A Sharpness on the Neck d-9

by Fred Saberhagen

  This leg of the journey was longer than the previous one, lasting more than four hours. Gradually the area where rain was threatening was left behind. The victims had been allowed to keep their watches. Since their wrists weren't tied, they could look at them; but it did no good. With the windows of the vehicle darkened, it was hard to tell even the general direction they were now taking.

  This time the masked driver used the headlights, and drove at a less alarming speed over the bad roads.

  While they were under way, a couple of their masked guardians rode with the victims in the back seat, making reassuring comments, and from time to time engaging them in casual conversation. There were remarks about the weather and the baseball season. And about the coming election.

  Radcliffe had little patience with this tactic. "What are you going to do with us?"

  The people in masks were patiently reassuring. "Nothing that will hurt you. You will be required to stay for a time in a place where it will be relatively easy for us to offer you protection."

  "Why?" Phil's was a ragged, anguished cry.

  "It's a long story. Like I said, we're not going to hurt you, whatever happens. And you do need protection, depend on it. The thing is, we had to act first and explain later."

  "Can't you at least tell us why?"

  "I'd like to hear the explanation!" June challenged.

  "You will, ma'am." The male voice was calm and courteous; it might have belonged to a good cop and not a kidnapper. "But from someone who can do a better job of it than I can."

  From time to time Phil tried again: "We're not wealthy, you know. None of our relatives are wealthy. You think my company is going to ransom me? Hah! You're not going to get any money out of this."

  The nearest rubber mask was nodding. "We understand that. Making money out of this is not our intention at all."

  "Then what is?"

  "Have a little patience. Everything will be explained."

  "Why not explain it now?"

  A hesitation. "Mainly because it'd sound too crazy. That's the truth. Mr. Graves had better be the one to do the job."

  "Why?"

  "He can do it more convincingly."

  There came a mysterious interval in which some time was spent parked and waiting, evidently for a signal of some kind to be given from up ahead.

  As if they were taking turns at trying to lay the groundwork for the task of explanation, which they foresaw would be long and hard, the guardians observed more than once that they had reached the couple barely in time.

  "Barely in time for what?"

  But of course that question received no satisfactory answer.

  Graves after several hours' absence rejoined his captives and their guards. In the mystic grayness just before dawn, he stood waiting in the road, and boarded the vehicle when it pulled up and stopped for him. This time he climbed aboard in the ordinary way, moving with smooth agility.

  The dark, mysteriously impressive man plainly did not care whether his victims saw his face or not. That was ominous when Radcliffe thought about it.

  Having gone through his prisoners' pockets and purse, Graves said, in a tone of finality: "You are Philip Radcliffe." It sounded madly as if he were going to add: "I have a warrant for your arrest."

  "Yes." In a way he was suddenly afraid to admit his identity, but with all the ID in his billfold, credit cards and such, it seemed pointless to try to deny the fact. Then, responding to what he was still convinced must be on his captors' minds, he repeated yet again: "But I don't have any money."

  Philip's billfold, including the modest amount of money in it, was soon returned to him. "I am not interested in your money. You are not being held for ransom. You may as well believe me; what reason could I have for lying to you on that point now?"

  Philip had been aware for most of his life, ever since he had grown old enough to be aware of such things, that some people after looking at him and hearing his name tended to assume that he was wealthy instead of moderately prosperous. Some even assumed he was immensely wealthy. He was at a loss to understand this, except that the cause had to be something in his name, or in his looks.

  "All right," he demanded of his kidnapper. "If you don't want money, then what?"

  "Believe it or not, our only object is to save your life. You are now in protective custody."

  "If that's all it is, you can let us both go. I don't need to be protected." Why do some of them take pains to hide their faces, while this man and woman don't care? Could the others conceivably be people I would recognize?

  The other appeared not to have heard that comment.

  "You expect me to thank you? I didn't know that either of our lives were in any danger."

  "You have put your finger on an important point. Your ignorance, through no fault of your own, is indeed something of a problem." Even as he spoke, Dracula kept looking over his shoulder. Consciously or not, he gave the impression of a man on guard against the pursuit of an opponent he obviously considered extremely formidable. "And whether you eventually express your gratitude or not is a matter of indifference. What I have sworn, I have sworn."

  "What exactly have you sworn?"

  "That you will be protected."

  Radcliffe thought that over for a little while. The explanation seemed to be going in a circle. Trying to get back to practical matters, he asked: "Where are you taking us?"

  "To a place where, for the time being, you will be relatively safe."

  "We'll be safe at home."

  "Alas, no." Slowly the dark, unmasked man shook his head. "Unfortunately that is not the case, for either of you. Not just now. But if all goes well, you should be safe at home in only a few days."

  "Why do all your helpers wear masks, and you don't?"

  "They are masked because you might, if all goes well, someday see them again. If you were to recognize them, an awkward situation could arise."

  "But I'm never going to see you again?"

  The other smiled faintly. "Probably not—but to me it is a matter of indifference whether you do. It will make no difference if you someday describe me and complain about meto the police."

  "Oh, it won't? And to Constantia? If that's her real name."

  "She and I, as you may have observed already, are different from the others."

  "Different how?"

  "That is part of the explanation to which you are entitled. But it will take time."

  A little time went by before Radcliffe asked: "Safe from who? From what?"

  "From a certain man, one who has vowed not only to cut off your head, but to drink your blood."

  Radcliffe couldn't think of anything to say in response. Up front Connie, or someone else, was driving; he could see only the faint outline of a head. The vehicle roared on. Maybe they'd be lucky and a speed cop would pull her over.

  June asked: "Is that the 'Radu' you mentioned earlier? And does he want my head too? To drink my blood?"

  Their captor nodded solemnly. "I know him well, and he is quite capable of doing both. I would not be surprised to see that he had the guillotine all ready."

  That silenced June for the moment. Phil stepped in: "You know this Radu. All right, who is he?"

  "Someone I have known for a long time."

  "How long?"

  The other appeared to be considering his answer carefully. Finally he said, clearly: "More than five hundred years. Alas, he is my brother."

  That put an end to all conversation for almost a quarter of an hour.

  The sun was on the verge of rising when the vehicle at last pulled into a scanty patch of woods, between a pair of sandy hummocks, and rolled to a stop in front of a pair of small mobile homes. It was the kind of housing Radcliffe would have expected to see provided for workers at a small isolated mine—not that there were any visible signs of mining activity near.

  Here two more masked kidnappers were waiting. The victims were bidden to get out of the van. By this time, both Radcliffes had recovered to some ex
tent from the original shock, and each had begun trying to think of some way to escape from their kidnappers.

  They got out of the van to smell a chill and dusty wind, and find themselves standing in front of a small, dimly lighted mobile home. A few yards away, the shaded windows of a similar dwelling gave out a muted glow. The night was gone, the day was here, the sky still marked by a thin rising moon, and those stars bright enough to survive the early stages of the change. Mountains, ghostly shapes along the newly revealed horizon, loomed in several directions, the closest no more than twenty miles away.

  Both little houses were set directly on the ground and appeared to have settled into their sites, as if they had been in place for some time.

  A power line, looking out of place, came marching on its small poles across the desert.

  A small, primitive landing strip was in view behind the buildings. A faded windsock hung limply. No aircraft were in sight at the moment.

  Radcliffe and his wife were watched carefully but treated gently, like valuable objects, as they climbed out of the vehicle. While Mr. Graves watched the sky, as if suddenly interested in the weather, one of his masked helpers led Philip and June to the smaller of the two mobile homes.

  "Come in, make yourselves at home. You're going to be here for a while."

  "How long?"

  "However long it takes."

  The front door, which Radcliffe saw had been newly armored with a heavy grill—there were still scorch-marks from the welding torch—was held open for them. Somehow the professional workmanship that had obviously gone into the armoring was more frightening than almost anything else that had yet happened.

  Inside, the structure was divided into a few small rooms, cheaply but cleanly furnished. The front entry led into a small sitting-room with an open door showing a small bedroom beyond. An archway on the opposite side led to a little kitchen.

  "It's not fancy, but it's safe." The speaker, one of the masked people, sounded almost apologetic.

  Wandering numbly from room to room, Phil and June entered the small kitchen. On looking around, the newcomers discovered it was stocked with a surprising variety of food. The refrigerator held an unopened half gallon of milk bearing tomorrow's date, along with fresh fruits and vegetables, chicken and ground beef in butcher's wrappings, and a variety of drinks. The latter included half a case of premium imported beer, actually Phil's favorite brand, in twelve-ounce bottles. There were soft drinks in cans, a couple of varieties of bottled water. Breakfast cereals had been visible on the counter, along with a small assortment of dishes. Radcliffe took silent note of the absence of anything like a sharp knife.

  The sturdy iron grillwork which protected the front door could be locked only from the outside; Phil supposed the same would be true of the kitchen door, if there turned out to be one on the far side of the structure.

  Further inspection of the house confirmed that the windows, too, were all covered with heavy grills. Some thought and effort had evidently gone into making the place escape-proof.

  At least the place looked clean and in reasonably good repair. The furnishings were new, or nearly so. An air-conditioning unit in the window waited silently, ready to deal with the day's heat when it came.

  None of the masked people who were bustling in and out, carrying baggage and checking provisions, seemed to be watching the prisoners at all closely. Their baggage was promptly carried into the one small bedroom. Radcliffe, feeling exhausted, his mind wavering near hysteria, had the crazy notion that someone was going to expect a tip.

  There was no mirror in the bedroom, but one in the bathroom, in the expected location over the sink.

  "Phil, what… what…?" June was whispering. She made a gesture indicating desperation.

  He spread out his hands helplessly. "I don't know what I don't know any more about this than you do."

  Radcliffe and June had not long to wait before Mr. Graves came to speak to them politely.

  "There is a videotape, which will explain much. You must watch it." He lifted in one pale hand a small black case which had been lying on the table beside the television and VCR.

  "A videotape."

  "Indeed. This will lay the groundwork for the explanation you very naturally demand. When you have seen it through, and considered its contents, we shall be able to talk to some purpose. Your many questions will be most swiftly answered if you will watch the tape."

  "Wouldn't it be easier just to tell us?" June put in.

  "I think not. A face-to-face discussion would inevitably involve arguments, demonstrations, a tedious business for which I will not have the time today, nor probably tomorrow. These hours I must devote to more important things." The dark eyes fixed on Phil. "You may place little value on either your blood or your life, but I have sworn a serious oath that I will save them both."

  Phil nodded slowly. He knew the expression on his own face must indicate that he was seriously impressed. And indeed he was. This man Graves is as nutty as a fruitcake factory.

  Chapter Three

  Having thus sternly admonished his pair of prisoners, Mr. Graves, moving with the brisk pace of a senior executive who had important business everywhere, walked out of the little house, leaving the Radcliffes in the care of his masked assistants and Connie.

  All of these continued their policy of referring to their leader, whenever he decided to return, June's and Phil's continued demands for explanations. The disguised ones oozed bland reassurances, and responded to questions by repeating Graves's urging to watch the tape.

  Within a few minutes most of the masked guardians, as if seeking escape from the ongoing barrage of their victims' demands, had left the house. There remained on guard only one man and one woman, and this pair had discreetly withdrawn, like unobtrusive servants, into the small kitchen.

  The two prisoners found themselves left alone in the small living room.

  "All right." June's fear was being increasingly absorbed in anger. She sat down in one of the cheap armchairs, then immediately, too wired to admit weariness, bounced to her feet again. "Then let's take a look at the damned tape."

  Her husband, who shared her mood, nodded. No other course of action seemed likely to help them in the least. "It had better be good." He picked up the cartridge, noted that it was unlabeled, and loaded it into the VCR.

  In another moment June and Phil were seated side by side on the sofa in front of the television. Philip picked up the remote control and turned on both machines.

  When the tape began to play, Radcliffe's immediate hopes were dashed. The opening scene did not offer any dazzling enlightenment. It showed Mr. Graves, seated behind a table in what appeared to be the same room where the audience was now sitting, and looking earnestly toward the camera. Graves's image was dressed in what looked like the same dark suit in which he had carried out the kidnapping of the couple who were now his audience.

  "Pay close attention," the taped image urged the two prisoners. "For I am about to introduce you to the man who has sworn to drink the blood of Philip Radcliffe." A pause. "And to cut off his head."

  That last line was followed by a longer pause, which Phil thought must have been calculated, scripted, for dramatic effect. Certainly it got the full attention of the small audience for whom it was intended.

  Mr. Graves's image on the TV screen looked into the camera, speaking quietly and unhurriedly. He admitted at the start, with disarming casualness, that he had not been present at many of the events which he was about to relate. "But there is enough information to reconstruct certain important scenes with a high degree of reliability."

  Mostly he spoke while looking directly into the camera, but now and then dropped his compelling gaze to some scribbled notes on the table before him. The earnest tone of the presentation put at least one of the audience in mind of a speech from the Oval Office.

  As the first minutes passed, the keen attention of the audience began to waver, and they looked at each other unhappily; the session began t
o seem an ordeal by nonsense.

  Already the very gentleness and consideration in minor matters with which the Radcliffes were being treated had begun to arouse in them suspicions that the whole kidnapping might be a monstrous joke, perpetrated by some of their supposed friends.

  "Junie, is this all a gag?" Philip hissed, at a moment when he thought he would not be overheard. "Some kind of a gigantic… put-on?"

  June looked back at him in quiet desperation. "I don't know. The thought crossed my mind, too. But who do we know who'd do a thing like this?"

  Despite the inroads of weariness, even with hysteria not far away, it was difficult to think of anyone.

  The tape played on.

  Philip and June sat side by side on the cheap sofa, holding hands most of the time, frequently exchanging looks but seldom comments, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. On the small screen the videotaped image of the man who seemed their chief persecutor was now well into what was evidently going to be a long narrative of the past.

  And it wasn't working.

  It was not that the speaker raved or rambled. No, he spoke coherently and calmly enough. Having got a brief introduction out of the way, he began the body of his story by recalling another year that, like 1996, had once been called the best of times and the worst of times.

  Still, Phil and June were looking at each other in dismay; far from offering any reasonable explanation, the story seemed only to confirm that they were in the hands of hopeless lunatics.

  The scene opened (according to the narration of the thoughtful, dry-voiced image on the screen) in the city of London, in the year 1790, just as the Revolution and its Terror were taking over across the Channel in France. Months earlier, the Bastille had fallen to the Parisian mob, and in that country all titles of hereditary nobility had been abolished. King Louis XVI and his queen, Marie Antoinette, were prisoners of the new government in all but name, though still clinging, tenuously, perilously, ambiguously, to some pretense of authority.

  "The very year," observed the image of Graves on screen, "of the death of Benjamin Franklin—who, as I am sure you know, Mr. Radcliffe, is your own ancestor." The dark eyes looked into the camera…