by Hal Bodner
“Good evening, Hanna,” he called.
“Ach! Christopher! It is good to see you after all this time.” Hanna spoke with a heavy European accent, pronouncing “good” as “goot.”
She opened the door wider and said with a private smile, “I invite you in. Enter freely and of your own will.”
Chris grinned at the old joke and, following her into the house, said, “You remember Troy, don’t you?”
“As if one could forget,” was her reply. She reached out and gently pinched Troy’s right cheek, cooing, “Give Aunt Hanna a kiss, liebshen.” Troy dutifully complied, shooting Chris an “I told you so” look.
She led them into the house and down a paneled hallway to a set of louvered doors leading into the den. “Gustav,” she called, flinging open the doors with a dramatic flourish, “stop with the games. The children are here.”
A bearlike man rose out of a huge overstuffed chair positioned in front of a computer monitor on an antique rolltop desk in the corner of the room. He tapped a button and a colorful maze disappeared from the screen, leaving it blank and glowing softly. Coming forward, he grasped Chris’s hand in both of his own and shook it heartily.
“Welcome to California, my dear friend.” Gustav’s accent was not quite as heavy as his wife’s but it was still apparent that he slept atop foreign soil.
Troy cleared his throat loudly, impatient at not being the center of attention.
“And dear Troy,” Gustav said, turning to embrace him. “It has been, what? Forty years?”
“That long?” Hanna said with surprise. “But the War was only...” She paused for a moment, mentally calculating, then said with amazement, “Mein Got, you’re right!”
“What is that delicious smell?” Chris asked as Gustav motioned him and Troy towards the couch.
“Old habits,” said Gustav, with a grin. “My wife, she continues to cook!”
“Cook?” asked Chris as Hanna blushed furiously.
“The food we give to charity. But a house is not a home without smells from the kitchen. Wait, I’ll be right back.” She disappeared into the kitchen and returned almost immediately, apron-less, wiping her hands on a towel.
“Sit,” said Gustav. “We must talk.” They all settled in as he continued, “You received the information we’re sending you?” Chris nodded.
Hanna leaned forward. “When we read in the newspapers about the murders, we didn’t know what to do.”
“We thought about calling Sylvia,” Gustav confided, “but we’ve somehow always felt closer to you.”
“Ach, those poor children,” Hanna commented, shaking her head sadly.
“But you were so long in coming. I called you three times.”
“Two times,” Hanna corrected.
Gustav shrugged, “Who am I to argue?” He paused, “Three times.” Hanna shook her head, making good-natured, clucking noises with her tongue.
“I’d hoped,” began Chris, “that Colin and Dwayne could handle everything from San Francisco.”
“They went back to New Orleans,” said Gustav. “We keep in touch.”
“So sad,” added Hanna. “Poor Colin! Dwayne is a good boy. But such a temper! No self-control.”
“Yes, I heard,” Chris said. “In fact, my first thought was that Dwayne had gone rogue on us.”
Gustav and Hanna looked shocked.
“It was a possibility,” Chris said. “But Sylvia assured me they were already safe in Louisiana by the time the trouble started here. Will you please sit still and keep your fingers to yourself? You’ll break something!” This last was to Troy who had risen and had plucked up two Dresden china figurines from the mantle over the fireplace and was, Chris could tell, about to begin playing with them as if they were plastic action figures.
“No, no. It’s all right,” said Hanna sweetly, rising and deftly removing the fine porcelains from Troy’s busy hands. “Such a sweet child,” she said, pinching the startled Troy’s cheek once again. “Almost my age and still so much like a little boy.”
She guided him toward the kitchen. “Come, we will leave them to talk and I will let you help me with the baking. We make strudel. I will teach you to roll the dough.”
She ushered him, scowling, out of the room. But as they reached the doorway to the kitchen, Troy stopped and sniffed hesitantly, his face slowly lighting up.
“Chocolate!” he exclaimed, happily.
“Ja,” Hanna told him. “Is chocolate strudel.” She pushed him through the doors and turned to smiled mischievously at Chris as she closed them behind herself.
“He has the attention span of breakfast cereal,” Chris sighed, “Snap, crackle, pop and he’s on to something else.
“But you love him,” said Gustav.
“Most of the time. Other times I want to strangle him. We’ve been together so long, sometimes it’s hard to tell if it’s love or just familiarity that gets us through the rough times.”
Gustav tapped Chris firmly on the knee while making his point. “It is love.” He leaned back into the couch with a heavy sigh. “After everything we have seen, we learn to recognize it when we see it. There is too much hate in the world, even today.” He looked at Chris keenly through narrowed eyelids. “You have heard? In Orange County? Skinheads. Neo-Nazis they call themselves, as if they should be proud of what they are.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Hanna and I have talked. We are Jews. We remember. We will not go through that again. If it gets worse, we will leave soon. We came to America after the War to be rid of it all.”
“I remember.”
“Thank you again, my friend. Without you and Sylvia, Hanna and I would not have had these years together.”
“Just thank your lucky stars you weren’t put into the ovens.”
“I do, my friend. I do.”
“It wasn’t purely selfless on our part, you’ll remember. Without your help, Sylvia and I could never have gotten back to Denmark.”
“Well, enough of that,” remarked Gustav. “Though there were good memories of that time, I would gladly forget them to put the bad things behind me.”
He rose and went back over to the wooden roll top desk. “We have other problems now.” He sat down at the computer, stroking the keyboard with undisguised pride.
“This modern age!” he said in mild awe. “The things we have to play with now. Can you imagine what Hitler could have done with this? The mind shudders to think!” He patted the top of the computer monitor affectionately. “And the games!” he exclaimed with barely concealed joy. “When I was young we had only soccer and baseball and playing with marbles,” he said. “But now! Just imagine!” He opened the bottom drawer of the desk to reveal fifty or sixty computer game packages. “I can hunt dragons, fly airplanes or kill aliens without leaving my den. What a wonderful time this is!” His expression grew serious. “It is a shame that the hate mongers of this world cannot content themselves with the Sims and their friends, yes?”
He signed and, closing the drawer, withdrew a printed piece of paper bearing a list of thirty or so names and addresses and examined it briefly. Finally, apparently satisfied, he handed it to Chris. “This is a list of all of our kind on the West Coast. All that we know of anyway.”
As Chris began to read the names, Gustav asked, “What changed your mind about journeying here?”
“First I found out that Colin and Dwayne had gone back home. Then, well, I have a friend, a woman who’s right in the middle of this mess. Do you have a pencil?”
Gustav handed him one. “She’s one of us?”
“No, one of them. I know her from Philly. Coincidentally, she happens to be West Hollywood’s city coroner.”
Gustav frowned severely. “She doesn’t know about you?”
“No.” Chris looked up from the list. “I know most of these people. None of them are old enough to be who we’re looking for.”
“Old enough?” Gustav repeated.
“Yeah, Troy and I figured it
has to be someone who’s bored, taking risks.”
“Could it be someone who’s recently arrived? A rogue?”
“Possibly. Sylvia’s already checking on that. But it’s more likely to be someone none of us know.” Chris looked down at the list again. “I don’t recognize Gerald Commoner, Monique de la Fleur or Harry and Agnes Piper.”
“Gerald is from England.” Gustav said. “He’s been living in Seattle for the past fifteen years.”
“When was he made?”
“During the influenza epidemic at the turn of the century. Monique, she is quite young. She lives downtown. Hanna and I see her frequently.”
“And the Pipers?” asked Chris.
“A very charming young couple from somewhere in Kansas. Made in the early 1970s. They staged their own deaths and moved to San Bernardino in ’81.” Gustav considered the list for a moment and then thrust it aside. “Where is Lucenzio Caravella? He was born in the 16th century, ja?”
“Early 1400s, I think. Both Troy and I know him fairly well. We just saw him last Christmas in New York.” Chris laughed. “That old queen is anything but tired of living.”
Gustav held up his hands, an unvoiced question hanging in the air.
“I don’t know.” Chris folded the list and put it in his pocket. “I see that Maggie Trillum still lives in San Diego and Barbara Rice is still in Vegas. I’ll get them to follow up on the people on the list. Maybe we’ll find something.”
“Hopeful, you don’t sound.”
“I’m not. It’s possible we’re going to have to do a lot of research. I have a feeling we’re dealing with someone who doesn’t get out in society much. If you don’t mind, ask Sylvia to send you copies of her records going back to, oh, let’s say just before Julius Caesar. See if you can come up with someone who we don’t have a date of true death for.”
“Hanna and I will, of course, do what we can to help. But will we not have a problem? I’m told the records from the peasant uprisings in the 15th and 17th centuries are incomplete.”
Chris grinned. “Wait’ll you start dealing with our French cousins during the Revolution. The paperwork’s a total mess.” He clapped his hands to his thighs and stood up. “I didn’t say it was going to be easy.”
Gustav also rose and put one hand on Chris’ shoulder, meeting his gaze evenly. “And if we are unable to find this madman?”
Chris looked uncomfortable. “Unless we want the modern equivalent of peasants with stakes, we’ll have to. In the mean time, you and Hanna should be very careful. And warn your friends to do the same—especially the younger ones. We old folks can take care of ourselves.” As an afterthought, he added, “Do you and Hanna have alternative identities ready to go?”
Gustav was concerned. “Do you think it will come to that?”
“If this guy keeps up at the rate he’s going, it’s only a matter of time before someone gets smart and starts combing old birth and death records. I don’t know much about computers, but nowadays it won’t be difficult to track down someone like Lucenzio. He’s been his own grandson for so many centuries he suffers from inbreeding. And once they find one of us...”
“We can only hope.” Gustav forced a smile. “Come, let us see what our wives are doing in the kitchen.”
His smile was returned. “If I know mine, he’ll have yours climbing the walls by now.”
The two men turned and, Gustav’s arm flung across Chris’s shoulders, went to join their mates.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
That very night, even before Chris had finished nervously navigating his way back across Laurel Canyon to West Hollywood, Gustav telephoned Sylvia to discuss how they should proceed. Gustav was eager to abandon his beloved computer games and, for the first time, use his hobby for a practical purpose. He argued strenuously that their search for the culprit could more easily be conducted via the Internet.
At first, Sylvia was resistant. Like Chris, she’d never been quite comfortable with computers. Although she’d spent a fortune on her own PC and purchased a top-of-the-line model, she wasn’t exactly sure how to use it. She could turn it on, of course, and after she’d had it for several years, she’d learned to write letters on it. But anything more advanced baffled her. She’d once spent a frustrating several hours trying to fax something through the machine. No matter how carefully she’d followed the directions in the manual, the computer would invariably refuse to do what she wanted and would respond to her pleas, threats and tantrums with nothing more than a rude beeping sound. And for creatures who had to keep their existence secret in order to survive, a hacker could be fatal.
Gustav spent a frustrating several hours on the telephone, talking Sylvia through the process of accessing the Internet. But with perseverance the two vampires were able to meet up online and, within minutes, information was flowing back and forth.
Since Gustav and Hanna had died in middle age, it had been necessary for them to fabricate new identities once every other decade on average; otherwise neighbors and acquaintances became suspicious. Sylvia, on the other hand, was able to cleverly use make-up to prolong her stay in any one place. Thus, they were both very familiar with the processes which vampires tended to use to create new lives for themselves and to avoid discovery. They accessed the relevant records and were amazed, if slightly uncomfortable, at how easily they were able to compile a list of names, which was largely comprised of vampires who one or the other of them knew. They also came up with a long list of names of people who fit the vampire mold, individuals whose records lacked either a date of birth or death and certain patterns of inheritances which looked suspiciously like one of their race had tried to will all of his property to himself.
Hanna, in turn, made her own rather unique contribution to the task at hand. Standing behind her husband and looking over his shoulder at the screen, she quickly realized there were some important gaps in the information which Sylvia and Gustav had available that public databases were incapable of filling. Without a word to her husband, she went into the kitchen and quickly prepared a basket laden with freshly baked breads, homemade sausages, spiced apple cider, boysenberry preserves that she’d prepared and canned herself, and a host of other goodies.
Early the next morning, while Gustav was still pounding away at his keyboard, Hanna left the house, closing the front door quietly behind her so as not to disturb Gustav at his work, and pulled her ancient station wagon out of the garage. A colorful scarf wrapped around her head to protect her from the autumn sun, she headed off to the Studio City branch of the Los Angeles County Library.
She entered the library, breathing a contented sigh as the cool darkness washed over her, and almost immediately found what she was looking for. She approached the desk of the reference librarian where a plump man in his early sixties wearing spectacles was occupying himself with the Los Angeles Times. She stopped and coughed demurely.
The reference librarian looked up in irritation, but seeing Hanna his expression quickly changed to one of delight.
“Mrs. Bromberg!” he exclaimed. He rose and came around the desk, taking her unencumbered hand in both of his. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.” He took the basket from her gallantly and ushered her towards a nearby chair at an unoccupied reading table, where he fussed over her until he was sure she was comfortable.
“What can I do for you this morning? Perhaps a nice Louis L’Amour? Or,” he inquired with a wink, “how about the latest Harlequin romance? I finished it yesterday.” He sat beside her, trying to avoid closing his eyes in bliss at the tantalizing smells emanating from the basket.
He leaned forward and confided in a whisper, “I wasn’t going to put it out on the shelves until tomorrow. I was saving it in case you came in.”
“Such a nice man you are, Mr. Eisenstat,” purred Hanna coyly. The reference librarian blushed. “No,” she went on, “today I need some history information.” At his look of surprise, she continued, “Very boring, I know. But...” She lowered her voice, “my hu
sband sent me. One of his little projects.” She spread her hands in feigned bewildered helplessness. “What could I do?” In a normal voice, she went on. “So I said to myself, Hanna, you must go to that nice Mr. Eisenstat at the library. You’ll pass a few hours, schmooze a bit...” She returned his wink. “Maybe share a little nosh first?”
She indicated the basket and watched with hidden satisfaction as Eisenstat’s face lit up with greedy anticipation. She drew the basket closer and, taking off the cloth cover, began to remove its contents.
“Let’s see, hmm...What have we here? Some pumpernickel bread with...ah! Sausages!”
“Homemade?” asked Eisenstat with eagerness.
“Of course,” she said with mock offense. Seeing the reference librarian open his mouth to apologize, she relented. “From turkey. Cholesterol, you know.”
Eisenstat patted his ample belly. “I know,” he said ruefully.
Hanna continued removing delicacy after delicacy from the basket as Eisenstat oohed and aahed in appreciation. Within twenty minutes, flirting outrageously the entire time, Hanna had the reference librarian, quite literally, eating out of her hand. Several hours later, she left the library, basket empty of food, but refilled with sheaves of paper—copies of the relevant texts which Eisenstat had made for her, free of charge, on his office copier.
She returned home and proudly presented Gustav with the result of the morning’s activities. Looking at the documents with undisguised surprise, Gustav asked, “Do I want to know how you got these?”
“Mr. Eisenstat at the library,” Hanna replied off-handedly. “For the hours I spend slaving in the kitchen for that man, he should, for once, get me something more than romance books, ja?”
She pulled a hand written list from her coat pocket. “This he’s getting from downtown.”