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

by Stephen Jones

  His waxy pallor surprised him, as did the dark shadows under his eyes, as if he had been beaten. Morton stared in the mirror, appalled at his own wan features. His hands shook as he did his best to shave, though when he was through he had several minor nicks, including one on his neck that bled more persistently than the others. As he toweled his face dry, he inspected the cuts and dotted them with iodine. How was he going to explain this to Brewster? he wondered. How was he going to account for his failure to gain the needed information? What excuse could he offer for his conduct? He puzzled over this, his wits moving more slowly than his body, as he dressed. Belatedly, he remembered that he had to drive to the bank in North Poindexter to get his cash. The thought of such a journey left him troubled, but he knew he had to go there before he ran out of money, and he had to be there this morning or Brewster would be curious and critical.

  There was no one in the lobby of the Inn when Morton made his way down the stairs, and the street, once again, appeared all but empty. A face appeared at the window of one of the offices near the general store, but aside from that there was no one to be seen. Morton got into his chocolate BMW and started it cautiously, wincing as the engine erupted into life. Ordinarily he would have taken pleasure in the sound, but not this morning. He drove off at a sedate pace, and once on the two-lane state highway he did not risk going faster than forty.

  By the time he reached North Poindexter, the worst of his dizziness had gone. His hands still felt weak, his thoughts seemed disordered, and his eyes squinted against the sun, but he no longer felt as if he could not keep steady. The busy, narrow streets pleased him, and he almost enjoyed having to hunt for a parking space.

  The senior teller had Morton’s voucher for cash, and after checking his credentials and getting his signature on the necessary documents, gave him eight hundred dollars. “Odd, you needing cash,” she remarked as she slipped the papers into the appropriate files.

  “Yes, it is,” said Morton, adding, “Can you recommend a good place for lunch?” Now that he had said the words, he decided he was ravenous. It was not just the drink, he realized, that had made him so much not himself, but the lack of food. Whiskey and no supper, and no breakfast. No wonder he had felt poorly. “I want something more than a sandwich,” he went on.

  “Well,” the senior teller said, “I don’t know what to tell you. There’s Edna’s down the block; they’re quite good, but they’re pretty much soup-and-sandwich. Then there’s the Federal Restaurant. That’s expensive, but the food is good, and they have a large lunch.” She looked at him more closely. “We don’t have much in the way of fancy eating in North Poindexter.”

  “You have more here than in Jericho,” said Morton in a tone that he hoped was funny. “That place was—”

  “Jericho,” echoed the senior teller. “You mean you’ve been over in Jericho?”

  “Yes,” said Morton, baffled at the peculiar expression in the senior teller’s eyes. Speaking the word carefully, he asked, “Why?”

  “Oh,” said the senior teller with a belated and unconvincing show of indifference, “it’s nothing – the place is so remote, and with the mill closed and all . . .”

  When she did not go on, Morton grew more intrigued. “Has there been trouble in Jericho? Other than the mill closing and people being out of work, I mean?”

  The senior teller shrugged. “You know how people say things about places like that. It’s gossip and rumors; all these little places in New England have some of it. They’re glad to think the worst of villages like Jericho, so their own place seems better.” She lowered her voice. “It’s not as if I believe what they say about the place, but it is spooky; you’ll give me that.”

  “I wouldn’t use that word, perhaps,” said Morton with caution, “but I can understand when someone might.”

  “Yes; well, you see why there are stories about the place. Most of them sound like some kind of horror movie, you know; one of those George Romero things. You hear about weird creatures, or worse than that, roaming the streets preying on decent folk. It’s silly. It’s just talk. It’s because the place is so . . . empty.” She made a dismissing movement with her hands. “I probably shouldn’t be saying this. It’s not at all responsible.”

  “I appreciate it,” said Morton “It’s always disconcerting to be in deserted places. While I’ve been there, I don’t think I’ve seen more than a dozen people. During the day, there’s almost no one around, and in the evening, the people on the streets don’t say much. I think having the mill gone makes it all so precarious that they don’t like to talk about it.”

  “Probably,” said the senior teller, and moved away from him. “I’m sorry, but I got work to do.”

  After Morton ordered a generous lunch at the Federal Restaurant, he caught up on his report, trying to gloss over his misbehavior the night before. “I don’t know,” he muttered as he read what he had put down, “how else to account for it.”

  “Did you say something?” asked the waiter as he brought calf’s liver and onions with a spinach salad on the side. “More coffee?”

  “Yes, please,” said Morton, adding, “And a glass of tomato juice, if you would.”

  “Naturally,” said the waiter, departing at once.

  When he had finished his lunch and indulged in an excellent carrot cake with extra raisins, Morton decided he was getting better. Food was what he had needed. He no longer felt as light-headed as before, and some of his strength was returning. “That’ll teach me to skip dinner,” he said softly as he paid the bill.

  Before he drove back to Jericho, he stopped to get some protein snacks: jerky, a few slices of ham and turkey, and a box of crackers. He had his hard-boiled eggs, and this ought to make things easier for him.

  The police chief, a bulky man everyone called Willy, regarded Morton’s identification askance. “I wondered when you’d be getting around to me,” he said, his accent ringing with the flat vowels of New England and the east coast of Britain. “I don’t know what I can do for you, and that’s a fact.”

  “It may be,” said Morton, feeling restored and just guilty enough to persevere with his investigation. “I have to ask. I hope you appreciate that.”

  “Of course,” said Willy with resignation. “What do you need to know?”

  “First, I need to know how many people have moved out of Jericho in the past eighteen months.” Morton drew out his notebook and made a show of getting ready to write down the information.

  “Oh, four, maybe five,” said Willy after giving his answer some thought. “No more than that.”

  Morton stared at him. “That’s absurd.”

  “Preacher Stonecroft, he left; him and his wife, that is. They went, oh, more’n a year ago. Sad to lose them, but the way things are around here . . .” He indicated the window, as if the view of main street provided the explanation. “They weren’t our sort, not them. So they left.”

  “I see,” said Morton, trying to guess why this man was lying.

  “Over a year ago. So did the minister; he took those two orphaned boys and went west. That was before the Stonecrofts left, by maybe a couple months.” Willy looked at his three empty cells visible through the open door.

  “Also not your sort,” Morton ventured.

  “That’s right. And the two boys probably needed to get out, with their folks newly dead.” Willy sighed. “Henry and Dinah Hill.”

  “They were the boys’ parents?” Morton asked, finding the police chief remarks a bit hard to follow.

  “Yeah. They died and Reverend Kingsly took them away. He said it was for the best. He might have been right,” said Willy.

  “Where did they go?” Morton wanted to know.

  “West,” Willy told him, with a wave of his hand in that direction.

  “But where west? Don’t you know?” He would have to tell Brewster about Reverend Kingsly; somehow it ought to be possible to trace the man and the two orphans.

  “He didn’t tell us. I don’t think he
knew.” Willy sighed. “Not that we hold it against him, you understand. In a case like his, he had to leave.”

  Morton scowled. “How do you mean, in a case like his?”

  “The way things were going. Churchmen have to have a congregation, don’t they?” Willy sighed again, this time letting his breath out slowly.

  “And because the mill closed, people stopped going to church?” Morton asked, and decided at once that what the chief of police was trying so politely to say was that there was no money to support the churches in town; with the Wainwrights paying the villagers out of their own pocket, there would not be much left for the two ministers.

  “Well, it wasn’t quite like that, but . . .” Willy looked toward the window again. “This isn’t a very big place; it’s never been a very big place. Things get hard in a town like this. We know what it’s like to be cut off.”

  “You mean your isolation is working against you?” Morton asked hoping he had interpreted Willy’s remark accurately.

  “Well, some of us think it works for us, but it’s all in how you look at it.” He nodded twice. “I can’t give you much more, Mr Symes. You’ve seen Jericho for yourself; you know what it’s like here. No matter what the government does, things aren’t going to change here a whole hell of a lot, if you take my meaning.”

  “Yes,” said Morton, not at all certain that he followed Willy’s implications. “Do you think you’d have time to draw up a list of the names and addresses of those people still living in town?”

  “Still living?” repeated Willy. “Sure, I can do that.”

  Morton gave him his best stern but sincere smile. “Thank you very much for your help, Willy. I know this can’t be easy for you.”

  “We get by,” said Willy as Morton let himself out of the police station.

  At the diner, Morton made a point of having a second order of pot roast and a dish of ice cream for dessert. He noticed once again that no one else was in the place, and this time he said, “Is it always this slow?”

  “Most folks around here like to eat in,” said the waitress without looking at him. “You know how it is.”

  “Yes,” said Morton, thinking that at last he did.

  “We keep to ourselves around here, especially since the mill closed.” She regarded him with taunting eyes, the rest of her apparently consumed with boredom.

  “It has had serious repercussions for the town, hasn’t it?” Morton looked at the waitress once, then gazed toward the window so that she would not feel he was questioning her too closely.

  “It’s one of the things,” said the waitress. “There are others.”

  “Yes,” Morton said at once. “Of course there are.” He paid for his supper and left a 22 percent tip, more than was allowed, but he wanted to let the waitress know he appreciated all she had told him.

  As Morton went out the door, the waitress called after him, “You’ve not found out everything yet.”

  Morton paused, his hand on the latch. “What did you say?”

  “You heard me,” she responded. “Think about it.”

  “Of course,” said Morton, wondering what she intended to imply. He thought about it as he stepped out onto the street, feeling a peculiar exhilaration from the darkness that he had never experienced before. He strode back toward the Inn, but found himself reluctant to return to his room. Inadvertently, he was drawn to the Wainwright house, his thoughts disordered as he looked up at the faded grandeur of the mansion.

  “Mr Symes,” called Ilona from a second-story window. “How nice to see you again.”

  “Thank you,” said Morton, overcome with a sudden and inexplicable rush of desire that left him all but breathless. His pulse thrummed; his flesh quivered; he seemed to be burning with fever and locked in ice all at the same time. It was most improper for him to stand staring up and with such naked longing in his face – at the aristocratic features of Ilona Wainwright.

  “It was a pleasure to have you with us last evening,” she said, her red lips widening in a smile.

  “You’re very kind,” Morton faltered. What was it about this woman that aroused him so intensely? What fascination did she work on him, that he felt drawn to her in a way he had thought existed only in fantasy? And how could he ever account for his reprehensible behavior to Hewlett Wainwright?

  “Not at all,” Ilona said, her voice low and seductive. “I only wish to . . . to entertain you again.” She stepped out onto the little balcony that fronted her window. “Will you come in?”

  “I . . . I don’t know . . .” Morton was almost certain that he was blushing, and that made his embarrassment more acute. “Is your husband at home?” He could hardly believe that he could be so callous, so impolite as to speak to her that way. He moved back a few steps. “I’m sorry.”

  “Why?” Ilona asked, and that single word was as thrilling as a symphony.

  “It’s . . . it’s all very awkward,” Morton began. “You see, Mrs Wainwright, I don’t . . . that is, I ought not . . . It would not be right to take advantage of you.” Be sensible, he told himself. This woman is older than you, and she is married. You have no right to want her; you have no right to speak to her. It is wrong for you to do this.

  “Is something troubling you, Mr Symes?” she asked, and there was the faintest suggestion of haughty laughter in her question.

  Morton squared his shoulders “I have an obligation as an investigator for the IRS not to abuse my position, which is what I would be probably be doing if . . . It would be unforgivable of me to use my . . . power to . . . compromise you.” As he spoke, he moved closer to the house.

  Ilona appeared not to have heard him. “It has been so long since there was someone new in the village; I have been beside myself, wanting to meet someone new. Will you come in?” She leaned down, one long, pale hand extended. “I would be so grateful to you, if you would come in, Mr Symes.”

  “But . . .” All the protests he had intended to make faded from his lips. “Certainly, if you would like that.”

  “Very good, Mr Symes,” said Ilona, her smile growing more vivid. “You will find the side door, there by the conservatory, open.” With that, she left the balcony.

  Morton all but fell through the door in his eagerness to see Ilona. Though part of his mind still tried to reason with him, to make him resist the favor that Ilona appeared to offer, it was quickly stilled as Ilona herself came into the sitting room, her face alight with anticipation. Morton made one last attempt to break away from her. “It’s wrong of me to be here. I owe you and your husband . . .”

  “If you believe you owe us something, all the more reason for you to stay,” she said, coming to his side and resting her head on his shoulder. “How vigorous you are. How the life courses through your veins.”

  That odd compliment puzzled Morton, but not for long; Ilona turned her face to his, and her carmined lips fastened on his as she seized him in a surprisingly powerful embrace. Morton stopped thinking and gave himself to delirious, erotic folly.

  It was almost time to phone in his report when Morton woke in his bed once again. His dizziness had returned three-fold, and his weakness was far greater than it had been previously. Morton put an unsteady hand to his forehead and tried to organize his thoughts before he made his call to Brewster.

  “You sound as if you’re coming down with something,” his superior observed critically after Morton commenced his report.

  “I think I might be,” Morton allowed. “I feel . . . drained.” He sighed. “I wish I understood it.”

  “Have the doctor check you over before you come back to the office; I don’t want you starting something with the other investigators.”

  “Of course not,” said Morton, then got on with his report. “According to the chief of police, not very many people have left town, though I personally have seen few of the remaining townspeople. If they still live here, they must work somewhere else during the day.”

  “You said the town is empty?” Brewster dem
anded. “Make yourself plain, Symes.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Morton, squinting to read his notes. “It might as well be a ghost town during the day.”

  “I see,” said Brewster in his best significant voice. “And where do you think the people work?”

  “I want to find that out,” said Morton, stifling a yawn. “I don’t think it’s North Poindexter, if that’s the issue. I’m fairly certain that they’re not going there, judging from how people in North Poindexter regard Jericho.”

  “All right,” said Brewster. “And how is that?”

  “They seem to think that this is a very strange town, that the people here are odd and their ways are old-fashioned or something of the sort.” He leaned on the wall beside the payphone. “That doesn’t sound like a lot of people from Jericho work there, does it?”

  “Probably not,” was all the concession Brewster would make.

  “From what I’ve seen, this place is . . . growing in on itself. It’s caught – you know how some of these little places get when the main industry falls through? Remember that town in West Virginia that sort of dried up when the factory that made chairs went under?”

  “You do not need to remind me,” said Brewster stiffly. “And you think this is another Lambford, do you?”

  “Well,” said Morton uncertainly, “I’m not positive, no, but it looks likely. If you could send a formal request for records and the rest of it, the bank president will show me the accounts here, but he won’t do it without the paperwork. Which is his right, of course. I need a few more days to get all my facts together, and to see what the bank president can offer me” – unbidden, the image of Ilona Wainwright came to his mind, a vision so intense that he was not able to speak for three or four seconds, and he covered this up with a cough – “and . . . take some time to . . . assess what I find.”

  “What’s wrong?” You get yourself attended to before you get any worse,” demanded Brewster.

  “Allergies, I think. It’s probably allergies,” Morton improvised. “I guess I should take another pill.”