Descendant

by Graham Masterton

  At a quarter of eight, my dog handler still hadn’t arrived, and I was hungry, sweaty and exhausted. I decided to go back to Thornton Heath for a bath and a change of clothes and a couple of hours’ sleep. I hadn’t yet decided what I was going to tell Terence’s mother, but she was used to him not coming home for days on end, and I doubted if she would even ask me where he was.

  I was just about to leave when George held up his telephone receiver and said, “Call for you, Captain Falcon. Dr. Shulman. The switchboard passed her through from MI6.”

  “Thanks,” I said, and took the phone from him.

  “Captain Falcon?” said Dr. Shulman, making no attempt to conceal her impatience. “I’ve been trying to get in touch with you since yesterday evening.”

  “Yes, Doctor, I know. I’ve been kind of . . . tied up.”

  “I carried out the tests that you suggested. I think you may be on to something quite significant.”

  “Go on.”

  “Out of the total number of known victims since these attacks began, which is now one hundred and twenty-seven, only forty-eight had their hearts removed and any blood drained from their circulatory system. That’s less than thirty-eight percent. A very high proportion of these forty-eight were noticeably older than the remaining seventy-nine—twenty-five years old and upward.”

  “Which led you to conclude what, exactly?”

  “It was the blood that told us the story. We took samples from every single victim and analyzed them exhaustively. We found considerable variations in the proportions of red and white corpuscles, as well as other indicators such as urea and salts and proteins. However none of these variations seemed to bear any relation to whether a victim had been drained of blood or not.

  “There was only one consistently common factor which was shared by the victims who had been killed but not drained of blood. They had all recently been vaccinated against polio.”

  “Polio?”

  “Well, I expect you know that there’s been an epidemic of polio, especially in London and the Midlands. Scores of people have been killed or paralyzed. The Health Ministry have been vaccinating schoolchildren in their hundreds.”

  “I’ve been reading about that, yes.”

  “They sent six hundred doses to Coventry, and they’re desperately trying to get more.”

  “That’s the Salk vaccine, isn’t it?”

  “That’s right. They inject children with the dead polio virus, but it immunizes them against the live polio virus.”

  I felt an extraordinary surge of emotion—almost triumph. It all made sense to me now. The Screechers hadn’t been killing such large numbers of people because they were wantonly sadistic—or because they were trying to silence any witnesses, as Inspector Ruddock had believed. They had been desperately trying to find victims whose blood didn’t yet contain the new vaccine against poliomyelitis.

  They didn’t dare to drink the blood of anybody who had been vaccinated, and it was easy to understand why. The Salk vaccine was made of dead polio viruses. Dead polio viruses didn’t affect humans. But when a strigoi vii was transformed into a strigoi mort, all of the dead and dying cells in its body were revived. Not only revived, but enhanced so much that the strigoi mort became immortal. So if it had polio viruses in its bloodstream, the viruses would be revived, too. The strigoi mort might be immortal, but it would be totally paralyzed.

  “Dr. Shulman,” I said, “you’re an angel. You’ve made my day.”

  “Well, I think you must be some kind of an angel, too, Captain Falcon. We certainly wouldn’t have thought of making comparative blood tests if it hadn’t been for you.”

  I put down the phone. George said, “Has something happened?”

  “Yes, George, I believe it has. I believe we’ve found the way to wipe out these goddamned Screechers for good and all.”

  “You mean it? You really mean it? That’s a bloody relief.”

  I was just about to leave the operations center when a young man in a blue RAF uniform appeared, with his cap tucked under his arm.

  “I’m looking for Captain Falcon.”

  “That’s me. You must be the dog handler I asked for.”

  “That’s right, sir. Warrant Officer Tim Headley, sir. Keston’s outside in my van.”

  W/O Headley was a serious-looking young man with very thick eyebrows and very blue eyes and very red cheeks. His hair stuck up in a sprig at the back as if he were about six years old, and he had been sleeping on it.

  “I’ll tell you what we’ll do, Warrant Officer Headley. I’ll call you Tim and you can call me Jim.”

  “Yes, sir. Very good, sir.”

  “Listen, Tim, I have to go back to my diggings right now to change my clothes and take a bath, but then we’ll be ready for action. I have a list of addresses for Keston to go sniffing around, and I’m pretty confident that we’ve found a way of dealing with the characters we’re likely to find there. How much have you been briefed?”

  Tim’s cheeks flushed even redder. “I’ve got a rough idea of what’s going on, sir. I’ve been told to keep it very hush-hush.”

  “Do you know what it is we’re going after?”

  “I was told some pretty odd types.”

  “ ‘Some pretty odd types?’ ” I hesitated, wondering if I ought to tell him more. But then I said, “Yes, OK. ‘Pretty odd types.’ I guess that just about sums them up.”

  Tim drove me to Thornton Heath in his RAF Police van. I felt as if I had gone through fifteen rounds with Rocky Marciano—bruised, exhausted, with a thumping headache. But Dr. Shulman’s discovery had got my adrenaline going and I couldn’t wait to start hunting down Screechers.

  Keston turned out to be a large German shepherd with a shaggy coat and a black face. It was hot in the back of the police van, and he panted on the back of my neck all the way to Terence’s mother’s house.

  “Keston’s a whiz at finding deserters,” said Tim. “One chap was hiding in an empty water tower, fifty feet above the ground. Keston sniffed him out, didn’t you, boy?”

  Keston barked about two inches behind my head.

  “You found him, didn’t you, boy? None of the other dogs could, but you did!”

  Another bark. I turned to Tim and said, “No more compliments, OK? My head won’t take it.”

  We parked outside Terence’s mother’s house. “Do you mind if I bring Keston in for a bowl of water?” asked Tim.

  “You can bring him in for a cup of tea and a sausage sandwich for all I care.”

  Tim was opening up the back of the van when I noticed that the front door of Terence’s mother’s house was open. I looked up and down the street. Although it wasn’t yet 9:00 AM, the morning was glaringly bright and very hot. There were only two other cars parked anywhere nearby, and a motorcycle with sidecar.

  I approached the front door cautiously. Maybe I was overreacting. After all, the temperature was almost in the 70s already, and Mrs. Mitchell might have left her door open for a cooling draft. But the house was unusually silent. Mrs. Mitchell always kept her wireless on, humming along to Sound Track Serenade and Johnny Dun-can’s Song Bag.

  “Mrs. Mitchell!” I called out. “Mrs. Mitchell!”

  There was no answer. Tim was coming through the front gate now, with Keston.

  “Everything OK?” he asked me.

  “I’m not sure. Probably.”

  But as I opened the front door a little wider, Keston started to whine and lower his head, like a dog who has been smacked on the nose for misbehavior.

  “Mrs. Mitchell!”

  I stepped into the narrow hallway. Tim tried to bring Keston in after me, but he scrabbled his claws on the path and refused to come into the house.

  “Keston! Scent, boy! Come on, boy!”

  Still Keston refused to come any further. Tim dragged at his leash, but he wouldn’t budge.

  “He’s never acted up like this before, never.”

  “Maybe there’s something here that he seriously doesn’t l
ike the smell of.”

  “Keston! Come along, lad! Keston!”

  I took out my gun and cocked it. I had no more Last Supper bullets left, but I had reloaded with a clip of regular bullets, rubbed with garlic. Not nearly so effective at stopping a strigoi vii, but hopefully still enough to give me a few seconds’ advantage.

  I went down the hallway and eased open the kitchen door. The green floral curtains were drawn, and the main overhead light was still burning. There was a single saucepan on top of the New World gas cooker, and the table was laid for one, with a place mat and a soup spoon.

  Tim came up behind me. “Keston won’t budge. I’ve had to put him back in the van. I’m really sorry about this.”

  “He’s been spooked, Tim. And I can’t say that I blame him. I’m spooked, too.”

  We both listened. All I could hear was the droning of those hairy blue blowflies the British call bluebottles. Scores of bluebottles.

  I stepped into the kitchen. I could smell vegetable soup, but I could also smell that distinctive rotten-chicken odor of dried human blood. At the far side of the kitchen there was a door with frosted-glass panels which led through to the scullery and then to the backyard. The frosted-glass panels were spattered with dark brown spots.

  Tim said, “Oh, God.”

  “How about going back to your van and calling George Goodhew for me?” I asked him.

  “Somebody’s been killed here, haven’t they?”

  “It sure smells like it. But if you don’t want to see it—look, I lost my last dog handler because she couldn’t take the sight of people with their insides hanging out.”

  “Is that what you’re expecting to find?” Tim’s face was very pale, although his cheeks were still fiery.

  “I don’t know. Let’s take a look, shall we?”

  I opened up the scullery door. I had been prepared to see all kinds of horrors, but at first I couldn’t really understand what I was looking at. Tim made a retching noise and clamped his hand over his mouth. Then he hurried back through the kitchen and out into the hallway and I could hear him noisily vomiting in the front garden.

  On the side wall of the scullery, in a grisly display of blasphemy and butchery, both Mrs. Mitchell and Terence had been nailed, completely naked and upside down, their feet together but their hands outspread.

  Their heads had been sawn off, and underneath each of their gaping necks an enamel basin had been placed to catch their blood. A zinc bucket stood in the corner, and I could see a bloody tangle of gray hair in it, so I knew what had happened to their heads.

  The scullery was thick with bluebottles, most of them crawling in and out of the blood-filled basins. In one of the basins there was a soup ladle. I could only guess that Duca had fed before he left.

  I went through to the living room, just as Tim was coming back into the house.

  “Sorry about that,” he apologized. “Thought I had a strong stomach.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I think Keston had the right idea, staying outside.”

  I looked around the living room. It would take a police forensics team to work out exactly what had happened here, but I could guess. Duca had forced Terence to drive him here to his mother’s house—the last place that we would have thought of looking for him. Then it had probably questioned him about our investigation—who I was, how much we knew, what we were going to do to hunt it down. After that, it had murdered both Terence and his mother and had fastened their bodies to the scullery wall in a deliberate mockery of Christ and Christianity.

  While I waited for George Goodhew to arrive from MI6, I made a systematic search of the living room. I even got down on my knees and looked underneath the sofa, where I found dozens of dog-eared knitting patterns and three crumpled Mars Bars wrappers.

  I opened drawers crammed with cut-out recipes from, Woman’s Weekly and stray buttons and cotton reels. In the right-hand corner of the room stood a semicircular telephone table, with a crochet tablecloth on it, and a framed photograph of Terence’s mother on her wedding day. The telephone receiver was off the hook. I picked it up and listened but it was dead. I jiggled the cradle a few times but it stayed dead. In those days, if you left your phone off the hook for long enough, they cut you off.

  On the carpet underneath the table I found a crumpled piece of notepaper. Somebody had written on it SOTON QE = 1200, in blunt pencil, in shaky, childlike letters. On one side of the piece of paper there was a dark brown oval which looked very much like blood.

  “Tim,” I said. “What do you make of this?”

  Tim peered at it, and then handed it back. “Soton . . . that’s short for Southampton.”

  “What about the rest of it?”

  “Well . . . QE could mean the Queen Elizabeth, I suppose. She docks at Southampton. Twelve . . . I don’t know, that could mean a twelve o’clock sailing.”

  “You mean Terence could have made a reservation to cross the Atlantic?”

  “Yes, I suppose it could.”

  I jiggled the cradle a few times and eventually an impatient voice said, “Operator?”

  “Oh, yes. Hi. I was wondering if you could tell me the last number dialed on this phone.”

  “Wait a minute, sir. I’ll have to check.”

  A minute became two minutes and then five. At last the operator came back on the line and said, “Southampton seven-two-two-seven.”

  “Can you tell me whose number that is?”

  “It’s the new twenty-four-hour reservations office for the Cunard Shipping Line, sir.”

  “And what time was that call made?”

  “Seven minutes past two this morning, sir.”

  Tim looked at his watch. “I really think Keston is going to need a bit of a walk now, sir. He’s had his breakfast, he always has to stretch his legs afterward, if you know what I mean.”

  “Do you think he’s going to be OK? I really need a dog right now.”

  “To be honest with you, sir, he’s looking a bit dicky.”

  “This thing I’m after—I think it’s trying to leave the country.”

  “Sorry, sir. Thing?”

  “The thing that killed those two people in there.”

  Tim looked perplexed. “Whatever it is, sir, I don’t think that Keston will go after it. I’ve never seen him like this before. Well, only once. Out in Suez, somebody put him off the scent with lion manure.”

  I rang the Cunard Line reservations number. After another lengthy wait, I was answered by a chippy young girl. “Somebody made a reservation on a Cunard ship at about ten after two this morning,” I told her. “This is an urgent security matter. I need to know who it was, and what ship they’re booked on.”

  She wouldn’t tell me, of course, so in the end I had to talk to her supervisor, and her supervisor had to call MI6 to verify my credentials. This wasted another fifteen minutes, and meanwhile Duca was putting ever-increasing miles between it and me.

  At last, the supervisor came back to tell me that Mr. Terence Mitchell had telephoned to book a cabin on the Queen Elizabeth bound for New York via Cherbourg, sailing at noon today.

  In Pursuit

  George Goodhew arrived just as I was leaving the house. His gray Rover was closely followed by three other cars and a plain navy-blue van. A dozen young men in suits climbed out of the cars, and two Home Office pathologists climbed out of the van.

  “I think that Duca’s trying to get out of the country,” I said. “It forced Terence to make a booking for it on the Queen Elizabeth.”

  “Yes, but hold on. Duca hasn’t got a passport, has he—or it, I mean. They won’t let it on board without a passport.”

  “It won’t need a passport, George. It can move so fast they won’t even see it. It can slide through a gap that’s half an inch wide.”

  “All the same, I can alert the police and customs at Southampton. And we can hold the sailing if necessary.”

  “Well, OK. But tell the police, don’t try to detain it. It can rip them apart as soon a
s look at them, and we don’t want any more casualties. I have to get down there, with my Kit.”

  “I’ll drive you.”

  “That’s great, thanks.”

  Tim came up, with Keston trotting behind him on his leash. “How is he?” I asked him. “That Queen Elizabeth’s a hell of a big boat. I could really use a good dog.”

  “I’m sorry sir. I don’t think he’s going to be up to it.”

  I looked down at Keston and I had to admit to myself that I had never seen a dog look so cowed. His head was lowered and he couldn’t stop trembling, as if he was suffering from hypothermia. “All right, Tim,” I told him. “I’ll just have to find another man-trailer, that’s all.”

  I picked up my Kit and put it on the backseat of George’s Rover. We left Terence’s mother’s house just as the Home Office pathologists were walking in with their brown overalls and their cameras and their forensic equipment, and headed south through Croydon town center. George managed to change gear and smoke and talk on his radio-telephone all at the same time, blasting his horn impatiently at anybody who slowed him down.

  “Cunard won’t postpone the sailing,” he said, as we came closer to Purley. “Charles Frith doesn’t want to postpone it, either. It’ll attract too much publicity. The Foreign Secretary’s on board, as well as Loretta Young, and some Russian bigwigs, too.”

  “In that case, we’ll have to make sure we get to Southampton before she sails.”

  I directed him to the Foxleys’ house. He parked in the driveway with the engine running while I went to the front door and rang the doorbell.

  Mya Foxley answered, almost at once. Her hair was fraying and she looked as if she hadn’t slept.

  “Mrs. Foxley, I know Jill isn’t feeling too good, but I really have to talk to her.”

  “I’m sorry, she isn’t here.”

  “she’s not here? She hasn’t had to go to hospital?”

  “No, no. A man came round to call for her, about two hours ago. She said that he was something to do with the police, and she would have to go with him. She even packed an overnight bag.”

  At that moment, Bullet appeared, his crimson tongue hanging out in the heat. He looked up at me and wuffed.