Stalking the Vampire

by Mike Resnick

  “Not bad,” said Mallory. “I'll give you a nine-point-seven for that.”

  “Is a nine-point-seven good to eat?” she asked.

  “Not without mustard and relish.”

  “What did you learn?” asked Nathan as he and McGuire reached the detective.

  “I learned where Vlad was half an hour ago,” said Mallory. “Odd Peter tells me he only delivered two batches of the repellent today.”

  “Where?”

  “One of them was to Tassel-Twirling Tessie Twinkle's burlesque palace,” said Mallory.

  “Sounds good to me,” said McGuire enthusiastically.

  “We can eliminate it,” said Mallory. “That leaves the Our Lady of Perpetual Frustration Dialysis Center.”

  “Why not Tessie Twinkle's?” asked McGuire in crestfallen tones. “It's my favorite place in all the world.”

  “And you know how to get there, don't you?” said Mallory.

  “Sure. It's just a block from Times Square.”

  “Right,” said the detective. “In midtown. But we know that Vlad bought his antidote in Greenwich Village, and Our Lady of Perpetual Frustration is right in the heart of the Village, at the corner of Folly and Illusion.”

  “Makes sense,” said Nathan. “I mean, I'm sure he'd love to bite a bunch of gorgeous naked women in the neck, but Tassel-Twirling Tessie Twinkle's always draws a crowd. That means a lot of witnesses. It makes more sense to go to a dialysis unit that deals in blood and probably is all but deserted at three in the morning, even on All Hallows' Eve.”

  “Why would he care if there were witnesses?” asked McGuire. “He's Vlad Dracule. Biting people in the neck is what he does. Who would stop him from biting all those round, ripe, pulsating, undulating…”

  As he was searching for more adjectives, Mallory spoke up. “Forget it, Bats. Witnesses have nothing to do with it. We know he hit the Dialysis Center because he bought the makings for the antidote in the Village, and if he'd run across Odd Peter's stuff in midtown, he'd never have come all the way to the Village just to find a supermarket.”

  “So the Dialysis Center is our next destination?” said Nathan.

  “Right,” said Mallory. “I have a feeling that we're getting closer to him.”

  It was after 3:30 in the morning, but they were still celebrating All Hallows' Eve all over the Village. Men and women dressed as ghosts, ghouls, and other creatures of the night, and real ghosts, ghouls, and creatures of the night dressed as themselves mingled on the streets, in the alleys, in Washington Square, and on assorted rooftops. Rock bands, jazz bands, and dance bands all played their own riffs on funeral dirges. Puppeteers presented bloody pageants of death and destruction to the delight of human and other children who had been allowed to stay up on this special night.

  “I don't suppose it'd do any good to question any of the revelers,” remarked Nathan. “So far I've seen at least twenty Draculas.”

  “He hasn't been here,” said Mallory.

  “How do you know?”

  “No dead bodies.”

  The detective checked the street signs and building numbers again. “It looks like Folly Place dead ends at that cross street. It's got to be Illusion Circle.”

  “I can see the sign now,” said McGuire. “Our Lady of Perpetual Frustration.”

  “Yeah, there's the Dialysis Center, right next to the church,” said Mallory.

  “It looks dark,” noted Nathan.

  “It is dark,” said McGuire.

  They reached the front door of the center.

  “Felina, do you smell anything?”

  “Something very strange was here,” said the cat-girl, sniffing the air. “But it's gone.”

  “Is there anyone inside?” asked Mallory.

  “Not really.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  She just smiled at him, and he gave up trying to get a cogent answer from her. Instead he reached out for the door and was mildly surprised to find that it wasn't locked. He pushed against it, and it swung inward.

  “Nathan, stay right here by the door. No one enters, no one leaves.”

  “Right,” said the dragon, holding his spear at the ready.

  Mallory walked into the center's outer office. He felt around on the wall until he found a light switch and turned it on.

  “Jesus!” he said softly as he surveyed the scene. A heavy wooden desk had been thrown against a wall, leaving a huge hole in the wood paneling. A file cabinet had been lifted up and hurled through a window.

  Mallory walked over to the desk that lay on its side and tried to lift it. It didn't budge.

  “Bats,” he said, “grab the other end of this and see if we can move it.”

  McGuire walked to the far end of the desk, planted his feet, and lifted when Mallory lifted his own end. They raised the desk about an inch and a half but couldn't hold it aloft more than a few seconds.

  “What the hell kind of creature could lift this damned thing and throw it halfway across the room into that wall?” mused Mallory.

  “The kind we're after,” said McGuire grimly.

  “Come on,” said Mallory, walking to a door that led to the interior of the building. “Let's see what other damage he did.”

  It didn't take long. Complex dialysis machines were flung against walls. Hospital beds were overturned. Another file cabinet was upended.

  “What went on here?” asked McGuire as Felina, more subdued than usual, began sniffing at all the damage, trying to sort out the scents.

  “You want a hypothesis?” said Mallory. “Vlad came here looking for blood, but this isn't a blood bank, it's a dialysis facility. They don't store blood here. They cleanse the patient's blood and put it back in his veins. So he made two mistakes: first, he thought this place would provide him with a supply of blood, and it didn't; and second, he never guessed they'd have covered the joint with Odd Peter's formula, and he began itching or burning or whatever the hell it does to him. So he went into a rage and tore the place apart before he went off to buy all the parts of the antidote.”

  “You're wrong, John Justin,” said Felina.

  “Oh?”

  “You said he didn't get a supply of blood here.”

  “He didn't.”

  She smiled and pointed behind an overturned bed.

  Mallory walked over and saw that there was a body on the floor. He knelt down next to it. It was a middle-aged woman. Part of her throat had been torn out, and all the blood had been drained from her body.

  “That's not a medical uniform,” noted Mallory, studying the body. “I'd say she works for a cleaning service, and it makes sense that she'd be here at night, when the place was closed for business.” He shook his head. “Just bad timing. He didn't come here looking for her. If she'd shown up fifteen minutes sooner or fifteen minutes later, she'd probably still be alive.”

  Mallory stood up, walked through the center to make sure there were no other bodies, no one hiding and in need of help, and then, followed by Felina and McGuire, he walked out into the street.

  “I take it he wasn't there?” said Nathan.

  “Not now. But he was here earlier. He killed a cleaning woman. The cops will learn about it in the morning.”

  “You look upset,” noted the dragon.

  “I am.”

  “Dead bodies never bother the shamus in my books,” said Nathan. “I would have thought you'd seen your share of stiffs.”

  “There's nothing attractive about a dead body, but that's not what's bothering me,” said Mallory.

  “Then what is?”

  “I've been stalking Vlad Dracule all night without really having any idea of what I was up against. Well, I just saw an example of what he can do.”

  “You're not going to cut and run, are you?” asked Nathan.

  “Of course he's not!” said McGuire heatedly. “This is the man who stood up to the Grundy, the most powerful demon on the East Coast.”

  “Mallory?” said Nathan. “What
are you going to do?”

  “I can't go up against this Dracule empty-handed,” said Mallory. “I've got to arm myself.”

  “You're not empty-handed,” said Nathan. “You showed me your gun, remember?”

  “I don't know enough about him or what he can do,” said Mallory. “Guns won't stop him. Hell, bullets probably just annoy him. I've got to arm myself with a little knowledge.”

  “Where do you go for that?” asked Nathan.

  “When I needed to learn about unicorns, I went to the Museum of Natural History,” said Mallory.

  “They won't have anything about Vlad there,” said McGuire.

  “I know,” said Mallory. He looked up. “There's a gas station across the street. You guys wait here. I'm going to borrow their phone book for a minute.”

  “What for?”

  “If there's a Museum of Natural History, there's got to be a Museum of Unnatural History,” said Mallory, walking toward the gas station. “That's where I'll find my answers.”

  “I never heard of the place,” remarked Nathan as they walked up Lexington Avenue, halfway between the Village and midtown.

  “Neither did I,” answered Mallory. “But I knew this Manhattan had to have it, or something like it.”

  “I don't know what they can tell you about vampires that I can't tell you,” said McGuire. “After all, I have insider knowledge, so to speak.”

  “Can you tell me the limits of Vlad's strength?” said Mallory.

  “Well, he's stronger than a desk or a file cabinet.”

  “Or a scared kid or a middle-aged cleaning lady,” said the detective. “Yeah, I know. How do I subdue him, or at least protect myself from him?”

  “Well…ah…that is…”

  “That's why I'm going to the museum,” said Mallory. He looked around the deserted street. “It must be later than I thought. We've gone four blocks and haven't run into a single goblin trying to sell us anything.”

  “You rang?” said a voice from the shadows off to his left.

  “I knew it was too good to last,” said Mallory.

  “I am not here to sell you any products,” said the goblin, stepping out under a streetlight. “No authentic oil paintings by the masters, no night-crawlers in case you have an urge to go fishing on your way home, not even any underage oversexed goblin girls.”

  “That's a pleasant change,” said Mallory. “Now leave us alone.”

  “You are John Justin Mallory, are you not?”

  “What of it?”

  “And you're after the creature that calls itself Vlad Drachma?”

  “So?”

  “I have been empowered by the Church of the Unfailingly Contrite Sinners to sell you an indulgence for only seventeen dollars and thirty-one cents, which you'll agree is an exceptionally reasonable price to pay for an afterlife in one of the nicer suburbs of heaven, complete with guaranteed tee times at the local golf course.”

  “Forget it.”

  “Consider it forgotten,” said the goblin. “Since you are clearly determined to face Vlad Drachma without having guaranteed your ascension to heaven, I also have for sale, at a very reasonable price, some of the finest salves and painkillers on the market, just the thing after a hard day in the fiery pits.”

  “Scaly Jim, stab him with your spear if he says another word,” said Mallory.

  “With pleasure,” said the dragon.

  The goblin immediately began acting out the various products and indulgences he was selling, holding up the appropriate number of fingers to indicate how many syllables in each word. The charades continued for another block, after which the goblin lost interest and went off to try to sell cemetery plots to a bearded, robed holy man who was carrying a sign informing one and all that the world would end at 8:43 (Eastern Standard Time) in the morning.

  “Why are we slowing down?” asked McGuire.

  “We're almost there,” said Mallory.

  “Nonsense,” said McGuire. “We're between Twenty-seventh and Twenty-eighth.”

  “I'm just following the instructions I got over the phone,” said Mallory. They came to an opening between two buildings. He looked up and saw a street sign telling him that he was now at the corner of Lexington and Forgotten Alley. “We turn left here.”

  “I never heard of it,” said McGuire.

  “Probably you've never wanted to find it before,” replied Mallory. Suddenly he smiled.

  “What is it?” asked McGuire.

  “I sound like a native,” he said. “That's the kind of answer everyone's always giving me.”

  The alley widened and became better lit. Mallory saw a couple of Gnomes of the Subway emerging from an underground station. They immediately began rummaging through a trash container. Finally they pulled out a crumpled newspaper that seemed no different from any of the others and walked off contentedly.

  “So where is it?” asked McGuire.

  “Somewhere along this alley,” answered Mallory. “It's only a block or two long. We'll find it.”

  They passed a bar filled with goblins, another with elves, and a third with gremlins. A fourth structure was a club with placards announcing that it catered to gentlemen of the reptilian persuasion and featured Slinky Slithering Sally, who shed her clothes and her skin three times nightly and four times on Saturday.

  Finally they came to a small stone building with a granite carving of a lamia standing atop a square world, with little ships sailing off the edge.

  “This has to be the place,” remarked Mallory.

  “Yeah, that's about as unnatural as it gets,” agreed McGuire. “Imagine anyone still thinking the Earth is square.” He chuckled in amusement. “Everyone knows it's a trapezoid.”

  Mallory climbed the three stone steps to the front door. “Felina, I don't want you to touch anything.”

  “I won't,” she said. “Probably. Unless it's tasty. Or small and defenseless. Or—”

  “That's it. You stay outside and wait for me here.”

  “Maybe I will and maybe I won't.”

  “That seems fair enough,” said Mallory. “Maybe I'll feed you again sometime before you die, and maybe I won't.”

  “I'll stay right here,” she said promptly.

  Mallory reached the entrance. “Bats, Nathan, are you coming?”

  “Not me,” said McGuire. “I don't want to see vampires depicted as unnatural.”

  “Right,” said Mallory. “What's unnatural about being one of the undead and existing on a liquid diet, so to speak?”

  “I'm glad you understand,” said McGuire. “I'll keep an eye on the cat thing.”

  “Well, I'm coming,” said Nathan. “I go wherever my literary source goes.” He paused, lost in thought for a moment. “Have you been to the bathroom since this whole thing started?” he asked Mallory.

  “I don't think so. Why?”

  “That was very thoughtless of you,” said Nathan.

  “If you want to go, go,” said Mallory. “I'm sure they've got one here. You don't need my permission or my company.”

  “I don't have to go.”

  “Then what's the problem?”

  “I need to see how you go, what little idiosyncrasies you may exhibit. It's all for the book. I need to get every detail right.”

  “I do it like everybody else,” said Mallory.

  “But if I spend a lot of time watching everybody else, I'll get arrested,” complained Nathan.

  “That's always a possibility,” agreed Mallory pleasantly.

  “Maybe I'll just tag along and not worry about every last little detail.”

  “Sounds good to me,” said Mallory.

  The detective and the dragon entered the museum. They found themselves in a small lobby that led off in several directions. While they were trying to decide which way to go, a silver-haired man in a lab coat approached them.

  “Welcome to the Museum of Unnatural History,” he said. “Greetings and felicitations. Happy All Hallows' Eve. Huzzah!” He paused. “Is
that enough, do you think?”

  “Enough what?” asked Nathan.

  “My board told me to join in the celebration if any patrons were around. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Professor Seldon Hari, the chief curator. My specialty is devolution, but I can show you anything you wish to see.”

  “Devolution?” said Mallory. “What is that?”

  “Why, the antithesis of evolution, of course,” replied Professor Hari. “Take our children, for example. Seventy-five years ago they listened to the sophisticated jazz stylings of Benny Goodman, and when they spoke of a band they meant Tommy or Jimmy Dorsey's. Fifty years ago their notion of music was Little Richard and Screamin' Jay Hawkins. Another devolution and they worshipped at the altar of Kiss. And today all trace of music is gone, replaced by something call rap.” He shook his head. “From Beethoven to this in less than two centuries. If that isn't devolution, I don't know what is.”

  “You're just choosing one area: music,” said Nathan. “Isn't that a little too limiting for you to draw such a conclusion?”

  “Take any popular entertainment,” answered Professor Hari. “Our taste in humor has devolved from Mort Sahl and the Marx Brothers to Adam Sandler and Borat. Our heroes have devolved from John Wayne to Sean Penn. As our actresses' brains have gotten smaller, their bosoms have gotten bigger. Devolution. Then there's literature. In 1875, the two best-selling books in American history were Common Sense and Huckleberry Finn. Move the calendar ahead to 1975, and they had been supplanted by Valley of the Dolls and Peyton Place. Need I say more? Shall we discuss television?”

  “I'm afraid I don't have time right now,” said Mallory. “I'm after something that hasn't devolved, because it's a few centuries old.”

  “Ah!” said Professor Hari. “Something mystical and possibly supernatural.” He frowned. “Unless it's Miss Morgan, my high school English teacher. She been terrorizing students since the Stone Age.”

  “It's not your teacher,” said Mallory.

  “Good! She's the only thing that ever terrified me. Well, except for the seventeenth hole at Pebble Beach, and of course that's an inanimate thing, though sometimes I wonder, given the way the sand traps seem to reach out and grab my golf balls.”