“I was hoping at your residence,” Mara said. “My apartment is on the cramped side, not at all what you’re accustomed to. Your castle would be perfect. That way I could get the feel of the place.”
You’d like that, you sneaky coward; Van Diemen thought. Then he dithered a bit. “My castle, eh? You’d like to get the feel of it, you say. I’m not sure I could agree to something like that. No one ever comes here, you see. It’s not that I’m antisocial. It’s just that I’m rather set in my solitary ways. If you do come, I won’t have you taking photographs of me or anything else. Is that clear?”
Mara was quick to say, “Perfectly clear, sir. As I said in my letter, you will have complete control. Final cut, as they say in the movie industry.”
“Did you say movies?” Van Diemen’s voice expressed alarm. “What do you mean by movies!”
“No, no. It’s just an expression they use. Usually it means the producer or the director has the final word on what is shown in the theaters. Do you follow me, sir?”
I’d like to follow you off a cliff, Van Diemen thought. I’d like to follow you right through the gates of hell. “Yes, now that you’ve explained it. I think we can do business provided you live up to your part of the agreement.”
“How soon would you like to start?” Mara sounded more confident. “Anytime you say, but the sooner the better from my point of view.”
Van Diemen smiled. “What about tonight?”
“Tonight!” Mara was startled to get such quick results.
“Is there something wrong with tonight?” Van Diemen put a little crankiness in his voice. “If that isn’t suitable—”
“No. No. It’s fine with me. Would an hour from now be all right with you? I could be there at nine.”
“Do you know how to get there?”
Mara laughed. “You’re talking to an old Bronx boy, Mr. Van Diemen. I take the subway to Two Hundred Forty-second and from there I grab a cab. Or could you send your chauffeur to pick me up at the station?”
Van Diemen ignored that request. The fellow was getting above himself, and he needed to be taken down a peg or two. He needed to be taken down and perhaps taken out, if that was called for. “Ring the bell at the gate and my servant will let you in and bring you here. Do not wander off, Mr. Mara. The grounds are guarded by mastiffs and only my man can control them. Till nine o’clock then.”
A few minutes later Van Diemen called Sandor on the interior telephone and told him he must be ready to answer the gate bell about nine o’clock. “Be prompt,” he warned, “or I’ll take the whip to you.”
Sandor knew about the whip, he’d felt it before. “Nine o’clock,” he repeated. “Yes.”
Van Diemen looked at the clock: 8:15: Mara would be on his way if he hoped to arrive by nine o’clock. A bottle of champagne sat in its bed of ice, but Van Diemen didn’t touch it. Thirty minutes later he took two hand grenades and a nine-mm fifteen-shot Glock semiautomatic pistol from the drawer of his writing table. He put the grenades in the side pockets of his smoking jacket and the pistol in the waistband of his trousers. Then he left the castle by a postern door and walked two hundred yards through the dark grounds to the gate. The grounds were untended and overgrown with brush; the mastiffs roamed through the walled-in wilderness like the wild beasts they had become. Only Sandor could control them, yet Van Diemen had no fear. The savage dogs might howl and snarl and want to kill him, but they were afraid to try. It was the same with all animal killers.
Van Diemen stood in tangled shrubbery to one side of the gate, waiting for Mara to arrive. He didn’t think Mara was coming with murder on his mind, but he never knew. If Mara brought murderous friends, they were in for a surprise. Two grenades ought to slow them down, and the pistol would do the rest. If any attackers kept coming in the face of all that, Van Diemen would simply disappear. But such an assault wasn’t likely to happen, not yet anyway.
A short while later, a car drove up and stopped at the gate. A door opened and closed; then the car drove away. That would be the taxi; there was no mistaking the sound of a clapped-out New York taxi. A man came to the gate and Van Diemen heard him muttering to himself before he found the bell set into one of the stone posts.
“Fucking nut case,” Van Diemen heard Vincent Mara say, knowing the insult was directed at him.
Sandor arrived at the gate as fast as his thick legs could carry him. He relocked the gate after he let Mara through. Mara said something, but Sandor didn’t even grunt in response. All he did was motion Mara to follow him. Van Diemen put a grenade back in his pocket and walked silently some distance behind them. The mastiffs came in for a snarling attack as soon as they smelled the intruder, but Sandor sent them away with a snarl of his own. Van Diemen left the driveway and ran to the postern door. He was waiting at his writing table when Sandor showed Vincent Mara into the library. One look and he thought of Tracy Lee Dembroder.
Mara was a pasty thickset man of about forty; his dark blue topcoat and gray hat were as nondescript as he was. Van Diemen didn’t get up to greet him. “Good evening, Mr. Mara,” he said. “I trust you can see well enough by what light there is.”
Mara stood blinking in the dim light of the library. “That’s all right,” he said.
The only light came from low-wattage bulbs in frosted globes. “I must rest my eyes,” Van Diemen said. “Put your hat and coat anywhere. Or would you prefer to keep them on? It’s a bit chilly in here. Sorry there isn’t a fire. Draw up a chair, will you. I prefer to talk where I work.”
Mara pulled up a chair and sat down without taking off his hat or coat or gloves. “It is cold in here, isn’t it? How do you keep warm, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“I don’t approve of central heating,” Van Diemen said. “It dries the air and ruins the sinuses. Yes, yes, I know all about humidifiers. I don’t approve of them either. So I have learned to do without. Not only is it a healthier way to live; it’s also good for the character.”
Van Diemen saw Mara looking at the telephone on his writing table, but he wasn’t about to explain anything to this snooping intruder. It was good to see him shivering in his topcoat. He’d suffer more than that when the time came.
“May I offer you a glass of champagne?” Van Diemen asked.
Mara looked at the bottle floating in melting ice and said, “No thanks, Mr. Van Diemen. I’m cold enough as it is—not that I’m complaining, mind you.”
“Forgive me,” Van Diemen said with mock solicitude, getting up from his writing table. “What you need is a real drink to warm you up. No brandy, I’m afraid, but I do have some jolly good flavored vodka. It’s red because it has cranberries in it.”
“I’m willing to try anything,” Mara said.
Van Diemen brought a bottle of vodka and a glass to the table. “It’s very cold, but it will soon warm you up.” He filled the glass and handed it to Mara. “I’m afraid I can’t join you. No spirits until further notice. Doctor’s orders. Drink up, Mr. Mara, and the best of luck to you.”
Mara raised the glass. “The same to you, Mr. Van Diemen. Here’s to a mutually satisfying relationship.” He emptied the glass in two gulps and his dull eyes grew watery bright as the liquor took effect. “That hit the spot.”
Van Diemen wanted to hit him with the bottle, but refrained from doing so. Clearly the man was a boorish alcoholic. Van Diemen took hold of the vodka bottle and gestured with it. “’Ave another one, matey,” he growled in a Long John Silver voice. “Aye loves a man what loves to drink.”
Mara gave him a suspicious look, and then he laughed a liquored-up laugh. “You’re a character, Mr. Van Diemen. I hope you don’t mind me saying that. Mind if I call you William or Bill?”
“I’d rather you didn’t,” Van Diemen said. “But I would like to call you Vincent. I’m sure you wouldn’t want to be called Vinnie.”
Mara was halfway down the second tall glass of vodka. “Vincent will do fine, Mr. Van Diemen. You know this cranberry vodka is pretty good stuff.
Got to remember it next time I go to the liquor store. Not that I drink all that much, but, you know, a drink in the evening helps to relax a person.”
Van Diemen’s eyes followed Mara as he got up and walked around the library, peering at the books in the shelves that went from floor to ceiling and the oil paintings of stern-visaged Dutchmen in black hats and white collars. Finally he returned to his chair.
“You got a lot of books about vampires,” he said. “The word is much the same in a lot of languages. I know that much. I know it’s vampiro in Spanish and—”
“And it’s vampir in German and French,” Van Diemen said. “The word is of Slavic origin and the spelling doesn’t differ much from country to country. The vampire has fascinated people throughout history, in all countries no matter how disparate their cultures. I take it you are of Irish descent, Vincent.”
“That is correct.”
“Then perhaps you are aware that there are vampires in Ireland, which is only natural, I suppose. It’s such a foggy, haunted land.”
“I’ve heard stories of leprechauns and banshees.” Mara laughed, but he was straightening up a bit; drunks not too far gone could do that if they had to.
“Do you find such stories amusing?”
“Not really. I have an open mind about such things.”
“Believe me, Vincent, there are vampires in Ireland.”
Mara wanted to argue the point; he was a yes-man who didn’t want to sound like a yes-man. “It’s hard to think of vampires in such a religious country.”
“Not at all, Vincent. The more religious the country, the greater the belief in the supernatural, life beyond the grave. By that I don’t mean the orthodox belief in a heaven or hell. I am speaking of the vampire, a being who may appear to die, but does not.”
Mara shifted in his chair, not at all happy with the way the conversation was going. “I respect your interest, sir, but I’m afraid I don’t share it.”
“Well said, Vincent.” Van Diemen refilled Mara’s glass and pushed it toward him. “A bore is a bore is a bore.”
“Oh, no, sir, you’re anything but.”
“Say no more, Vincent. Let us get on to what brought you here. You say you were browsing through the bound indexes and came across my name. Had you heard it before?”
Mara didn’t like to be questioned so. “Of course I had. I thought I explained it in my letter.”
“So you did,” Van Diemen said absently. “But the name Van Diemen can hardly be familiar even to the dullest historian. The history of the Dutch people, begun by the first William Van Diemen and carried on today by me, stands forever in the shadow of Mr. Motley’s great work. The Rise of the Dutch Republic remains unsurpassed. The Van Diemen history has greater depth and breadth, but then it’s still being written after nearly two centuries.”
Mara took a notebook from the inside pocket of his suit coat and flipped through the pages. “According to the index, six volumes of the Van Diemen history have been published since the nineteenth century—each about thirty years of so apart. The author is always given as William Van Diemen. How many William Van Diemens were there? None of the biographical dictionaries could provide the information.”
“There were six William Van Diemens. I am the last. The most recent volume was written by me. Does that help?”
Mara wrote the information in his notebook. “It’s a huge book,” he said. “It must have taken I don’t know how many years to research and write it. Forgive me, sir, but you don’t look old enough to have done all that.”
Van Diemen waved his hand, commanding silence. “Let me think,” he said. This, he decided, would be Vincent Mara’s first and last interview. The man was a paid spy masquerading not too well as a writer. Van Diemen no longer had any doubt about that. Actually, he’d been sure of it since the moment Mara had walked through the library door. He hadn’t seized the wretch then and there because he had wanted to hear what he had to say.
Van Diemen’s first impulse had been to kill Mara and have done with him. His skills as a researcher were limited; as a detective, however plodding, he might be of some use. He was a weak man, insecure yet stubborn, suggestible and opinionated at the same time. No one side of his personality dominated the other, which must result in a sort of ever present confusion, which, in turn, must draw him, not so unconsciously, toward outwardly imposed order. In short, Mara could be made to do the bidding of someone stronger in mind than himself. As a man he was malleable; as a vampire he would remain so.
It was Mara who broke the silence. “Have you forgotten what we were talking about, Mr. Van Diemen? I was asking about your age.”
Van Diemen looked at him, a stocky, middle-aged man in discount clothes. A failure and a drunk filled with resentment of those more fortunate than himself. Almost certainly he was Tracy Lee’s O’Brien.
“My age,” Van Diemen said at last. “Yes, my age. Pour yourself another drink, Vincent, and prepare yourself for a shock. I lied about my age, but not out of malice or an attempt to misdirect you—you must believe that—and even now I’m not sure I should tell you the truth.”
Mara leaned forward in his chair. “Tell me.”
Van Diemen sighed. “Very well then. I am two hundred eighteen years old. I am all the William Van Diemens. Amazing to you, perhaps, but true.”
Mara’s mouth didn’t hang open, but it might as well have, and his astonishment was quickly replaced by disbelief. “Now I know you’re kidding me.”
Van Diemen smiled at him, but his look was not at all threatening. “I kid you not, Vincent. I knew you’d find it hard to believe.”
“But what you say is impossible.” Mara had regained some of his composure, most of his deference. “With respect, sir, science states that no human being can live longer than age one hundred seventeen.”
In his way, Van Diemen rather liked the bumbling impostor. Now that he was about to change Mara’s life forever he could afford to be indulgent, and it was amusing to twit him a little. Soon the clown would be a junior colleague and they could share a few laughs. He would make the jokes and Mara would laugh dutifully. That was how it worked.
Mara was waiting and Van Diemen said to him, “Why one hundred seventeen, Vincent? Is that some sort of magic number? Why not one hundred twenty-five?”
No reply came until Mara drained his glass; a crafty gleam appeared in his eyes. “Well, sir, if you’re truly as old as you say you are, I can’t see any reason why you can’t live forever.”
“Quite true. I will.”
“Would you like to share what must be the secret of eternal life?”
“There’s no secret, Vincent.” Van Diemen got ready to fire his big gun. “I am a vampire.” After saying those words, he rose and came around the writing table with an outstretched hand.
“Keep away from me, you crazy!” Mara screamed in sudden terror. He tried to get out of his chair, but his bulk was against him. The chair went over backward and so did he. Van Diemen was upon him before he could get to his feet.
Mara screamed before the sharp pointed teeth sank into his neck. Van Diemen didn’t go for the jugular, which would have meant a fatal wound, but the blood flowed freely and he drank and drank, exerting the terrific suction of an experienced vampire. Mara was overweight and out of shape, but he fought against the overwhelming weakness and sudden shock that followed the massive loss of blood. His eyes closed and his body went limp.
Van Diemen knew he had to work fast to keep Mara from dying. He bit deeply into his own wrist until blood ran down his hand and dripped onto the carpet. Then he slapped Mara’s face with the bloody hand. He had to hit Mara again and again before his eyes fluttered open and his mouth moved without making a sound. Van Diemen held his bleeding wrist against Mara’s mouth. “Drink or die, Vincent. Drink or die! Drink! Drink!”
Mara’s mouth closed over the wound and he drank, sucking the life-giving fluid into his weakened body. In a little while, his mouth still made gurgling sounds, his head lolle
d to one side, and he slept. Van Diemen checked the sleeping man’s pulse before he stood up. It was rapid, but that was to be expected. Mara was strong and well nourished. He was going to be all right. He didn’t know it yet, but he had become a vampire.
Mara’s billfold was in one trousers pocket, a cigarette lighter made to look like an automatic pistol in the other. The fake pistol was the kind that could be bought in a Times Square novelty shop that sold handcuffs and knives and fake ID cards. It would look real enough to most ordinary people. The billfold contained a private investigator s license and a driver s license, both issued by New York State. It also held a few minor credit cards, a public-library card, a laundry ticket, and seventy-five dollars in cash. The licenses and the cards were in the name of Vincent D. Mara and the address listed was the same as the one in the letter. His birth date was forty years earlier.
Finally Van Diemen found what he was looking for. It was in a little zipped pocket. Jack Landau’s business card.
Van Diemen sat down to wait.
Eight
The library was very cold, but there was no need to cover Vincent Mara to keep him warm. He had been transformed into a vampire, and from this point forward, he would feel none of the physical discomforts resulting from exposure to the elements. Disease could not affect him now; he was even safe from AIDS, which was the most important immunity of all since vampires ingested so much blood. All he had to fear was being deprived of the life-sustaining fluid. If he went for more than a day without feeding, he would grow weak; longer than that without blood, he would start to die. Such deaths had often happened to vampires cut off from the society of humans.
Mara stirred in his sleep, muttered a few words, then lay as before. Van Diemen didn’t know how long Mara would need to sleep; all cases of post-initiation trauma were different. Sometimes a skinny girl was up and about in no time, while a robust man might sleep the length of a day and longer. However it was with Mara, he would be allowed to rest until he regained consciousness without any prodding or prompting. Waking newly made vampires was not to be recommended; those who seemed to sleep too long apparently had the subconscious need to adjust to their changed condition. If the change were gradual and unhurried, there was a greater chance of acceptance. Some fought it at first, fearing the thought of eternal life as much as their former fear of death. Most overcame their fears in a very short time; only a few persisted in their deep-seated resistance. Van Diemen hoped Mara wasn’t going to be one of the latter. Who could tell? Perhaps the pudgy fellow would welcome his new state with open arms and recognize the enormous benefits that vampirism would provide him. A vampire did not have to shave, bathe, eat or drink, urinate or defecate—all those tiresome mundane bodily function were things of the past.
Thirst Page 9