looked around for a menu to see what he might have the next day, but could find none.

  The waitress saw this and said, “There’s a chalkboard. Most of the time, I tell anyone who wants to know.”

  “I see,” said Morton, baffled.

  “It’ll take a couple minutes.” She went through the swinging doors to the kitchen, and Morton listened for conversation or the banging of pots, but there was only silence.

  You know, he told himself in his best inner-jocular style, if I were more credulous than I am, this place would be downright eerie. He looked around for a clock, and saw that the only one, on the wall over the cash register, was stopped at the improbable hour of 2:13. He was becoming more and more convinced that the economy of the town had collapsed, and that those who remained were hanging on by the slimmest of threads. Perhaps that’s why I saw no one, he went on to himself. It may be that much of the town’s population has moved away. It could be that many of the houses are deserted, that the offices have no one in them. He resolved to find out more in the morning.

  The waitress returned with a white ironstone dish with his dinner spread over it “Coffee?” she asked in that disturbing voice of hers as she put the plate down in front of him.

  “Yes, please,” said Morton, not looking directly at her. “Is there any salt?”

  Once again the waitress shot him a quick dagger of a look, and then concealed it with a smile. “Sorry. We ran out.”

  “That’s all right,” said Morton, adding one more item to his mental shopping list. He took a too-hot forkful of the stew and burned the roof of his mouth with it. He tried not to look too dismayed, but he panted over the stuff until he was sure he could swallow it without disaster. It was the strangest thing, he thought, that this lamb stew should taste so . . . so characterless, more like a TV dinner that had been in the microwave than a New England supper.

  Morning began with some minion of the Inn leaving a tray with a pot of coffee, a carton of cream, and a few packets of sugar on a tray with a cup and two pieces of desiccated toast. Morton was already dressed and tying his shoes when the knock came on his door and he found this spartan fare waiting for him. Over the coffee – which was strong without being tasty – he looked through his report of the night before. The first thing on his morning agenda was a visit to the lumber mill, to find out if it was in operation at all. After that, he supposed he would have to speak with the banker, not only to learn more about the town, but to shore up his dwindling supply of cash.

  The day was glary, with thin, high clouds turning the sun to a bright patch in a white sky. Morton shaded his eyes as he looked down the street and debated whether he should drive or walk. In a town like this, he thought that walking might be the wiser choice, so that he would not appear to be as much a stranger as the towns-people seemed to think him. So he ambled along the main street toward the older church, then made a right turn along the rutted road toward the jumble of buildings that housed the mill. As he strolled toward the small parking lot, he saw there were only two cars there – an elderly Jeep and a seven-year-old Pontiac in need of new paint – and that the incinerator cone was dark. For some unknown reason, Morton began to whistle as he approached the mill.

  The first place he looked was the millpond, where a couple dozen waterlogged trunks rode low. There was no one around. He went toward the nearest building, his whistling making the silence more immense. He stared at the gaping doors, standing open as if to receive the logs, but with all the machinery quiet. Morton decided not to venture inside. Still whistling, he made his way back to the parking lot, taking his notebook out of his pocket and scribbling down his impressions before they left him.

  Wending his way back to the Inn, he detoured along side streets, seeing gardens overrun with weeds and berry vines. Most of the houses needed paint, and a few of them had broken windows that showed no sign of patching. Just as I thought, Morton observed to himself as he continued to whistle. This town is empty. That’s what happened. The mill has closed, and most of the people have moved away.

  But, said another part of his mind, they have not got new jobs or addresses, and they have not filed taxes.

  When Morton reached the bank, a sign in the door said: CLOSED FOR LUNCH. OPEN AGAIN AT 1:30. Now that, Morton decided, was a real case of banker’s hours. He checked his watch, and noted that he had forty-five minutes before the bank would open again. After a brief hesitation, he decided to go back to the café where he had had supper and get himself a bite of lunch; his breakfast had not been enough to sustain him for long.

  To his irritated surprise, the café was closed. A hand-lettered sign in the window indicated they would be open at six. How on earth could they get by, doing so little business in a town like Jericho? Shrugging, Morton started up the street to the grocery store he had seen. He would buy some sandwich makings and a little something to augment tomorrow’s breakfast.

  There were two clerks in the grocery store, both teenagers, both listless, as if they had wakened less than ten minutes ago. Morton wondered if they were on some kind of drug – they moved so lethargically and could offer so little.

  “The freezers are—” Morton began to the taller boy.

  “Empty. Yes, sir. Power failure.” He folded his arms. “There’s canned stuff, and like that.”

  “Yes,” said Morton dubiously. “And no fresh produce, I see.”

  “We got a couple dozen eggs,” the boy offered.

  “All right,” said Morton, thinking he would ask the waitress to boil them for him that night. “I’ll take a dozen.”

  “Okay.” The boy moved off sluggishly, his eyes slightly unfocused.

  Morton shook his head. He had always associated drug abuse with urban kids and city pressure. But of course that was naive. In a depressed village like this one, no wonder the kids looked for solace in drugs. He supposed the cops were aware of it, but he decided he would have to remark on it in any case.

  The boy returned with a carton of eggs. “They’re okay. I checked them.”

  “Thank you,” said Morton, handing over forty dollars.

  The boy stared at the money, then gave a self-conscious shrug and made change. “Oh yeah,” he said with a slight laugh, which was echoed nastily by the other boy in the market.

  “Is the manager in the store?” Morton asked as he took his bagged purchases.

  “Yeah,” said the second boy. “But he’s resting.”

  That, Morton surmised, could mean anything. “I’d like to speak to him. If not today, then tomorrow. Will you tell him?”

  “Sure,” said the first boy, leaning back against the cash register as if he were exhausted.

  Morton thanked them and went back to the Inn to put his meager provisions away.

  It was 1:45 before the sign in the bank door was removed and someone unlocked the door. Morton, waiting impatiently across the street, hurried over and flung the door open.

  The cavernous room was empty. No tellers stood at their windows; no officers sat at the desks beyond th
e low railing of dusty turned wood. Morton looked around in amazement. Then he called out, “Is anyone here?”

  A door at the back of the room opened, creaking on its hinges. “Please come in,” said the sonorous voice of a gaunt figure standing in the opening.

  “You’re the president of the bank?” Morton faltered, looking around him and becoming more convinced than ever that he was seeing the final death throes of Jericho.

  “Yes,” said the man. “Please come in,” he repeated.

  “Thank you,” Morton said, starting to sense some relief, for surely he would now have the answer to his puzzle. He hefted his case and drew out his identification and his business card. “I’m Morton Symes. I’m with the IRS, as you can see.” He held his identification up so that the tall, lean man could read the documents and see the picture.

  The bank president barely glanced at it. “Yes, of course. Please sit down.” He directed Morton to a high wing-backed chair covered in dark green velvet that matched the (closed) draperies at the tall windows. The president took his seat in a leather-upholstered chair behind a desk that was at least two hundred years old. “Now, what is it you want here, Mr Symes?”

  “Well,” Morton said, gathering his thoughts together and launching into his explanation. “We were reviewing the tax returns for this area, as we do from time to time, and it came to our attention that in the past two years almost no one in this village has filed tax returns with the IRS. Our records show no indication of the cause, and given the economic situation in the country, there have been times that isolated communities such as this one have been subjected to more fluctuations in their fortunes than in other, more largely economically based urban areas; yet, because of the lack of information available, we were in an awkward position – don’t you see? Naturally, we are curious as to the reason for your whole village not paying taxes, or even filing forms saying that they made insufficient income, and I have been sent to investigate.”

  “I see,” said the bank president.

  Morton waited for the man to go on, to extrapolate or obfuscate, but was met with silence. Awkwardly, he continued. “Since I’ve come here – only yesterday, I admit – I’ve noticed that most of the town seems . . . deserted. There don’t appear to be pupils in the school—”

  “The semester hasn’t started yet,” said the bank president smoothly.

  “—And the mill has been shut down.”

  “Most regrettable,” said the bank president.

  “Is that a permanent situation, do you think?” Morton said, reaching for his notebook.

  “I believe so,” said the bank president, with a very smooth widening of his mouth that did not succeed as a smile.

  “How unfortunate,” said Morton automatically. He had listened to tales of economic disasters so often that he had become something like an undertaker offering sympathy.

  “It creates problems,” said the bank president.

  “Too much competition from the big companies, I guess, like Georgia-Pacific.” It was a safe guess, Morton told himself, and not bad for an off-the-cuff remark; it made him sound more knowledgeable than he actually was.

  “That is a factor,” said the bank president. “You understand that since this bank was founded by my family . . . oh, generations ago, and our principal is tied up in tax-free bonds, for the most part – as you undoubtedly know – we are in a position to be able to carry many of those who remain here for a considerable time more. We have an obligation to this village, and to the people in it.” He gave a delicate cough. “You said almost no one has filed tax returns for the past two years. Am I the exception?”

  “Uh . . . Yes.” Morton had not found that particular return in his first check of the town because the return was so vast and complicated that he had overlooked the Jericho address. Now he was glad he had taken the time to review. “You have more money in North Poindexter right now than you do in this town. And all over New England, for that matter. Your Boston holdings alone could finance a dozen Jerichos.” He did not want to fawn or to appear unduly impressed, though he was startled by what he had discovered. “You’re very well connected.”

  “Yes. That’s what old money does for you,” said the bank president. “Still, I can see you’d better have an explanation, and I’m afraid I can’t offer you one right now – I have other affairs to attend to.”

  Morton almost said, “In an empty bank?” but held his tongue.

  “If you’re not busy, let me have some of your time later today. You come to my house this evening for cocktails, say, about, oh, 7:30. Just sherry or bourbon or rum,” he went on. “We’re not fancy in this place.” He leaned back in his chair. “My wife will be delighted for your company.” There was a slight change in his expression, as if he were being amused at Morton’s expense.

  “Is something the matter?” Morton asked, trying to be polite but without success.

  The bank president did not answer at once. “Mrs Wainwright is a trifle older than I am,” said the bank president. “She comes from a very old and distinguished European family. You may find her reserved, what they used to call ‘high in the instep’. But don’t let this bother you. She’s a product of her time and culture, as are we all.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Morton. He paused. “I can obtain the necessary documents, if you insist, but if you’re willing to let me examine your records while I’m here—”

  The bank president – Hewlett Wainwright was his name – held up his hand. “I’m sorry, but for the sake of the depositors and their privacy and constitutional rights, I must insist that you obtain your warrants and subpoenas.” This time he made no attempt at a smile. “You understand I would be lax in my duty and my responsibility if I permitted you to ransack the accounts without the required documents.”

  “I understand,” said Morton, ducking his head. “Certainly that’s the prudent thing to do. I was only thinking that with the town in such a . . . depressed state, the sooner the tax situation is cleared up, the sooner you might go about setting things right again.”

  “Setting things right?” asked the bank president as if Morton had suddenly started speaking in Albanian.

  “You know,” Morton persisted, though his ears were scarlet, “arranging for federal aid. No doubt some of your townspeople could use a little assistance, a little retrenching, some retraining, perhaps—”

  “My dear Mr Symes,” said the bank president, doing his best to contain his temper. “We are not sniveling, whining creatures, to throw ourselves on the dubious mercy of the federal government. As long as I can afford it – and I have every reason to believe I will be able to afford it for some considerable time to come – I will see that Jericho is tended to. There is no reason for the government-federal, state, or any other – to intrude.” He held out his hand. “Until this evening, Mr Symes.”

  Not even Brewster had routed Morton so efficiently. Stammering an apology, Morton got to his feet and made his way to the door, all the while wondering what could be making such demands on the bank president in this echoing, empty building. He closed the door to the bank president’s office and all but tiptoed across the main chamber, finding its vacant teller cages almost sinister. “Don’t be absurd,” he whispered to himself as he reached the door.

  The afternoon air was sweet, and the deserted street intrigued him. It was comforting to stroll toward the Inn, free to stop and stare when he wanted to, or to make notes without being embarrassed. He whistled a tune he had heard last week – he thought it came from Phantom of the Opera – and considered going to the little police station, then kept on toward the Inn. If he was going to have cocktails with Hewlett Wainwright and his wife, he wanted to be properly dressed. He also had to make his report to Brewster.

  Luckily, he had change enough to place the collect call, but he had to accept the criticism of his boss in return for his taking the call. Morton opened his notebook. “Mr Brewster,” he began in his most official voice, “I’m sorry I wasn’t abl
e to reach you yesterday. Things turned out to be a little more complicated than either of us had anticipated.”

  “Anticipated?” Brewster repeated, some of his bluster still in his voice. “What do you mean?”

  “There are . . . difficulties here.” Morton sensed that the desk clerk was listening, but he vowed to continue no matter what. “The mill is closed, and many of the houses appear to be deserted.”

  “What does that have to do with the delay in your call?” Brewster demanded.

  “I needed time to gather some information,” said Morton, his patience all but deserting him “I didn’t want to waste your time with giving you simple descriptions. I thought you’d rather have a complete report, not a catalog of ills.”

  Brewster coughed once, and while not mollified he was not as overbearing. “That was my decision to make, Symes, not yours. But if you’d had to call collect then, too, I can see why you might wait. How come you didn’t use the phone credit card we issued you?”

  Morton sighed “They appear to refuse credit cards here in Jericho. That’s another reason that made me assume that the town is . . . failing. They won’t take checks or credit cards – nothing but cash. I’ll have to get more by the end of the week, or I won’t be able to get enough gas to drive out of here.” He did not give Brewster time to comment, but hurried on. “I have to be prepared to work with these people on their terms, Mr Brewster. I don’t want them to think that we have no sympathy for their plight, or that we’re punitive in our methods. These people need our help, sir. They need social services and housing grants and emergency funds to keep the whole place from turning into a graveyard.”

  “As bad as all that?” Brewster asked, not quite bored.

  “I think it could be,” Morton said carefully. “With the mill closed and most of the businesses looking pretty bad . . . I went to the grocery store, and there was no one shopping but me. I don’t think they’ve done much to restock the shelves.” He cleared his throat delicately. “You told us all last month that we need to pay attention to the economic curves in a place before dealing with the tax impact.”