Night of Dracula

by Christopher Schildt

  Dixon stared at him blankly. He didn’t know what to say. He was in a no-win situation, and he knew it. The captain rose to put a hand on his shoulder. “Listen to me, threatening one of my best detectives. Heck, I don’t want to lose you. You’re tired, that’s all. You’ve just wrapped up a long, hard investigation. You should be proud of yourself. I should be commending the work you’ve done. Let’s drop all this.”

  “Captain, Steward is a callous butcher and a murderer,” Dixon whispered, humbly.

  The captain gripped Dixon’s shoulder harder. “I know. Believe me, I know. But if there’s a chance this jerk has discovered something that could save thousands of lives, well, don’t you think it’s worth it? The life of one young woman for the lives of thousands?”

  “I don’t know,” Dixon replied quietly, cheeks burning with shame. “I can’t shake off the image in those faxes we got from New York.”

  “There’s nothing more you can do for her, except . . .”

  Dixon looked up hopefully. “Except?”

  “Except to realize someone in this world actually cared about a woman like her. That’s what makes you a better man than Steward could ever hope to be. I sincerely believe he’ll have to answer to an even higher authority, someday. Maybe not tomorrow. Maybe not a year from now, but someday.”

  Dixon offered a half smile. “Do you really believe that?”

  “Sure.” The captain chuckled. “If not, maybe he’ll fall underneath a bus and get his damn legs crushed. Or maybe he’ll fall asleep smoking one of his expensive Cuban cigars and set his trousers on fire.” Dixon gave a grudging nod. The two were about to shake hands when the duty sergeant knocked, then poked his head into the office.

  “Sorry, to bother you, captain. There’s a guy who wants to see you. Says it has to do with the suspect Detective Dixon apprehended.”

  Gilbert glanced at Dixon, then back to the sergeant. “Bring ’im in,” he said, as Dixon perched on the corner of the captain’s desk.

  An elderly man shuffled into the office. He wore a musty-smelling three-piece suit and thick spectacles. Captain Gilbert invited Dr. Van Helsing to take a seat.

  Van Helsing lowered his frail body into a wooden chair that faced the two officers. He reached into a jacket pocket and pulled out a leather wallet. His trembling, wrinkled fingers retrieved an identification card, which he handed to the captain. “I am Dr. Van Helsing, from the World Health Organization. I was sent here at the request of the Atlanta Center for Disease Control.”

  Gilbert studied his I.D., then handed it to Dixon. “Well, Doctor, what can we do for you?”

  “I’ll get right to the point, Captain. We haven’t much time. I need the body of Carl Renfield released into my custody—immediately—to be sent to the Center for disposal.”

  “Impossible. His body is evidence in an ongoing investigation. You’ll have to wait until a full autopsy is performed.”

  “I’m sorry, Captain. This takes priority. He has been infected with this mysterious virus, and we can take no chances. Here is a court order.” Van Helsing handed the captain a set of papers. “As for the prisoner, it will be dark soon. The man you have in custody must be destroyed immediately.”

  Gilbert stared at him in shock. “Did I hear you correctly, sir? You’re asking us to kill our prisoner?”

  “I am.” Van Helsing was quite serious. “The Nosferatu has an immense power to work his evil. This vampire among us has the strength of twenty men. He is cunning, more than mortal—for his cunning is the growth of ages.” The doctor paused for dramatic effect. “This creature can direct the elements: the storm, the fog, the thunder. He has command over all the meaner things: the rat, the fox, the wolf. This creature you have managed to capture is Dracula!”

  Gilbert’s cackle gave way to a heavy laugh. He glanced at Dixon. “Dracula? Vampire?”

  “Sir,” Dixon interrupted, respectfully. “I was present when this man, Vladamir Tepevich, was taken into custody. I can assure you he has none of the capabilities you’ve described. He was placed under arrest without a fight. I believe you’re mistaken.”

  “No mistake!” Van Helsing replied bluntly. “You and this cackling hound are fools!”

  “Wait just a minute, Doc,” Gilbert said, still smiling. “You walk into my office screaming about vampires. You want us to go down to his cell and shoot the guy. And you call us fools? Is this some sort of joke?”

  “No joke, Captain!” Van Helsing insisted. “This creature cannot be destroyed by a bullet. We must take him into the sunlight. He is unable to exist in the sunlight. Then you must pierce the heart. And set the body on fire. He must be reduced to ashes.”

  Dixon studied the old gentleman. Sunlight, he mused, remembering something Jonathan Steward had told him. “Excuse me, sir. Do you know a Dr. Steward?”

  “I do,” Van Helsing answered. “I tried to warn him, as well. It was no use. Dr. Steward had made a deal with this creature. He was in league with Dracula.”

  Dixon was tempted to do a victory dance. “You can attest to the fact that Steward was working with the suspect, this man Dracula? I’ll need a statement from you, sir. I need your help.”

  “Statement?” Van Helsing replied. “I will help you by destroying this vampire.”

  “No!” Gilbert interrupted. “There will be no statement. The case against Dr. Steward is closed. Do you understand? Why is this guy so anxious to kill the Romanian?” He turned to Van Helsing. “What have you got against this Vladamir, or Dracula, or whoever the hell he is, anyway? What’s he done to you?”

  “Done to me?” The corner of Van Helsing’s wrinkled lips lifted into a smile. “Dracula saved my life—a very long time ago.”

  “I don’t understand, sir.” Dixon shrugged. “If he saved your life, why are you so anxious to see him destroyed?”

  “For the sake of his own salvation, Detective,” Van Helsing replied. “I, too, was once a captain, in the German Army, during the Second World War. I was a doctor, stationed in Paris during the Occupation.

  “One night, while walking the streets, I chanced upon a man who lay bleeding on the sidewalk. He had been shot. I immediately knelt to render aid. I didn’t realize this man was a member of the French resistance, but it would not have mattered to me. I had taken an oath to care for the sick.

  “An SS officer and two soldiers had been chasing this man and witnessed my attempts to save his life. The officer called me a traitor to the Reich, and ordered the soldiers to shoot me. As they raised their rifles, a strange fog surrounded us. From the murky white mist there came a man, dressed in black, his eyes burning like fire.

  “He said to them, in perfect German, ‘Death! Death to the man who would harm him. For I am Dracula!’ The SS officer only laughed. He took out his pistol and fired at this apparition. The creature attacked, as a wolf would attack a rabbit. Soon, the night was filled with screams. This drew no attention; screams in the night were unfortunately common then. Blood stained the street from curb to curb. I watched in fascinated horror, unable to flee even when he had finished his work and turned toward me. ‘Go!’ he said. ‘Go now, and speak of this to no one. But remember it. I shall only spare your life once!’ ”

  “If that’s true, why would you want to kill him?” Dixon asked again.

  “As a mercy,” Van Helsing replied, pursing his lips. “In all of Dracula’s existence there is nothing but the memory of those he has loved and lost. He is alone in a world in which he does not belong.” He raised a hand to point a trembling, wrinkled finger at Dixon. “Make no mistake, young man. Immortality is no blessing. It is a curse! Behind Dracula’s youthful eyes exists only pain and sorrow.”

  Van Helsing reached into the side pocket of his jacket and carefully retrieved a wrinkled, yellowing folded piece of paper. He handed it to Detective Dixon. “Still, you doubt my word. Tell me, is this the face of the man you have jailed?”

  Dixon carefully unfolded the paper and studied what appeared to be a wanted poster, in Ge
rman. The detailed sketch was of a man who bore an unbelievable resemblance to the man they held in custody. “It looks like him,” Dixon conceded. “But it couldn’t be the same guy. Our prisoner is in his early forties, at best.”

  “Give me that,” the captain barked. Gilbert gave the image a passing glance, then tossed it back to Van Helsing. “If your story is true, you probably ran across our prisoner’s father, or grandfather. Frankly, I think you’re full of it!”

  Van Helsing slowly rose. His voice was quiet and restrained. “Then I will waste no more of your time, Captain.” He hobbled toward the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. “You are a very foolish man, Captain,” he added. “Dracula is a killer. He will slaughter you and anyone who stands in his way.”

  His wrinkled features twisted into a grim smile. “May God have mercy on you both.” Then his smile broadened, and he said, pleasantly, “Good day to you both, gentlemen.”

  TWENTY

  Dixon’s leather soles clattered on the cement floor as he entered Vladamir’s holding cell. The steel-barred door, thickly coated with chipped gray paint, closed behind him with a jarring clang. Yet Dracula sat quietly on the floor in a corner of a dimly lit, windowless room. He was hunched over, arms crossed and resting on the tops of his knees, face hidden. All Dixon could see was a vague, dark figure slumped on a dirty floor. The detective sat on the edge of the stainless steel cot that was bolted to a graffiti-covered cinder-block wall. He riffled a thin stack of papers. After what seemed a very long time, the detective finally broke the silence. “I thought you might want these . . .” He held out photocopies of the poetry Renfield had sacrificed his life for. “I’m sorry, but the originals and the box are being held for the shooting investigation.”

  Vladamir made no reply. He didn’t even raise his head.

  “I’ll just leave this on the cot.” Dixon locked his fingers together and rested his arms on top of his legs. “I wish I could find the right words to say how sorry I am. I wish I could have prevented this.”

  Still, Vladamir said nothing.

  “You know, if it were up to me, I’d let you go,” Dixon continued softly. “Frankly, I think you’ve done the world a favor. That’s all I wanted to say.” Dixon stood and buried his hands in his pockets. There was one more thing he’d intended to say, a promise he’d made to Steward, but this didn’t seem the time, and he didn’t want to keep Vladamir’s visitor waiting any longer. “There’s someone here to see you. . . .”

  Dixon signaled to a guard in the hallway. The steel door slid open again, and a young woman stepped inside.

  “Thank you for your kindness, Detective.”

  “Not at all, Mrs. Hieden. I’ll talk to you again before you leave.”

  When the detective had gone, she slowly approached the corner where Dracula hunched on the floor. “Vladamir? It’s me. Heather.” She dropped to her knees and held his head tenderly, pulling him close to her chest. “My poor, sweet baby,” she whispered, tears forming in her round, blue eyes. “What have they done to you? And Jonathan . . . I’ll never forgive him for this. Never!”

  Vladamir slowly raised his head, so that his bloodshot eyes stared intensely into hers. “Steward?” he grumbled. “What about Steward?”

  She cocked her head. “Didn’t Dixon tell you?”

  “Tell me what?” His voice grew urgent. “What about Dr. Steward?”

  Heather slid her hands down to his sagging shoulders. “Jonathan told the police who you were and where to find you.” She bit her lip. “He directed the police to Carfax.”

  Vladamir groaned, lips quivering, face contorted as if he had been lanced in the heart. He shrugged off Heather’s hands and rose to stand gazing into space, quietly repeating “Steward,” over and over.

  Heather stood also. “We’ll get a good attorney. You have nothing to be afraid of. I won’t leave you.”

  He glanced at her, then leaned forward to whisper in her ear. Heather nodded in understanding and acquiescence. He ended with a kiss on her forehead.

  “You must go now,” he said. “Leave this place immediately, and don’t look back. I must talk to Dixon once more. Soon, my love, we shall be together.”

  Heather smiled, then left, following his instructions without question.

  Vladamir stood like a dark statue in the middle of the dim room, eyes glowing with fire. His hands tightened into fists, as the name “Jonathan Steward” raced through his mind.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Jonathan Steward was reaching for the door handle to his BMW in the hospital parking garage when he heard footsteps behind him. He turned his head to see a burly figure coming toward him. Detective Dixon. The detective’s eyes were glassy and bloodshot. He walked with a sway, and struggled to connect the tip of a cigarette to his lips.

  He staggered closer to Jonathan. “What’s up, Doc?”

  “Clever line,” Jonathan replied. “I have no time for this.”

  Dixon reached into his wrinkled jacket and pulled out a flask of whisky. He fumbled to twist off the cap, holding the cigarette between his lips. Finally, the plastic cap dropped off. He held out the bottle to Jonathan.

  “Thanks, but no thank you, Detective.” Jonathan rolled his eyes.

  “Oh, go ahead,” Dixon urged. “Take a swig. You’re going to need it.”

  “If you’ve come to harass me, Detective . . .”

  “Harass you?” Dixon laughed, then gulped down the last few swallows in the bottle. “Hell, I’ve come to do you a favor.”

  Jonathan turned back to the silver BMW, opening the door. Dinner was waiting at home. He had no time for drunken foolishness.

  “Your partner, the Romanian, escaped,” Dixon said bluntly, still appearing amused.

  Jonathan’s face went blank. He slowly turned to face the detective. “You’re lying,” he said. “It can’t be.”

  Dixon tossed the bottle aside to shatter in a far corner, then took one last drag of his cigarette. He stumbled to the front of Jonathan’s BMW and crushed out the butt on the glossy silver hood. “No joke. He escaped. I thought I’d get right over here . . . to warn you. Well, maybe not right over. This happened a couple of hours ago.”

  Jonathan slammed the door shut. “You’re just trying to frighten me.”

  “You’ve got a cell phone. Call the station if you don’t believe me.”

  “How could that happen? He was supposed to be locked up in jail!”

  “He was,” Dixon replied casually. “But then . . . he decided not to be. He literally ripped the solid steel door off the hinges. A dozen cops tried to tackle him, but he threw them aside like paper dolls.

  “One officer fired at him point-blank. The bullet didn’t even slow him down. Two others chased after him, but when they reached the parking lot, the guy vanished in a puff of smoke. I don’t know who or what this guy is, but he’s loose. And he’s looking for you! But hey, better you than me, Doc.”

  “But he doesn’t know that I . . .”

  “Put the finger on him? Got Renfield killed?” Dixon smirked. “Sure he does. I only did what you told me to do, Doc. I looked him straight in the eye and told him Dr. Jonathan Steward sent me.” Dixon didn’t mention that he’d only confirmed to Dracula what Heather Hieden had told him. He didn’t want to provide Steward with an easy target for his fear and rage. “I said you weren’t afraid of him, and you hoped he rotted in prison. Well, maybe I embellished a bit. Boy, was he steaming. He said he would hunt you down like the filthy animal you are, and . . . you get the idea. Or will, soon enough.”

  Jonathan grabbed the lapels of the detective’s jacket in blind panic. “You’ve got to protect me! You can’t leave me alone to face him!”

  Dixon pushed his hands away. “Sorry, no can do. I shouldn’t even be warning you. I’m under direct orders not to come near you.”

  “You can’t do this!” Jonathan screamed. “You have no idea what he’s capable of.”

  “Actually, I’ve got a pretty good idea what this Romanian ca
n do,” Dixon interrupted. “Before the escape, I received a visit from a Dr. Van Helsing. I believe you’ve met him as well. Anyhow, he went on and on about what a dangerous character this Dracula is. I didn’t believe him . . . then. But I sure as heck do now. I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes.”

  “You can’t let him kill me,” Jonathan pleaded. “Do something!”

  Dixon stepped backward and rubbed his chin, considering. “Tell you what . . .” Dixon reached under his jacket and pulled his 9mm from his holster. He turned the gun around, holding it by the barrel, and offered it to Jonathan. “Here, take it.”

  “You fool! That won’t kill him. You just said an officer fired a shot at him point-blank to no effect.”

  Dixon slapped the pistol into Jonathan’s palm. “The gun’s not for him. Have you any idea what Dracula could do to you? The horrible pain? The terror of knowing that he’s out there, somewhere, right now, looking for you? Take my word for it, Doc. It would be much better to do it yourself.”

  Jonathan’s eyes widened. “Are you mad? You’re suggesting I kill myself?”

  Dixon winked. “It’s the right thing to do. Just cock the hammer back, park the barrel against the side of your head, then boom! It’s all over. Quick and painless.”

  Jonathan thrust the gun back at the detective and pushed him away. “You’re a madman!” He yanked the BMW’s door open, dropped into the front seat, and slammed it shut. He started the engine, slapped the stick shift into reverse. Tires screeched against the pavement as Jonathan raced towards the exit ramp of the multilevel parking garage, leaving Detective Dixon screaming, “Butcher! Murderer!”

  Jonathan peeled out onto the street. He never looked back, and refused to look out the side windows—afraid of what he might see. Dracula was out there somewhere, hiding in the shadows. The faster he drove, the safer he felt.

  As he swerved around a sharp corner, the cellular phone mounted on the console rang. He picked up the phone with his sweaty palm and held it close to his ear.