by Rice, Anne
I had to confess that the food situation had improved with the journey south. Also I was better at eating now, and wasn’t choking so much, or scraping my tongue on my own teeth. The thick syrupy coffee of my home city was past perfection. And the dessert of broiled bananas and sugar was enough to bring any sensible human being to his knees.
But in spite of these tantalizing delights, and my desperate hope that we would soon have a report from London, my main concern was that of pouring out for David the entire woeful tale. Again, and again, he pushed for details, and interrupted me with questions, so it became in fact a far more thorough account than I had ever given Louis, and one that wrung from me considerably more pain.
It was agony to relive my naive conversation with James in the town house, to confess that I had not cared sufficiently to be suspicious of him, that I’d been too satisfied that a mere mortal could never trick me.
And then came the shameful rape, the poignant account of my time with Gretchen, the awful nightmares of Claudia, and the parting from Gretchen to come home to Louis, who misunderstood all that I laid before him, and insisted upon his own interpretation of my words as he refused to give me what I sought.
No small part of the pain was that my anger had left me, and I felt only the old crushing grief. I saw Louis again in my mind’s eye, and he was not my tender, embraceable lover any longer, so much as an unfeeling angel who had barred me from the Dark Court.
“I understand why he refused,” I said dully, barely able to speak about it. “Perhaps I should have known. And very truly, I can’t believe he will hold out against me forever. He’s simply carried away with this sublime idea of his that I ought to go save my soul. It’s what he would do, you see. And yet, in a way, he himself would never do it. And he’s never understood me. Never. That’s why he described me so vividly yet poorly in his book over and over again. If I am trapped in this body, if it becomes quite plain to him that I don’t intend to go off into the jungles of French Guiana with Gretchen, I think he will give in to me eventually. Even though I did burn his house. It might take years, of course! Years in this miserable—”
“You’re getting furious again,” said David. “Calm down. And what in the world do you mean—you burnt his house.”
“I was angry!” I said in a tense whisper. “My God. Angry. That isn’t even the word.”
I thought I had been too unhappy to be angry. I realized this wasn’t so. But I was too unhappy to carry the point further. I took another bracing swallow of the thick black coffee and as best I could, I went on to describe how I had seen Marius by the light of the burning shack. Marius had wanted for me to see him. Marius had rendered a judgment, and I did not know truly what that judgment was.
Now the cold despair did come over me, obliterating the anger quite completely, and I stared listlessly at the plate before me, at the half-empty restaurant with its shining silver and napkins folded at so many empty places like little hats. I looked beyond to the muted lights of the lobby, with that awful gloom closing upon everything, and then I looked at David, who for all his character, his sympathy, and his charm was not the marvelous being he would have been to me with my vampire eyes, but only another mortal, frail and living on the edge of death as I did.
I felt dull and miserable. I could say no more.
“Listen to me,” said David. “I don’t believe that your Marius has destroyed this creature. He would not have revealed himself to you if he’d done such a thing. I can’t imagine the thoughts or feelings of such a being. I can’t even imagine yours, and I know you as I know my dearest and oldest friends. But I don’t believe he would do it. He came to display his anger, to refuse assistance, and that was his judgment, yes. But I wager he’s giving you time to recover your body. And you must remember: however you perceived his expression, you saw it through a human being’s eyes.”
“I’ve considered this,” I said listlessly. “To tell the truth, what else can I do but believe that my body is still there to be reclaimed?” I shrugged. “I don’t know how to give up.”
He smiled at me, a lovely deep warm smile.
“You’ve had a splendid adventure,” he said. “Now before we plot to catch this glorified purse snatcher, allow me to ask you a question. And don’t lose your temper, please. I can see that you don’t know your own strength in this body any more than you did in the other.”
“Strength? What strength! This is a weak, flopping, sloshy, repulsive collection of nerves and ganglia. Don’t even mention the word ‘strength.’ ”
“Nonsense. You’re a big strapping healthy young male of some one hundred and ninety pounds, without an ounce of spare fat on you! You have fifty years of mortal life ahead of you. For the love of heaven, realize what advantages you possess.”
“All right. All right. It’s jolly. So happy to be alive!” I whispered, because if I hadn’t whispered, I would have howled. “And I could be smashed by a truck outside in the street at half past noon today! Good God, David, don’t you think I despise myself that I cannot endure these simple trials? I hate it. I hate being this weak and cowardly creature!”
I sat back in the chair, eyes roving the ceiling, trying not to cough or sneeze or weep or make a fist out of my right hand which I might drive through the tabletop or perhaps the nearby wall. “I loathe cowardice!” I whispered.
“I know,” he said kindly. He studied me for a few quiet moments, and then blotted his lips with his napkin, and reached for his coffee. Then he spoke again. “Assuming that James is still running about in your old body, you are absolutely certain that you want to make the switch back into it—that you do want to be Lestat in his old body again.”
I laughed sadly to myself. “How can I make that any plainer?” I asked wearily. “How in the hell can I make the switch again! That is the question upon which my sanity depends.”
“Well, first we must locate James. We shall devote our entire energy to finding him. We shall not give up until we are convinced that there is no James to be found.”
“Again, you’re making it sound so simple! How can such a thing be done?”
“Shhh, you’re attracting needless attention,” he said with quiet authority. “Drink the orange juice. You need it. I’ll order some more.”
“I don’t need the orange juice and I don’t need any more nursing,” I said. “Are you seriously suggesting that we have a chance of catching this fiend?”
“Lestat, as I told you before—think on the most obvious and unchangeable limitation of your former state. A vampire cannot move about in the day. A vampire is almost entirely helpless in the day. Granted, there is a reflex to reach out for and harm anyone disturbing his rest. But otherwise, he is helpless. And for some eight to twelve hours he must remain in one place. That gives us the traditional advantage, especially since we know so much about the being in question. And all we require is an opportunity to confront the creature, and confuse him sufficiently for the switch to be made.”
“We can force it?”
“Yes, I know that we can. He can be knocked loose from that body long enough for you to get in.”
“David, I must tell you something. In this body I have no psychic power at all. I didn’t have any when I was a mortal boy. I don’t think I can … rise out of this body. I tried once in Georgetown. I couldn’t budge from the flesh.”
“Anyone can do this little trick, Lestat; you were merely afraid. And some of what you learned in the vampiric body, you now carry with you. Obviously the preternatural cells gave you an advantage, but the mind itself does hot forget. Obviously James took his mental powers from body to body. You must have taken some part of your knowledge with you as well.”
“Well, I was frightened. I’ve been afraid to try since—afraid I’d get out and then couldn’t get back in.”
“I’ll teach you how to rise out of the body. I’ll teach you how to make a concerted assault upon James. And remember, there are two of us, Lestat. You and I together will make the assau
lt. And I do have considerable psychic power, to use the simplest descriptive words for it. There are many things which I can do.”
“David, I shall be your slave for eternity in exchange for this. Anything you wish I will get for you. I shall go to the ends of the earth for you. If only this can be done.”
He hesitated as if he wanted to make some small jesting comment, but then thought the better of it. And went right on.
“We will begin with our lessons as soon as we can. But the more I consider it, I think it’s best I jolt him out of the body. I can do it before he even realizes that you are there. Yes, that must be our game plan. He won’t suspect me when he sees me. I can veil my thoughts from him easily enough. And that’s another thing you must learn, to veil your thoughts.”
“But what if he recognizes you. David, he knows who you are. He remembers you. He spoke of you. What’s to stop him from burning you alive the minute he sees you?”
“The place where the meeting occurs. He won’t risk a little conflagration too near his person. And we shall be sure to ensnare him where he would not dare to show his powers at all. We may have to lure him into position. This requires thinking. And until we know how to find him, well, that part can wait.”
“We approach him in a crowd.”
“Or very near to sunrise, when he cannot risk a fire near his lair.”
“Exactly.”
“Now, let’s try to make a fair assessment of his powers from the information we have in hand.”
He paused as the waiter swooped down upon the table with one of those beautiful heavy silver-plated coffeepots which hotels of quality always possess. They have a patina like no other silver, and always several tiny little dents. I watched the black brew coming out of the little spout.
Indeed, I realized I was watching quite a few little things as we sat there, anxious and miserable though I was. Merely being with David gave me hope.
David took a hasty sip of the fresh cup as the waiter went away, and then reached into the pocket of his coat. He placed in my hand a little bundle of thin sheets of paper. “These are newspaper stories of the murders. Read them carefully. Tell me anything that comes to your mind.”
The first story, “Vampire Murder in Midtown,” enraged me beyond words. I noted the wanton destruction which David had described. Had to be clumsiness, to smash the furniture so stupidly. And the theft—how silly in the extreme. As for my poor agent, his neck had been broken as he’d been drained of his blood. More clumsiness.
“It’s a wonder he can use the power of flight at all,” I said angrily. “Yet here, he went through the wall on the thirtieth floor.”
“That doesn’t mean he can use the power over really great distances,” David replied.
“But how then did he get from New York to Bal Harbour in one night, and more significantly, why? If he is using commercial aircraft, why go to Bal Harbour instead of Boston? Or Los Angeles, or Paris, for heaven’s sakes. Think of the high stakes for him were he to rob a great museum, an immense bank? Santo Domingo I don’t understand. Even if he has mastered the power of flight, it can’t be easy for him. So why on earth would he go there? Is he merely trying to scatter the kills so that no one will put together all the cases?”
“No,” said David. “If he really wanted secrecy, he wouldn’t operate in this spectacular style. He’s blundering. He’s behaving as if he’s intoxicated!”
“Yes. And it does feel that way in the beginning, truly it does. You’re overcome by the effect of your heightened senses.”
“Is it possible that he is traveling through the air and merely striking wherever the winds carry him?” David asked. “That there is no pattern at all?”
I was considering the question as I read the other reports slowly, frustrated that I could not scan them as I would have done with my vampire eyes. Yes, more clumsiness, more stupidity. Human bodies crushed by “a heavy instrument,” which was of course simply his fist.
“He likes to break glass, doesn’t he?” I said. “He likes to surprise his victims. He must enjoy their fear. He leaves no witnesses. He steals everything of obvious value. And none of it is very valuable at all. How I hate him. And yet … I have done things as terrible myself.”
I remembered the villain’s conversations with me. How I had failed to see through his gentlemanly manner! But David’s early descriptions of him, of his stupidity, and his self-destructiveness, also came back. And his clumsiness, how could I ever forget that?
“No,” I said, finally. “I don’t believe he can cover these distances. You have no idea how terrifying this power of flight can be. It’s twenty times more terrifying than out-of-body travel. All of us loathe it. Even the roar of the wind induces a helplessness, a dangerous abandon, so to speak.”
I paused. We know this flight in our dreams, perhaps because we knew it in some celestial realm beyond this earth before we were ever born. But we can’t conceive of it as earthly creatures, and only I could know how it had damaged and torn my heart and soul.
“Go on, Lestat. I’m listening. I understand.”
I gave a little sigh. “I learnt this power only because I was in the grip of one who was fearless,” I said, “for whom it was nothing. There are those of us who never use this power. No. I can’t believe he’s mastered it. He’s traveling by some other means and then taking to the air only when the prey is near at hand.”
“Yes, that would seem to square with the evidence, if only we knew—”
He was suddenly distracted. An elderly hotel clerk had just appeared in the distant doorway. He came towards us with maddening slowness, a genial kindly man with a large envelope in his hand.
At once David brought a bill out of his pocket, and held it in readiness.
“Fax, sir, just in.”
“Ah, thank you so much.”
He tore open the envelope.
“Ah, here we are. News wire via Miami. A hilltop villa on the island of Curaçao. Probable time early yesterday evening, not discovered till four a.m. Five persons found dead.”
“Curaçao! Where the hell is that?”
“This is even more baffling. Curaçao is a Dutch island—very far south in the Caribbean. Now, that really makes no sense at all.”
We scanned the story together. Once again robbery was apparently the motive. The thief had come crashing through a skylight, and had demolished the contents of two rooms. The entire family had been killed. Indeed, the sheer viciousness of the crime had left the island in the grip of terror. There had been two bloodless corpses, one that of a small child.
“Surely the devil isn’t simply moving south!”
“Even in the Caribbean there are far more interesting places,” said David. “Why, he’s overlooked the entire coast of Central America. Come, I want to get a map. Let’s have a look at this pattern flat out. I spied a little travel agent in the lobby. He’s bound to have some maps for us. We’ll take everything back to your rooms.”
The agent was most obliging, an elderly bald-headed fellow with a soft cultured voice, who groped about in the clutter of his desk for several maps. Curaçao? Yes, he had a brochure or two on the place. Not a very interesting island, as the Caribbean islands go.
“Why do people go there?” I asked.
“Well, in the main they don’t,” he confessed, rubbing the top of his bald head. “Except for the cruise ships, of course. They’ve been stopping there again these last few years. Yes, here.” He placed a little folder in my hand for a small ship called the Crown of the Seas, very pretty in the picture, which meandered all through the islands, its final stop Curaçao before it started home.
“Cruise ships!” I whispered, staring at the picture. My eyes moved to the giant posters of ships which lined the office walls. “Why, he had pictures of ships all over his house in Georgetown,” I said. “David, that’s it. He’s on some sort of ship! Don’t you remember what you told me. His father worked for some shipping company. He himself said something about wanting to s
ail to America aboard a great ship.”
“My God,” David said. “You may be right. New York, Bal Harbour …” He looked at the agent. “Do cruise ships stop at Bal Harbour?”
“Port Everglades,” said the agent. “Right near it. But not very many start from New York.”
“What about Santo Domingo?” I asked. “Do they stop there?”
“Yes, that’s a regular port all right. They all vary their itineraries. What sort of ship do you have in mind?”
Quickly David jotted down the various points and the nights upon which the attacks had happened, without an explanation, of course.
But then he looked crestfallen.
“No,” he said, “I can see it’s impossible, myself. What cruise ship could possibly make the journey from Florida all the way to Curaçao in three nights?”
“Well, there is one,” said the agent, “and as a matter of fact, she sailed from New York this last Wednesday night. It’s the flagship of the Cunard Line, the Queen Elizabeth 2.”
“That’s it,” I said. “The Queen Elizabeth 2. David, it was the very ship he mentioned to me. You said his father—”
“But I thought the QE2 makes the transatlantic crossing,” said David.
“Not in winter,” said the agent, agreeably. “She’s in the Caribbean until March. And she’s probably the fastest ship sailing any sea anywhere. She can do twenty-eight knots. But here, we can check the itinerary right now.”
He went into another seemingly hopeless search through the papers on his desk, and at last produced a large handsomely printed brochure, opening it and flattening it with his right hand.
“Yes, left New York Wednesday. She docked at Port Everglades Friday morning, sailed before midnight, then on to Curaçao, where she arrived yesterday morning at five a.m. But she didn’t stop in the Dominican Republic, I’m afraid, can’t help you there.”
“Never mind that, she passed it!” David said. “She passed the Dominican Republic the very next night! Look at the map. That’s it, of course. Oh, the little fool. He all but told you himself, Lestat, with all his mad obsessive chatter! He’s on board the QE2, the ship which mattered so much to his father, the ship upon which the old man spent his life.”