Shadows 3

by Charles L. Grant

“I think we got her in time. If we can keep Lorpicar away from her for a couple of nights, she’ll be all right. Certainly no worse than she was in the hands of Reverend Masters.” He laughed once, mirthlessly.

  “What are you going to do?” Mr. Rogers had not taken a seat, but watched as Franciscus paced the area between the bookcases and the overstuffed Victorian chairs.

  “Find him. Before he makes a worse mistake.” He halted, his hand to his forehead. “He could have chosen any resort in the Rockies !”

  “And what would have happened to that girl if you had not found her?” He expected no answer and got none.

  “Harriet thinks that giving Emillie a crucifix would not be a good idea, considering what she’s been through. She’s probably right, but it makes our job tougher. Because you can be completely confident that Lorpicar believes the myths.” Franciscus looked out the window. “Ill see if Kathy can spare some garlic. That will help.”

  “I’ll tell her that you want some,” Mr. Rogers promised.

  Suddenly Franciscus chuckled. “I’m being an Uncle … what? Not Tom, surely. An Uncle Vlad? Uncle Bela? But what else can I do. Either we stop this rash youngster or Madelaine, and you, and I will be exposed to needless risk.” He gave Mr. Rogers a steady look and though Franciscus was quite short, he had a kind of majesty in his stance. “We’ve come through worse, old friend. I’m not blaming you, I’m miffed at myself for being caught napping.”

  Mr. Rogers allowed himself to smile. “Thank you for that.” He took a step toward the door. “I’d better go down and start dinner seating. Oh.” He turned in the open door. “There was a call from Fox Hollow. Jorry Fitzallen will be here by eight.”

  “Good. By then, I’ll have a better idea where we stand.”

  Franciscus’ confidence was destined to be short-lived. He had left the library and had not yet reached the glass doors opening onto the porch when he heard an anguished shout from the area of the lounge and Harriet Goodman started toward him.

  “Franciscus!” she called in a steadier tone, though by that time, Mrs. Emmons had turned on her barstool and was watching with undisguised enthusiasm while Nick and Eleanore Wyler paused on the threshold of the dining room to listen to the latest. Eleanore Wyler was wearing a long Algerian caftan with elaborate piping embroidery with little mirrors worked into it, and she shimmered in the dusk.

  Assuming a levity he did not feel, Franciscus put his small hands on his hips. “Ms. Goodman, if that frog is still living under your bathtub …” It had happened the year before and had become a harmless joke. The Wylers had been most amused by it, and Nick Wyler chortled and began in a loud voice to remind Eleanore of the various methods that were used to rout the offending frog.

  Under the cover of this hearty basso, Harriet nodded gratefully. “Thanks. I realized as soon as I spoke that I should have remained quiet. You’ve got your wits about you, which is more than I do.” She put her hand up to wipe her brow, saying very softly, “I’m sorry, but Emillie is missing.”

  “Missing?” Franciscus repeated, genuinely alarmed.

  “I heard Mrs. Harper making a fuss, so I went up the path to their cabin and asked what was wrong. She said she’d been out of Emillie’s bedroom for a few moments—I gather from her choice of euphemisms that she was in the john—and when she came back the bedroom door was open and Emillie was nowhere to be seen.”

  Franciscus rubbed his smooth-shaven face. “I see. Thank you. And if you’ll excuse me now …” He had motioned to Mr. Rogers, but did not approach the manager. Instead he was out the glass doors in a few seconds, walking swiftly on the east-bound path past the parking lot to the trail leading to the Harpers’ cabin 19. His thoughts, which had been in turmoil when Harriet had spoken to him, were now focused and untainted by anger. He had let the matter go on too long, he told himself, but without useless condemnation. He had not supposed that any vampire would be as obvious, as flamboyantly inept as Milan Lorpicar. He lengthened his stride and steeled himself to deal with Doris Harper.

  Jorry Fitzallen had required little persuasion—he allowed himself to be put up in one of the best cabins and provided with one of Kathy’s special late suppers. He was curious about the girl, he said, and would not be needed in Fox Hollow that night unless an emergency arose. He spent the evening listening to the descriptions of the missing girl from her parents, from Harriet Goodman, from all those who had seen Emillie and all those who had an opinion. From Jim Sutton he got the background of Emillie’s disputes with Reverend Masters, and shook his head with distress. He had treated a few of the good Reverend’s followers and had some strong words about that cult leader. He was not able to talk to Dr. Eric Muller, for though the physician had examined Emillie Harper, he kept insisting that he was only a dermatologist and had never encountered anything like Emillie’s wounds before and did not want to again. At last Jorry Fitzallen abandoned the questions for the pleasure of talking shop with Harriet Goodman.

  There was no music in the lounge that night, for Mr. Franciscus was out with half the day staff, searching for Emillie Harper, and for the strange Mr. Lorpicar.

  “I knew he was not to be trusted,” Mrs. Emmons told the Jenkins sisters, Sally and Elizabeth, who had arrived that afternoon shortly before Emillie Harper was reported missing.

  “But how could you? What was he like?” Sally asked, watching her sister stare longingly at Mrs. Emmons’ margarita.

  “Well, you know. Men like that—oh, very handsome in a savage way. Tall, dark, atrocious manners, and so domineering!” Her intended condemnation was wistful. “Anyone could see at once that there would be no discouraging such a man once he made up his mind about a woman.”

  The Wylers, at the next table, were indulging in more speculation. “If she had bruises all over her, maybe he simply beat her up. Girls like to be treated rough if they’re inhibited, and if ever I saw someone who is …” Nick Wyler asserted loudly.

  “I can’t imagine what that poor child must have gone through,” Eleanore agreed in a tone that implied she knew what she would want done to her, had Mr. Lorpicar—and everyone was certain that her assailant was Mr. Lorpicar—chosen her instead of Emillie Harper.

  The Browns, Ted and Katherine, came in and were instantly seized upon for news. Since they had brought their own horses, they had been out on the trails with Franciscus and two others. Enjoying this moment of attention, they described their meeting with the ranger named Backus who had reluctantly promised to alert his fire patrol to the two missing guests.

  “I think,” Ted Brown said, his smiling making seams in his face, “that Backus thought those two don’t want to be found for a while. He said as much to Franciscus.”

  There were knowing laughs in answer to this, and listening, Harriet Goodman was glad that the Harpers had remained in their cabin rather than come to the lounge.

  “That Backus sure didn’t want to help out,” Katherine Brown agreed with playful indignation. “He’s worried about fire, not a couple of missing people.”

  Several diverse points of view were heard, and in this confusion, Ted Brown ordered drinks from the bar.

  It was more than an hour later, when the noise in the lounge was greater and the talk was much less unguarded, that Franciscus appeared in the doorway. His black clothes were dusty and his faced was tired. At the back of his dark eyes there was a cold wrath burning.

  The conversation faltered and then stopped altogether. Franciscus came across the floor with quick, relentless steps, to where Jorry Fitzallen sat with Harriet Goodman. “I need you,” he said to the doctor, and without waiting for a response, he turned and left the lounge.

  The Kiowa made no apologies, but followed Franciscus, hearing the talk erupt behind him as he reached the front door.

  On the porch, Franciscus stopped him. “We found her. She’s dead.”

  “You’re certain?” Jorry asked. “Laymen sometimes think that. .

  Franciscus cut in sharply. “I’ve seen enough dead bodies to r
ecognize one, Doctor Fitzallen.”

  Jorry Fitzallen nodded, chastened, though he was not sure why. “Where is she?”

  “In cabin 19. Her parents are … distraught. If you have a sedative, a strong one, Mrs. Harper could use it.” The words were crisp, and Franciscus’ ire was no longer apparent, though Jorry Fitzallen was surf that it had not lessened.

  “I’ll get my bag. Cabin 19 is on the eastern path, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. Second from the end on the right.” He studied the physician’s sharp features. “You will need to be very discreet, Jorry.”

  Jorry Fitzallen puzzled the meaning of that remark all the way from his car to cabin 19.

  Madelaine de Montalia was seated beside Mrs. Harper, her arm around Doris Harper’s shoulder, a barrier for the near-hysterical sobs that slammed through her like seismic shocks. Franciscus, who was pouring a third double scotch for the stunned Mr. Harper, gave Jorry Fitzallen a quick glance and cocked his head toward the women on the couch.

  With a nod, the doctor put his bag on the coffee table and crouched before Mrs. Harper.

  Doris Harper gasped at the newcomer, looking toward her husband in deep distress. “Howard …” she wailed.

  Franciscus stepped in, letting Mrs. Harper see the full compelling force of his dark eyes. “Yes, you are very fortunate, Mrs. Harper. Dr. Fitzallen came as soon as our message reached him, and he’s waiting to have a look at you.”

  “But Emillie …” the woman cried out.

  “That will wait.” was Franciscus’ immediate reply. He laid one beautiful, small hand on her shoulder. “You must be taken care of first.” Had that ever happened to this poor, faded, middle-aged woman before in her life? Franciscus thought. He had seen women like her, all his life long. They tried to buy safety and love and protection by putting themselves last, and it had never saved them. He sighed.

  “I’m going to give you an injection, Mrs. Harper,” Jorry Fitzallen was saying in his most professional tones. “I want you to lie down on the couch afterward. You’ll stay with her, will you, Miss … ?”

  “As long as you think is wise,” Madelaine answered at once.

  Mrs. Harper gave a little, desperate nod of thanks and gritted her teeth for the injection.

  “I think she’ll sleep for several hours,” the doctor said to Franciscus and Mr. Harper. “But she’s already under tension, from what Mr. Franciscus has told me, Mr. Harper, and it would be wise to get her back into familiar surroundings as soon as possible.”

  “But we sold everything when we moved and changed . . He stopped, glancing uneasily from one man to the other.

  “Your name, yes,” Franciscus said gently. “But now that doesn’t matter, and you will have to make certain arrangements. If you have family in another part of the country . .

  “God help me, the funeral,” Mr. Harper said, aghast, and put his hands to his eyes.

  Before either Franciscus or Jorry Fitzallen could speak, Madelaine came up beside them. “I think that Mr. Harper would like a little time to himself, gentlemen.” With a deft move, she extricated the grieving father from the other two. “Let’s see the body,” Jorry Fitzallen said quietly, feeling that same disquieting fatigue that the dead always gave him.

  Franciscus held the door and the two passed into the smaller bedroom.

  Emillie was nude, and her skin was more mottled than before, though this time the marks were pale. The body had a waxy shine and looked greenish in the muted light.

  “Jesus H. Christ,” Jorry Fitzallen murmured at the sight of her. “Is there any post-mortem lividity?”

  “A little in the buttocks. That’s about it.” Franciscus kept his voice level and emotionless.

  “Exsanguination is your cause of death, then. Not that there could be much doubt, given her color.” He bent to touch one of the many wounds, this one on the inside of her elbow. “How many of these on her?”

  “Sixteen total. Seven old, nine new. It happened before, which is why you were called. She was unconscious.” Franciscus had folded his arms and was looking down at the dead girl.

  “If her blood loss was as heavy as I think it might have been, no wonder she was out cold.” He bent over the girl and examined the wound at the elbow. “What kind of creature makes bites like this? Or is this one of the new torture cults at work?”

  “The wounds were made by a vampire; a very sloppy and greedy one,” Franciscus stated surely.

  “Oh, for the love of God, don’t joke!” Jorry Fitzallen snapped. “Ill have to notify the county about this at once. The sheriff and the medical examiner should be alerted.” He was inspecting two more of the bites now, one on the curve of her ribs and one just above her hip. “They’re not deep. She shouldn’t have bled like this.”

  Franciscus was silent.

  “This is going to take a while,” Jorry said, rather remotely. “I’m going to have to be very thorough. Will you give the ambulance service in Red Well a call Tell them it isn’t urgent but they better bring a cold box.”

  “Of course,” Franciscus said, grateful for the dismissal. There were too many things he had to do for him to spend more time with the Kiowa physician.

  The Harpers left the next morning, and so did the Barneses, though they had done little but sit in their cabin and play table tennis in the recreation hall.

  “She was so close to us,” said Mr. Barnes, who had been in the first cabin on the eastern trail. He looked about nervously, as if he thought that death might be lurking around the registration desk.

  “I quite understand,” Mr. Rogers assured him, and handed him the accounting of the elderly couple’s brief stay.

  “How many have checked out this morning?” Madelaine asked when the lobby was empty. She had been standing at the mezzanine, watching Mr. Rogers.

  “Dr. Muller, the Barneses, the Harpers, Amanda Farnsworth and the Lindholms. As Martha so correctly pointed out, a man with a heart condition does not need to be distressed, and the events of the last two days are distressing.” He had closed the huge, leather-bound register.

  “But Lorpicar is still here,” Madelaine said, her violet eyes brightening with anger.

  “Apparently. No one has seen him. He hasn’t checked out He could have decamped without bothering to settle his account and that would be quite acceptable to me,” Mr. Rogers said austerely, but with an understated familiarity.

  The lobby doors by the foyer opened and Jim Sutton strode into the room. “Have either of you seen Harriet?” he asked anxiously.

  “No, not since breakfast,” Mr. Rogers answered. “Miss Montalia?”

  “Not this morning.”

  Jim sighed, tried to look irritated and only succeeded in looking worried. “She was talking some nonsense about that Lorpicar whacko. She said that she could figure out where he was hiding if she could only figure out what his guilt-patterns are. What a time to start thinking like a shrink!” He started toward the door and turned back. “If Franciscus comes in, ask him if he’s seen her. It’s crazy, I know,” he went on in a voice that ached to be reassured. “It’s because of that girl. You’d think I’d be used to bizarre deaths by now, wouldn’t you? But with Harriet trying to prove a point, damn her …” He pushed the door open and was gone.

  “Where’s the Comte?” Madelaine asked Mr. Rogers quietly.

  “Searching the cabins on the north end of the lake. He’s already done the southern ones.” His face showed no emotion, but he added, “I thank you.”

  Madelaine tossed her head. “I’ll tell him. He likes Harriet.” She was down the stairs and almost to the doors. “So do I.”

  “Next well have Mrs. Emmons out skulking in the bushes!” Franciscus burst out when Madelaine had told him about Harriet. “Why couldn’t she have waited a bit?”

  “For the same reason you didn’t probably,” Madelaine said with a sad, amused smile.

  He touched her face, a gesture of infinite longing. “I do love you, my heart. The words are nothing. But now, they are
all we can share.” He took her in his arms briefly, his face pressed against her hair. She was only half a head shorter than he and she was so lonely for him that she gave a little cry, as if in remembered pain.

  “Why not you, when I love you best?” she protested.

  “You know the answer. It is not possible when you and I are of the same blood. Before, well, since we do not die, we must find our paradise here on earth, and for a time it was ours. My dearest love, believe this. We have had our heaven together. And our hell,” he added, thinking back to the desolation of war.

  Their kiss was brief and intense, as if each feared to make it longer. It was Madelaine who stood back. “We have not found Harriet,” she reminded him.

  “And we must do that, if we are to prevent another tragedy.” He agreed promptly, taking her hand. “You know what we are looking for. Undoubtedly he will have his box of earth somewhere near.”

  “And if he has treated Harriet to the same brutality that he gave Emillie?” Madelaine asked gently.

  Franciscus tried for humor, “Well, we won’t be able to keep Jim Sutton from filing a story on it.”

  “Don’t mock, Saint-Germain.”

  He sighed. “If he has, we must be very, very cautious. We must be so in any case.” He stopped in the open door of the empty cabin. “I don’t want to sell this place. I like it here. These mountains remind me of my home, and the life is pleasant. I suppose it is wisest though.”

  Madelaine touched his arm. “She may be all right And a girl like Emillie … there will not be too many questions asked. You need not give up Lost Saints Lodge.”

  “Perhaps.” He shook off the despondency. “Ill take the west side of the trail and you take the east We should be able to do all the cabins in half an hour.”

  Harriet was on the floor of a tool shed near the stable. There were savage discolorations on her throat and wrists, and one of the rips in her skin still bled sluggishly.

  “Good God,” Madelaine said in disgust “Hasn’t that man any sense?”

  “The evidence is against it,” Franciscus said wryly. He bent to pick up Harriet. “She’ll come out of it but I think we’d better hold her in the Lodge. There’s a room behind my … workshop where I’ve got a bed. Jorry Fitzallen can check her over.”