Sara was the first woman he'd felt any real enthusiasm about since his divorce. She was attractive, bright, and affectionate and she'd actually read several of his books and could discuss them intelligently. She even urged him to start a new children's book so that she could illustrate it. Sunday, he did something he hadn't done in over two years: took her dancing at the SoNo Retro Disco Club in South Norwalk.
Even though he was working with a witch and being edited by a vampire, Sanson felt that the quality of his life was pretty good.
* * * *
It was while browsing among the soy burger selections at the Eden, Inc. Organic Market in Norwalk early in the afternoon of the following Monday that he encountered the International Occult Police Organization agent.
Sanson had promised Sara that he'd modify his eating habits, which was why he'd driven over here. Wanting to make a modest start, he hadn't taken a shopping cart but only one of the small handbaskets.
He was leaning forward studying the packages through the glass windows, when a modest-sized, mostly bald man of about forty-five stumbled over the wheel of an abandoned shopping cart and bumped into him.
"Terribly sorry,” the man apologized, disentangling himself.
"That's okay. Probably my fault,” said Sanson. “I was comparing and contrasting the vegan soy burger with the veggie salsa burger and didn't notice your approach."
Smoothing the front of his tweedy sport coat, the small bald man said, “Actually, Sanson, it was entirely my fault and merely a subterfuge."
"Oh, so?"
Gesturing at the nearby dining area of the large organic supermarket, he suggested, “Might I buy you a cup of herb tea? I'm most anxious to have a chat with you."
"About what exactly? And oh, yeah, who are you?"
"My name is Victor Truex. I'm a roving operative for the International Occult Police Organization.” He took hold of Sanson's arm and led him along a supplement aisle to one of the small empty tables.
"I've never heard of your organization."
"Yes, we strive for a very low profile. Extremely low,” explained Truex. “Wouldn't have approached you now except for the fact that you're involved with Count Lazlo Font."
"He's a count?"
"Oh, yes, has been for close to two centuries. Ever since he impaled the three relatives who were ahead of him on the succession list.” He sat in one of the blond wooden chairs, nodded at the empty one across the table. “Peppermint tea's my favorite, but you might prefer—"
"Peppermint's as good as any. Why're you guys interested in Font?"
"Tell you soon as I fetch our tea.” Truex rose and hurried to the counter.
Sanson sat his basket on the tiled floor next to his chair. All it contained so far was a jar of organic peanut butter and two cans of green tea soda.
When Truex returned with the cups of peppermint tea, he explained, “The specialty of my particular department of IOPO ... that stands for International Occult—"
"I figured as much. So why?"
"My department is involved with wiping out vampires worldwide,” the bald agent told him. “We lost track of Font for several months until he turned up here as an editor for Greensea Publications."
"It was written up in Publishers Weekly."
"That's how we found out."
"How do I fit in?"
From the breast pocket of his jacket, Truex extracted a postcard-size photo. It looked old and had a brownish tinge. “Let's confirm that you're involved with the man we're hunting for. Is this Count Font?"
Sanson took the photo and studied it for a few seconds. “Sure, although he looks younger here."
"That was taken in Budapest in 1907 when he was about a hundred years younger than he is now."
Handing back the picture of his editor, Sanson inquired, “If you know where he is, why do you need my help?"
"What I must find out is where exactly he keeps his coffin,” answered the IOPO operative. “When I destroy that and the sample of his native soil, I'll have destroyed Count Font as well."
"That shouldn't be too difficult."
"It's proven extremely difficult ever since IOPO was formed nearly a half-century ago,” said Truex. “But if we have a inside man, things will go better.” Removing the stringless teabag from his cup with his spoon, he dropped it on a napkin. “You're intimate with Inza Warburton and—"
"Wait now. Intimate isn't exactly the term I'd use,” he explained. “I'm helping Inza write her memoirs. Font is now my editor. Basically a business relationship."
"As I understand it, Inza has been using her paranormal powers to help you considerably.” Truex sipped his peppermint tea. “Myself, I wouldn't accept favors from the likes of her."
"She's straightened out my finances some, admittedly using witchcraft,” he admitted. “Nobody was actually hurt and—"
"They never found the body of the credit agency man who rode his brand new motorcycle into a river,” Truex pointed out. “Your former spouse is in a Santa Monica hospital with a broken leg and three fractured ribs."
Leaning forward, Sanson said, “Inza told me that eventually they'd pulled Tom out of the water and he survived the plunge. Marny wasn't hurt at all, outside of a few bruises from riding the house downhill."
"Rather naïve to expect a witch, a witch queen actually, to be trustworthy.” The operative took another sip of his tea. “I don't imagine she mentioned Mr. Henkel at all."
"Who's Henkel?"
"He was bicycling along the Pacific Coast Highway when your ex-wife's house made its run to the sea and sideswiped him. He's still in a coma in that same Santa Monica hospital."
"Even so.” Sanson circled his cup with his right hand. “I don't think I want to get involved with your outfit."
Truex lowered his voice. “Are you afraid that Inza is aware of this conversation we're having? Is that why you're—"
"Well, she does have that crystal ball and she is able to eavesdrop on just about—"
"Put your left hand in your coat pocket."
Frowning, he did that. He extracted a round silver medallion about three inches in diameter. “What's this thing?"
"A St. Norbert's medal,” answered Truex. “Very effective in preventing sorcerers and witches from keeping track of you and from harming you. This one, and the one I'm using, was blessed by the Pope and six cardinals. Plus which, it contains a powerful anti-black magic chip developed by our lab in Zurich."
He dropped the medallion back into his pocket. “I guess I don't feel especially guilty about what Inza's done for me,” he said finally. “My financial state is much better than it was. And within a few weeks I'll be finished with this assignment."
"So you believe."
"With the money I'll get when the book's turned in plus what I already have, I can take it easy,” he explained to the IOPO agent. “No more scuffling, no more dodging creditors or worrying about how I'm going to come up with another alimony payment.” Sanson leaned back in his chair. “As you may know, I've met a terrific woman and once I'm clear of Inza, I'll be settling down with her. Probably somewhere far from Connecticut."
Making a sympathetic sound, Truex said, “You must be aware of how fond Inza is of you. She wants you to move into her mansion and eventually become a member of her coven. You're never going to get clear."
"Sure, I am. Sara and I—"
"Here's another photo.” He extracted a brown-tinted picture from his breast pocket. “This one was taken in Vienna in 1917.” He passed the photograph across the table.
Sanson picked it up, then dropped it. “It looks like Sara, but...."
"Her real name is Emily Westerland. She was born in Somerset, England, in 1897 and was recruited by Count Font when she was seventeen and working in a music hall in London."
Sanson turned the picture face down and pushed it, slowly, back toward the agent. “I don't understand."
"They've used her to keep you pacified,” Truex told him. “Inza hasn't been able to woo
you into her circle. They're convinced, however, that eventually Sara will be able to accomplish that."
"You want me to help you get Font,” he said, standing. “For all I know that picture's a fake you're using to con me into working for you guys."
"Ask Sara,” Truex suggested, handing him a gray business card. “Then contact me and we'll get to work on a plan to defeat this whole bunch."
Sanson turned away, abandoning his hand basket, and hurried out of there.
* * * *
Sara, wearing jeans and a pullover, opened the door while he was still hurrying across the afternoon lawn toward her cottage. “Coffee'll be ready in a few minutes,” she said, stepping forward to hug him.
He disentangled himself. “You knew I was coming here?"
She smiled, hugged him again and retreated inside to her parlor. “Come on in, darling."
He stopped in the center of the cozy room, glancing at the bright fire in the small brick fireplace. “There's something I want to talk to you about, Sara."
Settling into an armchair, legs tucked under her, she said, “Want to wait until we've had our coffee?"
"No, I....” He paused, took a slow deep breath in and out. “Look, Sara, how old are you?"
She looked up at the beamed ceiling, forehead wrinkling slightly. “Let's see, I was born in 1897,” she said after a moment. “So that'd make me.... Darn, I've never been that good at math. Why don't you do the figuring and—"
"Never mind.” He dropped down on the sofa. “The point is that you are in cahoots with Font and Inza. Our whole damn relationship is—"
"I wouldn't say cahoots, Paul,” Sara told him. “My situation is that I pretty much have to do what Lazlo tells me. It's, you know, part of the vampire deal. Since he's the one who initiated me into—"
"Christ, I've been sleeping with a vampire.” He stood up, abruptly. “Sounds like the title of some lousy B-movie on Turner Classics. I Slept with a Vampire."
"You're upset, darling,” Sara said with sympathy. “But, really, I am fond of you. And, so I've been told more than once, there's very little difference between sleeping with one of the undead and with a contemporary female. Really."
"That's comforting.” He sat back down on the sofa. Then popped upright again. “How many guys have you slept with since 1897?"
Sara shrugged. “I told you I'm not very good at math."
He commenced, in a sort of jagged way, pacing the cozy parlor. “Why did they set me up with you?"
"Inza, as you well know, Paul, is very fond of you,” she explained. “She was hoping she could persuade you to move into the mansion and join her coven without any help from outside."
"She couldn't have done that."
"When she realized it, she consulted with Lazlo and he sent me here to see what I could do about persuading you."
He nodded. “So you're a recruiter. You didn't really give a damn about me. Hell, you probably never even really read any of my books."
"No, dear, I did read one of them. It wasn't as good as I pretended, but really not too terrible.” She rose to her feet. “I do like you, although you have to realize that I've known a lot of other interesting men. In over a century, one is bound to encounter—"
"Okay.” He moved toward the door. “I know what I have to do and it's get rid of Count Font and the whole witch coven."
"Simpler to join them,” advised Sara. “I'd be willing to continue our friendship if you did that. You really don't want to annoy Lazlo or Inza."
He yanked the door open, went running to his car.
He started the engine, gunned it, and swung out onto Gallows Hill Road and away from Sara's cottage.
As the car rushed along the tree-lined road, he reached into the coat pocket where he'd put the protective medallion.
"Damn.” The St. Norbert's medallion was gone. “She picked my pocket while she was hugging me."
Didn't matter. He grabbed his cell phone up off the passenger seat. He'd call Truex, tell him the location of the count's coffin. That would start the process.
He started to dig the IOPO agent's card out of another pocket. He stopped, slowed his car, grew thoughtful.
Dropping the phone down on the seat cushion, he said aloud, “Hey, plenty of time to contact. But it just occurred to me that now that I have quite a bit of money, I ought to start buying a few things for myself.” He nodded, smiling. “And I've always wanted a motorcycle."
[Back to Table of Contents]
Petri Parousia by Matthew Hughes
Around these parts, Matthew Hughes is best known for his tales of penultimate Earth, particularly the stories of Henghis Hapthorn and of Guth Bandar. This month, however, we find Mr. Hughes using a more contemporary setting as the starting point for this particular strand of speculation....
A research scientist is someone who cannot rest content within the confines of existing knowledge, but always itches to know what is over the horizon.
Or it's somebody who doesn't know to leave well enough alone.
Either definition would fit Wally Applethorpe. So it was natural for him to stay on at Yale School of Medicine on a research fellowship, while I couldn't wait to get out and start cutting people open to give them new knees and hips and other useful parts in return for a six-figure income.
In our last year together, Wally had got interested in DNA. Nothing wrong with that, of course. There are plenty of useful things to do with DNA, from catching serial killers to editing congenital diseases out of the gene pool. I suppose you can even make a case for the idea of “improving” the species by making people stronger or more germ-resistant, or whatever he was getting up to in his lab over behind the red brick Farnham Building.
I admit, I could never totally fit my mind around what he was doing. If I could have, maybe I wouldn't have become a surgeon. To me, the human body was not a quasi-metaphysical mystery to be unraveled. It was a kind of soft machine whose parts could be repaired when they broke down, or—even better—replaced entirely with materials God would have used if He'd only had access to teflon and stainless steel.
But to Dr. Wally Applethorpe, full-weight genius and Bentham Research Fellow Extraordinaire, the human being was an infinite series of nesting boxes, like those wooden Russian dolls, one inside another. As soon as he got one open, he'd discover another, smaller one inside, and he'd get busy trying to find his way in, world without end.
I moved up to Boston, joined an existing medical group as their bone man, and got busy in my own way: marriage, mortgage, membership in a decent country club. I received regular emails from Wally—"Keeping in touch” was always the subject header—to which I replied as briefly as I knew how. You may not know many real geniuses, but let me tell you: close up, over the long term, they can truly get on your nerves.
Then late one morning he showed up at my office. Sharon, the receptionist, was still buzzing me to ask if I wanted to receive an unscheduled visitor when he walked right through my door and said, “Jimmy-boy, you've got to see this."
By reflex, I said, “Don't call me Jimmy-boy. It's Jim, or James, or what the hell, Dr. Feltham."
He gave me that look he always used to give me, the Let's not make a big deal out of nothing look (although it seemed to me his whole life was about making big deals out of next to nothing), and said, “I've got to show you this!"
Now, someone who didn't know Wally Applethorpe might think that the logical response to his statement would be, “What?” But I'd spent three years in a grungy New Haven apartment with him, so my question was, “Why?"
He blinked and put on that expression of astounded innocence that went with the clear blue eyes, perpetually pink cheeks, and shock of corn-yellow hair. “Because you're my friend,” he said.
"I'm not your friend, Wally,” I said. “I'm just a guy who wound up rooming with you because I couldn't find anything cheaper. Why don't you try to think of us as strangers who got stuck in an elevator and then happily went their separate ways?"
At which he gave me his You old kidder, you look and launched into the matter that had brought him here. “Give me some blood,” he said, pulling a specimen kit out of his pocket.
This time, my response was the same as anybody's would have been. “Why?"
"So I can show you what I've been doing."
"Why?"
He sighed indulgently. “'Cause you're going to want to get in on the ground floor of this. I'm launching a company, got some backers, going to make some big buckazoids, do a lot more research. Sky's the limit. So naturally I thought of my old buddy, Jimmy-boy."
It was on the tip of my tongue to say, “I'm not your old buddy,” but another part of my brain weighed in and said to me, Just ‘cause he's an annoying little twerp doesn't mean he isn't brilliant. How many people could stand Bill Gates before he was a multi-billionaire?
I rolled up my sleeve and he efficiently took ten ccs out of me. “Now what?” I said.
"I'll be back tomorrow,” he said, “to show you."
"That's kind of a long commute from New Haven."
"Didn't you get my email?” he said. “I'm just six blocks from here now. Hey, you free for lunch?"
I pleaded an urgent, though imaginary, consult with Jag Sharma, our geriatrics specialist. And, thank God, I did genuinely have a couple of hip replacements scheduled for the afternoon, which allowed me to ease him out the door while he was still bubbling about how it was just like the good old days, the two amigos back in the saddle again. But after he had gone, I wondered how I would keep him at a manageable distance.
I went out front to plot strategy with Sharon. “What a sweet guy,” was her opening comment, which was just what girls always said about Wally. Of course, they hadn't had him at full strength and close quarters for three years. Or maybe it was just me. Either way, and notwithstanding the puzzled look she gave me, I worked out a system with Sharon: she would buzz me the moment she saw Wally out in the elevator lobby and heading for the glass doors. That would give me time to get into somebody else's office and close the door before he could inflict himself on me at will. With Wally, I had found that control was the key to maintaining sanity.
FSF, February 2008 Page 9