“Don’t neglect it. We don’t want to have to pay hospital bills for you,” said Brewster as if he were speaking to a fractious six-year-old.
“I don’t want to be any trouble,” Morton assured him at once. “Pollen does it, and there’s pollen in the fall.”
“Yes,” said Brewster in a tone that indicated he had heard more than enough about all of Morton’s problems. “I will see that the proper documents are sent to the bank by express, or courier if that’s necessary. That should be sufficient for your purposes.”
Morton nodded to himself. “I don’t think that Mr Wainwright will refuse any request if it’s made properly and officially, but he has the interests of his depositors to defend, and it’s proper for him to do it.”
“If that’s all, Symes?” Brewster’s tone implied that he did not need Morton Symes to teach him his job.
“For the time being,” said Morton, one hand to his head. “I’ll call again day after tomorrow. And you’ll have my written reports when I get back.” His head was ringing now, and every word he spoke crashed through his skull.
“Keep your medical records separate from the rest. We’ll have to review them for reimbursement.” Brewster paused, then bade Morton a stiff farewell and hung up without further ado.
After his phone call and sitting in the empty lobby for almost half an hour, Morton was barely able to walk the short distance from the Inn to the diner, and when he got there he sat for some time staring at the menu, its offerings of corned beef and cabbage so uninteresting to him that he actually felt slightly sick as he read it. Corned beef and cabbage, and doubtless it had been boiled to the point of falling apart, the cabbage nothing more than tasteless vegetable goo. Finally, when the waitress came to take his order, he turned bleary eyes on her. “Is there any chance you could get me a steak, a rare one?”
“Steak?” said the waitress, a fleeting, ferocious look at the back of her eyes.
“Yes; you know, a slice of cow, singed but bloody.” Morton put his elbows on the table, astonished at his own dreadful manners. “I’d like it soon, if you can arrange that.”
“What about hamburger, singed but bloody?” asked the waitress, not quite mocking him.
“Fine,” said Morton, but with a touch of regret; he had anticipated the satisfaction of tearing into the meat; that was not possible with hamburger. He waited for nearly fifteen minutes before the waitress came back with a plate of raw chopped beef and all the makings of steak tartare.
“I thought you might like this a little better,” said the waitress with an expression that just missed being a leer. “I’ll bring you some French bread, too—”
“Never mind,” said Morton, whose hunger grew painfully intense as he looked at the mound of raw beef. “I’ll manage.” It shocked him to listen to his harsh words; he never treated people the way he was treating the waitress. He could not imagine what had come over him, and decided that it had to be the effect of his allergies, or whatever was making him so abominably weak. “I don’t suppose that you suffer from allergies.”
“Allergies? Not me.” The waitress laughed nastily. “So you got allergies?” She did not wait for him to answer her question, but turned on her heel and left him with his steak tartare.
By morning, Morton was feeling quite restored. His sight no longer blurred if he moved quickly, and his headache had decreased to bearable levels. He almost passed up the two hard-boiled eggs that were delivered to his room by the sullen clerk, then forced them down so that he would not have another episode like the last. He had decided today he would have to inspect the bank records; he hoped that Hewlett Wainwright would not be too difficult about his requests. At the memory of his illicit meeting with Ilona, Morton cringed and wondered how he would be able to face her husband. He tried to direct his concentration back to the job he was entrusted to do, but Ilona intruded on all of it, her elegant, sensuous presence insinuating into the world of figures. Finally Morton set his reports aside and decided to pay a visit to the post office. If the documents he requested were there, he could get on with the work: he wanted to believe that his infatuation would diminish as he gave himself over to his task. Romance and tax forms rarely mixed, he decided, and thought of the many times he had found his affections waning as his enthusiasm for tracking down tax inconsistencies waxed. How he longed for his computer screen and the safe haven of dependable, sensible, bloodless figures. The impression of Ilona Wainwright’s curving mouth and brilliant eyes could be exorcized by columns of numbers.
There was a single, aged clerk at the post office, a man of a uniform grey color, from his hair and eyes and skin to the sweater and trousers he wore. He monosyllabically refused to say whether the documents had come from the IRS for Hewlett Wainwright, and when pressed, closed the shutter in front of his counter.
Reluctantly, Morton started toward the bank, his eagerness fading with each step. He did not know how, guilt-stricken as he was, he could face Hewlett Wainwright; Ilona was Wainwright’s wife, his wife. Morton had never allowed himself to be drawn into associating with a married woman before, and the realization that in a town as small as Jericho secrets were impossible to keep gave him more dread than the possibility of Brewster’s wrath.
“Good day, Mr Symes. Morton!” Hewlett Wainwright came out of his private office effusively. He gestured to the one teller on duty. “How good of you to have those letters sent. I can’t tell you how it relieves me. This way I have not compromised my depositors, have I?” His voice boomed through the vaulted room. “Come back to my office, and we can go over the records.”
Morton was nonplussed by this exuberance, and he hesitated as he took the bank president’s hand. “Why, thank you.”
“You’re looking a trifle less robust today. You don’t mind my mentioning it, do you?” He guided Morton into his office. “You’re the only game in town, and so you—” He broke off as Morton stared at him.
“The only game in town?” Morton said, appalled at his conflicting emotions.
Hewlett folded his arms. “A joke, a kind of pun, Morton. You . . . you’re in demand because of it.”
To his chagrin, Morton blushed. “Mr Wainwright, I don’t know what to say to you. I never intended to do anything incorrect, and you must believe that—”
Hewlett clapped Morton on the back. “We don’t worry about ‘incorrect’ here, not now.” He indicated his visitor’s chair. “Do sit down. And let me get the records you want. They’re very old-fashioned. We don’t have many computers in town these days.”
“Since the mill closed,” Morton supplied.
“No, not that,” Hewlett said, frowning. “What did you used to do on Saturday afternoons when you were young, Morton?”
This abrupt change of subject made Morton blink. “Uh . . . I was a Boy Scout. We did nature walks and things like that.”
Hewlett cocked his head. “Around here we went to the movies. Our mothers would take us over to the theater in North Poindexter and leave us while they went shopping and out to lunch and to the hairdresser and all the rest of it.” He folded his hands. “Didn’t you ever go see Godzilla or Firemaidens from Outer Space? Or Dracula?”
“No,” Morton admitted, wondering what Hewlett Wainwright was attempting to tell him. “Sometimes we went roller-skating, but my family believed that children should be outside, doing wholesome things when we weren’t in school.”
“A-ha,” said Hewlett seriously. “And you never sneaked off on your own?”
“Not for that, no,” said Morton, more puzzled than ever.
Hewlett drummed his fingers on the table. “What do you think of Ilona’s . . . appetites?”
Morton felt his face grow hot. “I . . . I never meant to do anything that you—”
“It doesn’t matter what you meant,” said Hewlett grandly. “It matters what we want.”
“I didn’t intend for—” Morton stopped, staring at Hewlett and noticing for the first time that the bank president was really quite an i
mpressive figure of a man. “I’ll leave at once, if you find me an embarrassment. I’ll arrange for another investigator to come.”
“You’ll do that in any case,” said Hewlett with calm certainty. “Because it is what we want.”
“And. . . .” Morton let the single word trail off. “I’ll leave,” he offered, starting to get to his feet.
“I’m not through with you yet, Morton, and neither is Ilona. We can still have something from you, and we intend to get it. We’re so very hungry.” Hewlett leaned forward over his desk.
“Hungry?” Morton repeated, having trouble following Hewlett once again.
For the first time, Hewlett became impatient. “Damn it, man, are you really as ignorant as you appear? Are you really unaware of what has happened to you?”
“I . . . don’t know what you’re talking about. And if,” Morton went on, suddenly certain that all these peculiar sidesteps were intended to keep him from his investigation, “it’s your plan to withhold the figures the IRS has requested, you’re going to be very disappointed.”
Hewlett shook his head. “There is no point to this investigation. It doesn’t apply to us, not now.”
“The rules of the IRS apply to everyone, Mr Wainwright,” said Morton with a sudden assumption of dignity he had not been able to find until that moment. “You understand that even when a town is in difficulties, we cannot make an exception of the people. It’s not to their benefit. Everyone has to file income tax. Those are the rules.”
Hewlett laughed, and this time there was no trace of joviality in the tone. “Death and taxes, death and taxes. It appears we are not allowed to have the release of death.”
“When you die, your heirs will have to file for you in order to let us know that you are dead. Until then, I’m afraid you’re all in the same situation as the rest of the country.” Morton rose unsteadily. “If you don’t mind, I have records to examine. I’m willing to do it at the Inn, if you’d rather.”
“Morton, come to your senses,” Hewlett ordered, his manner becoming very grand. “Don’t you know what’s happened to you? Haven’t you guessed what you’ve stumbled upon?”
“I wish you’d stop these melodramatic ploys,” said Morton, his face becoming set. If he had felt a little better, he might have taken some satisfaction in setting Hewlett straight. “Your town could be in a lot of trouble, and there’s no way you can get out of the consequences now. You can’t decide not to file income taxes, Wainwright. That’s not your decision to make.”
“Isn’t it?” Hewlett rose to his feet, his face darkening. “We’re vampires here, Morton.”
Morton stared; he had never heard so bizarre an excuse for failure to file. “What? Nonsense!”
“At first,” said Hewlett resonantly, “there was just Ilona and me, but here in Jericho, we had our pick, and those we chose, chose others. Recently we’ve had to get by on . . . windfalls. Like you, Morton.”
“Like me?” Morton laughed nervously. “Don’t make your case any worse than it is. Just give me the records, and let me do my job. And don’t try that kind of a farrididdle on—”
Hewlett shook his head, anger changing his expression to something more distressing than it had been. “You think I am lying to you, Morton? You believe that I’ve made this up?”
“It’s ridiculous,” said Morton flatly. “You’ll have to come up with something better than that. And if you persist with so absurd a story, you will not find the IRS at all sympathetic. We try to be responsive to the predicaments of those taxpayers who are experiencing financial setbacks, but you’re mocking our policy, and that will not work to your benefit.” He touched his forehead, wishing he did not have a headache.
“And what will you think when you start desiring blood?” Hewlett asked, his tone leering now. “How do you plan to explain that?”
“Your threats mean nothing to me,” said Morton.
“Wait until the next full moon,” said Hewlett. “You’ll be in for a shock then.” He smacked his desk with the flat of his hand once. “For your own benefit, Symes, don’t be too hasty. You’re at risk now, and once you join our number—”
“Oh, come off it!” Morton said, heading toward the door. “I am not going to indulge you in this travesty of yours, Wainwright. If you had been candid with me, I might have been willing to extend myself on behalf of this town, but under the circumstances – circumstances that you have created, Mr Wainwright – there is no reason for me to do anything more than file my report and let the law take its course.” Without waiting for any response, he strode through the office door and across the lobby.
From his place behind the desk, Hewlett Wainwright called out, “Wait for Ilona tonight, Symes. There is still a little wine left in your veins. Then wait for the full moon.”
Morton considered leaving Jericho that very afternoon, but his fatigue was so great that he did not trust himself to drive on the winding, narrow roads as daylight faded. He occupied himself for the remainder of the day updating his reports and adding his own observations to the facts he had discovered. For the most part, he dealt very indirectly with his discoveries, but when it came to Wainwright’s ludicrous claims, Morton hesitated. Matters would go badly enough in Jericho without the additional condemnation of the bank president’s sarcasm. Morton decided that it was not proper for the entire town to suffer because the bank president was making insults and outlandish claims. There would be other ways to deal with Hewlett Wainwright; the townspeople had more than enough to contend with.
Dusk turned the Ivy Room dark, and Morton finally set his work aside. He knew he ought to go out for a meal, but his headache was worse, and it appeared to have killed his appetite. He went down to the lobby and asked for a pot of tea to be sent up along with some rolls. Then he tottered back up the stairs and promptly collapsed on his bed. His thoughts began to drift, and soon he was in that strange half-dreaming, half-waking state where his perceptions were as pliant as Silly Putty.
In this state, it seemed to him that he got up once again and went down onto the street, where he saw dozens of townspeople waiting in silence as he went toward the Wainwright house. He recognized the chief of police and the waitress who had served him his supper, but the rest meant nothing to him, almost as if they had no faces. Morton sensed they were watching him, though only a few were bold enough to do it openly. There was a brazen hunger in their faces that might have petrified him had this not been a dream. He kept moving.
Ilona Wainwright was in the overrun garden, standing beside a shapeless bush that Morton did not recognize. There were a few long flowers hanging on its branches, giving off a sensuous, sickly smell, cloying as overly sweet candies. Ilona, in a trailing lavender dress, smiled and held out her arm to him – part of Morton’s mind wanted to laugh at Ilona for not wearing black – beckoning to him.
With the townspeople so near, Morton could hardly bring himself to move. He was compromising himself, his investigation, and the IRS by this infatuation with a married woman. It was one thing when their relationship was a matter of conjecture, for then he had recourse to plausible deniability. Once their trysts were known and seen, there would be no such means to refute any accusations made against him. He trembled as he looked at her; when she called his name, he succumbed.
How cold her arms were, and how she held him! The only thing lacking in the passion of her embrace was warmth. By the time they broke apart, Morton was shivering.
“You must come inside; let me warm you,” said Ilona in her lowest, most seductive tone.
“I . . .” Morton could not break away from her.
“Come inside,” she coaxed, going toward the open door that led from the garden into what had once been called the morning room.
Morton went with her, and passed into deeper sleep, to wake in the morning pale and ill, feeling as if he had spent the whole night in an endless fistfight, which he had lost. It took more than five minutes for him to get up, and when at last he did, he was more disorie
nted than he had been previously. He blinked stupidly, and stared at the atrocious wallpaper as if it might be ancient undeciphered writing rather than a bad representation of ivy leaves. Gradually his thoughts began to piece themselves together, each one adding to the sensation of vertigo building in him, and making him feel queasy.
“Got to get up,” he said to himself, then fell silent as he heard the thready noise he made. God! he thought. This is more than allergies. I must have some kind of flu.
That was it, he decided as he pulled himself out of bed and felt his way along the wall. He had picked up some kind of virus, and it had distoned his perceptions. Yes, that explained it. The town was in trouble, no doubt of that, but because of the disease he was making more out of their troubles than existed. In the bathroom he stared in the mirror at his haggard features, then opened his mouth very wide in the hope that he might be able to see if his throat was red. The angle was wrong, and he could see nothing, though his throat was sore, and his head was full of thunder. He started to shave, doing his best to handle the razor with his customary care.
This time he managed not to nick himself, but his hands were shaking visibly by the time he put the razor away. His bones seemed without form, as if they were made of Jell-O instead of bone. He lowered his head and reached for his toothbrush. Another hour, he said to himself. Another hour, and I’ll be gone from here, gone away. I’ll make an appointment to see the doctor tomorrow. He considered that, then decided that he had better choose a different doctor, one who was not connected to the Service, so that if he had anything seriously wrong it would not get back to Brewster. As he finished with his teeth, he began to feel the first stirrings of satisfaction.
The sour-faced clerk was not at the desk, and it took Morton some little time to find him.
“I have work to do,” the clerk announced, holding up the handle of his broom to make the point.
“I’d like to check out.” Morton held up the key. “My bags are in the lobby.”
The Mammoth Book of Vampires: New edition (Mammoth Books) Page 43