“Aw, it’s a shame you didn’t pick a word. How am I supposed to tell if you really want me to stop?”
The poker slid up his ass. He screamed, from the excruciating pain as the smell of his burning flesh filled his nostrils. Rachel only opened her mouth and laughed. Reiser saw a pair of long fangs, but it was impossible. Wait! Her word had been vampire. Christ, it couldn’t be!
“You look surprised? God, men are stupid.”
In the flurry of pain, excitement and terror, he felt her bite into his neck. The sensation was terrifying – sickening. He felt the blood drain from his still living body. The pain from below was still searing and unbearable, but the knowledge someone was drinking his blood was worse. His mind clouded over. He was dizzy. He opened his eyes and saw the room was closing in on him. Darkness was pouring out from all corners and surrounding him – tying him up with a special bow. He was going to die. Unless he did something, he was going to die.
His head turned to the side. Velvet was watching him – licking his lips.
The smell of death was back. This time he understood – it was coming from him. He sank under a vast wave of darkness. He felt blank with no thoughts. There was no pain – only the color black. He didn’t know it would be like this. He hadn’t had a chance to say goodbye … Perrone had been right.
He saw the flash of talons as her hand moved down and across his throat. Her movement was lightning fast, his heightened senses allowing him to see what would kill him. His throat was slit – Rachel easily slashing through his tendons, muscle and bone.
Velvet watched, interested in the spectacle. He was used to it – he’d seen it before. Rachel gave a tug and lifted Reiser’s decapitated head by a chunk of hair. Velvet’s eyes followed it as it swayed. She tossed the head casually into the center of room. It landed on the carpeted floor with a thud. Velvet leapt onto the floor beside it and began batting it about as if it were a toy.
“Goodbye, John. Thanks for the neat game. Come on, Velvet,” she cooed to her favored pet that followed her down the stairs and out into the night.
CHAPTER 28
Reginald hurried along the narrow street. He was late. He had gotten caught-up in a last minute call regarding an estate. He never thought of humans as being a pack of hungry wolves, but that’s exactly the way they behaved when money was involved. His deceased client’s estate was large by a poor person’s standard, but it didn’t warrant the type of in fighting that had broken out amongst his surviving relatives. What made it even more troubling was the fact that a valid Last Will and Testament was left that clearly expressed the patriarch’s wishes. Nonetheless, threats arose within the family ranks to contest the legal document on the basis of senility and every other pretext. Children trashing their father’s good name just so they could line their pockets with a little more gold. He hoped his family behaved less abominably. The Perry’s seemed to have passed that litmus test. No unfounded accusations, no internal hemorrhaging, no battles on home turf using family secrets to overturn the wishes of dear Arthur. That’s the way people should behave – not like wild animals salivating at the site of a recent kill.
He spotted the modest building that seemed to be taller more than wide. It always had a comfortable feel to it, but now Reginald dreaded going in. He’d visited twice, both times to drop off Figgs’ holiday bonus. The home had been decorated with holiday lights and regalia of the season. Friends and relatives crammed into it filling it to the brim with good cheer. It’s where he was first introduced to Beatrice and Figgs’ grown children. He hoped to God the children weren’t staying with their mother in her time of grief. They were married and had families of their own, but you never knew. Every family dealt with tragedy in their own way. Of course, it didn’t comfort Reginald to consider that Beatrice might be alone as there were all those other reasons why he didn’t want to go in. His fist hung down before the small blue door. Ignoring the bell, and against his better judgment, he tapped softly two times praying that Beatrice didn’t notice.
He heard movement on the other side and before he could retreat and hide, the door had been opened. Beatrice’s lined face looked sheepishly up at him. She was rubbing her hands on a small kitchen gingham-checked towel. Across her face was written the word pain.
“Hello, Mr. Charles. I thought you decided not to come.”
She was done drying her hands. The towel dangled from her clawlike grip. She extended the other towards Reginald. He took it not remarking on the dry, roughened texture of her skin.
“I apologize for the lateness. I was unavoidably detained.”
Reginald saw no reason to go into details. The door closed with a rattle. Reginald took off the derby he sometimes wore. He stood awkwardly with it at his side wondering what he was doing. This whole trip was nonsense. Willie had become mentally unbalanced. That’s all. Due to his deteriorating mental condition, he probably had embellished on the story he had originally told Reginald and come up with a name. Reginald did his best not to clip the heels of Mrs. Figgs as she led him into the shabby living room. The couch and chairs were threadbare from usage. He remembered the room as exuding charm, but it had transformed into being cloying and decayed. Figgs was not the only thing that had died. The house had caved in with him.
Instead of relaxing, he now felt the walls closing in. It was a mausoleum and the kind of place where you expected to find bodies buried in the basement. He wondered what happened to the happy place he’d visited. Could one person change a home that much? While the Perry residence had seemed not as loud or ingratiating, it was still comfortable to visit. There was warmth and appeal. Not so with this residence. It looked like a cherry that was all pit and no flesh – an apple that had been left on the ground to wither away. Dehydrated and old, it continued to perish as worms burrowed tunnels to its core.
Mrs. Figgs brought out her hand and Reginald lowered himself onto the couch as was signaled. There was more light in the living room and Reginald could now see the ravages of Willie’s death carved into Beatrice’s face. Her once cherubic appearance was gone – replaced by that of an old woman that had been left out on the back porch to dry. She should have been hanging by her thumbs.
“You just have a seat. I’ll be right back with some tea.”
“No, no, please don’t go to any trouble,” Reginald protested. He didn’t know that he wanted to drink anything that she had a hand in creating. He just might catch her disease – the one called unhappiness.
“It’s no trouble since it’s all made. Kept it nice and warm, I did. I didn’t give up even though my mind was urging me to. I’ll be right back.”
Tufts of gray hair drooped about her lined face pulling it down even further. Reginald remembered that her hairstyle had been meticulous on previous visits, but not so today. She looked frowsy and haggard. Her clothes ill-fitting and appearing as if they had been meant for someone two sizes bigger. Had she picked them up from a park bench by mistake? Her neat bun was messy – fluffy bits of dried tresses dribbling lifelessly to her shoulder. Her motion caused momentary animation to occur. They floated out around her as she scampered away like a rodent seeking darkness and shelter from a storm. Her long, clumsy skirt rustled as she moved, her thick orthopedic shoes allowing her freedom of gait. Reginald remembered Willie recounting the trouble she had with her feet before finding this expensive, very unflattering brand.
Reginald placed his hat on the cushion next to him, looking around at the furnishings. The rug looked beaten and not vacuumed. Its soft blue color was no longer calming – it was gasping for breath and grayed. In fact, everything had either yellowed or tarnished. The once delicate lace curtains looked ready to shred where they hung – the tatting pulling from the weight of its own thread. Like dead soldiers they hung from an old iron pole framing both sides of the windows. The windows were outlined in black. Someone had thought it a good idea to cover the wood panes in the color of death. It gave the house a cartoonish feel – as if an out-of-control child mad with fev
er had taken a black pen and highlighted every item in the house. The youngster had gone too far. The black pen had been used to draw in the once unnoticeable lines in Beatrice’s face giving them a garish and all-too-deep feel. They now looked as if they were made by a knife.
He patted his suit jacket. The paper he’d tucked into the pocket gave a soft reply letting him know it was there.
Reginald noticed the disturbance in the air long before Beatrice entered the room. He didn’t know if the turbulence were caused by motion or disturbed thoughts. Could a disquieted mind cause such chaos? She entered with a whoosh – everything done in erratic, staccato motions – as if nothing related to what previous step had been taken. The china protested with a noisy clatter as she set everything down in one clumsy blow. It now lay before Reginald like a sacrificial offering on an altar. A wicker man in a wooden cage just before a pagan priest lit a cleansing fire.
“Help yourself. I recalled you took it with milk and sugar.”
She spoke as she struggled with an old rocking chair, pulling it across the ragged rug. Reginald sprang up to help and was shushed down.
When it was in the general proximity of the coffee table, she collapsed into it noting the untouched sugared liquid still settling from being roughly handled.
“You haven’t touched your tea. Is there something wrong?”
“Yes, everything,” would have been Reginald’s reply had he been callous enough to make it. Instead he picked up the bone white china decorated with rose buds and took a sip. It was lukewarm and too sweet. It flooded him with an acrid taste that immediately upset his stomach and ruined his appetite.
“Delicious,” he lied setting the cup down as soon as politely possible. “And before I forget, I have something for you,” he said taking out the envelope in his pocket. He set it down on the table as she scooted her chair closer.
“This is for you,” he said using his pointer finger. “And I won’t take no for an answer.”
“But what on earth? Whatever is it Mr. Charles?”
“It’s a duplicate check to replace the one your husband tore up.”
“Oh, no! That’s not why I wanted you to …”
“I know, but I insist. It’s money due him … and now you. If you don’t need it, maybe your children do. How are your children by the way? How are they handling this?”
“Ben and Alexander? They’re rocks, they are. I would never have been able to get through this without them,” she said starting to sniffle. She took out a small handkerchief from her skirt pocket and dabbed at her nose and eyes. She picked up the envelope off the table.
“I suppose you’re right about the children needing it. Those grandbabies are getting so big and what with Ben having another on the way. It’ll make for a few very nice Christmases for them at least. Thank you,” she reasoned, tucking the envelope in her pocket.
She lurched forward and back in the rocker – the silence winning the war. Reginald really had nothing to say except he was sorry – for everything. For her marrying and losing her husband, for her children, for her entire life – even though he’d had nothing to do with how it had all turned out.
She gave a push on the arm rails and staggered to her feet. She sighed before she moved her feet against the meager remnant of what used to be considered a floor covering. She managed to reach the mantle to the right of the table. It was only a few feet away, but it seemed a lifetime before she reached her destination. She grabbed at a small envelope held in place by a candlestick. She got it on her third try. Then came the excruciatingly lengthy journey back. She plopped down in her rocker and handed it to Reginald.
“And this is for you,” she said redistributing herself on the small wooden seat. She groaned when she stuffed a tiny creweled pillow in the small of her back for support.
“Should I read this now or … ?” Reginald prompted. He so wanted this to be all over. He couldn’t stand being around this woman. She seemed so … so … tormented. That was the word.
“No!” she blurted out in a tone reserved for a serial killer asking if he could kill her entire family while she watched. She shielded her eyes from him, looking down at where thin carpet threads stuck to the soles of her feet.
Reginald tried to escape from the gravity of his surroundings by looking at the happy faces pictured on the walls. Each mahogany frame contained such happy moments. They seemed visitors to a hospital room where a priest had given last rites to a dying patient.
“Sorry,” she apologized while rubbing her face. Scrubbing it of lines, and old age and demarcations. “The doctor gave me something stronger. I jumped the gun and took one.” She took her hand away from her face, its stark helplessness no longer shielded. Reginald wanted to take all the bad away, but how? He was suffering himself. If he couldn’t help himself, how could he help her?
“I can see you’ve been going through some things yourself. You haven’t been having bad dreams, Mr. Charles, have you? Dreams like William spoke of?”
“No, no. No, dreams,” he fired back. Why was he lying? He didn’t know other than he didn’t want to be a part of what she was going through. He wanted to think he could avoid her fate.
“Oh, sorry, then. It must have been Mr. Perry’s death eating at you. Or work …”
Reginald left her comments alone. He didn’t want to dig a deeper pit and he wasn’t accustomed to lying. Better to let her excuses for his appearance suffice.
The ticking of the mantle clock continued. Other than that, there was no sound. Nothing outside, nothing inside. Everything was dead.
She reached down for her tea and made a feeble attempt that ended in her spilling the tea down her bodice. It stained the light color of her blouse, but she merely brushed it away with her hand. She tried again and managed to swallow some. It might be the pills that were making her tired. Reginald couldn’t tell for sure. Then again, it could be those dreams …
“Like I said, I’ve been having horrible dreams. I wished and wished and wished for sleep and then when I got it. I didn’t know I was letting the devil in.”
She sounded cynical, but accepting of her fate. As if a hand reached out of the dirt and grabbed her ankle. While she didn’t want to be pulled under, she wasn’t going to fight it either.
“I suppose I was curious about what he wrote and what he was saying. It’s why I peeked. I shouldn’t have. I wish he hadn’t told me. I wish I didn’t know, but I do and now he haunts me like he haunted William. I did want to tell you. It’s just that … I’m not sure how you’ll react. My mind does wander. Always has,” she said chuckling placing the cup in her lap. “You know, Mr. Charles, my William used to like to hide out from me. Don’t know if you know that. Many a times he’d spend more time at Weatherly than he had to. I knew it wasn’t really because of me so, I never got angry or even mentioned it. He needed his private time away. Men require that sort of thing, don’t they? You probably do, too. It’s why men feel the need to carouse pubs or hang out with other men – have studies. Built-in need to be alone. Women … we women can’t get close enough.”
She stared into the distance as if reliving the past only because she had no future. Reginald fingered the envelope. It was so tempting to open it, but he couldn’t disrespect Beatrice even if she were being ridiculous. What information could it contain? Reginald knew everything Willie did.
A breeze from an open window in the living room blew in sending the lace curtain lightly up in the air. Instead of being vertical, it now stretched out horizontally, billowing towards the pair drinking tea. The breeze was surprisingly cold. The hand Reginald used to hold the dainty cup began shaking. More stray locks were loosened from Beatrice’s bun. It flew into her face and eyes.
“Goodness! Where on earth did that come from?” she remarked smoothing her hair back and standing. She hugged her shoulders.
“My, that is cold, isn’t it?”
“Yes, quite unusual for this time of year, but this is England.”
“True enoug
h, sir, but just to be safe.”
Another blasted interruption. He marked time as Beatrice hobbled to close the window. She tried to straighten the tangled mess of curtains – as if it mattered. His best guess is that it mattered to her. Her fingers couldn’t seem to untwist the two panels that resembled a Maypole.
She rejoined Reginald and took another agonizing gulp of tea before beginning. Her eyes fluttered as she tried to focus on Reginald. She seemed to be fighting off deep sleep. Damn those pills.
“I haven’t forgotten about you. I suppose, as William used to like to say, I’m avoiding the issue. He always said that to me and I’m afraid it’s true. Even now when death stares me in the face each night.”
Now it was Reginald that fidgeted. He didn’t want to talk about her dreams. They reminded him of his dreams and that’s what he was trying to forget. He had thought that the answer Willie would provide would give closure and make them go away, but he doubted that hypothesis. There was nothing Willie could have said that was going to make a difference. The dreams were there. The strange man was there. He was probably going after Miranda. That was his sense and Reginald had to stop him from seeking revenge. Why on earth had Arthur done something so completely insane as to start this war? Over what? An egg that he couldn’t even sell because of how he’d obtained it. It was worthless as was this excursion.
Adduné (The Vampire's Game) Page 40