A Coldness in the Blood (The Dracula Series)

by Fred Saberhagen

  Joe shot him a questioning look. Then he went to sit on the sofa beside his son, took his arm and shook it lightly. “Hey, guy. You sound asleep, or what?”

  This time Andy’s eyes stayed open. “Guess I crashed.” The realization seemed to utterly astonish him, in a dazed and lowkey way. Another long moment passed before the fact of his father’s presence fully registered. Then Andy sat up abruptly, rubbing his face and eyes. “What time is it? Dad? What the heck you doing here?”

  “Going for an early walk. Doing my aerobics. How you feel?”

  Andy considered. “Okay, I guess. What is this? Did I sleep all night?” Turning around slowly, he got his feet on the floor. He raised both hands and began to rub his neck, as if it had gone stiff.

  Joe stood up from the couch and turned to Maule. His voice was grim, but still respectful. “What happened, Uncle Matt?”

  The vampire made an economical gesture in the direction of the kitchen. “I have made coffee, and there is food available. I assume you have not breakfasted.”

  Joe sighed. “You’re right, I haven’t. Thanks. Andy, how about some chow?”

  “Sure.” And Andy got to his feet, where he seemed to wobble for just a moment. “Be with you in a minute.” He started for the small bathroom just off the entryway.

  Keeping an eye on the youth to make sure he did not wander down the bedroom hallway, Maule relaxed a little. That Andy was hungry seemed a healthy sign.

  When Andy returned from the bathroom and walked into the kitchen to join his father and their friend at the small table, the young man was the calm one, still seeming utterly unaware that anything really bizarre had taken place. His dazed condition had somehow kept him from noticing, while passing through the living room, the spear with its hardened wooden point still deeply embedded in plasterboard, its point well into the sterner stuff of the building’s wall beneath.

  On entering the kitchen, Andy paused to remark to his father: “You know, that’s a funny mirror in there. In the bathroom. I just noticed.”

  “Not really a mirror,” his father told him shortly. Joe had visited that lavatory some years ago. Now he was puttering around in search of food, while Maule sat motionless at the table with no plate or cup before him. This was only what Joe had expected. Keogh caught a glimpse, in the sink, of a small plastic dish that had recently held something bloody. Resolutely he refused to be distracted.

  “It looks,” his son was telling him, “like a closed-circuit TV screen.”

  “That’s what it is,” Joe informed his son. He glanced at Maule, who was paying no attention to the exchange. “Some people like them better than mirrors.”

  “Wow.”

  A glass of orange juice tasted good to Joe. The refrigerator held bacon and eggs, in unopened but freshly dated packages, as if in anticipation of breathing guests who preferred a diet of solid food. But Joe wasn’t going to bother with anything that elaborate just now. He settled for a bagel and cream cheese to go with the excellent coffee.

  “Any interesting dreams in your long sleep?” Maule was asking Joe Keogh’s son, in a casual tone.

  Andy thought about it. “No.” He seemed not totally clearheaded yet, still recovering slowly from whatever had put him out for the night. “At least I don’t remember dreaming anything.”

  “Perhaps you will recall something later.” Maule waited until the youth’s gaze rose to meet his own, then added, firmly: “You can try.”

  Andy nodded absently. He had poured himself coffee, and was munching on a piece of toast, but his responses were still slow. Obviously he was not yet completely right. He seemed not to notice the fact that while in their company Uncle Matthew neither ate nor drank.

  While Andy helped himself to a second bowl of cereal, Maule rose, and with a slight motion of his head signaled Joe alone out of the kitchen and down the bedroom hallway.

  At the end of the short hall he stopped, before a door now firmly closed. Turning the knob, he whispered: “Andy has not seen this, and knows nothing about it. I, unhappily, know very little more.”

  Joe took in the scene of death and destruction with the professional gaze of a former cop. His face changed only slightly; obviously, having been called here in the middle of the night, he had been bracing himself for something of the kind.

  Under his breath, Joe Keogh murmured an obscenity, words he rarely used. Then he added: “Who is he?”

  “Someone called Tamarack. That name is almost the only thing I know of him.”

  “Who did it?”

  “That remains to be discovered, and I intend to do so.”

  Joe was pointing, without touching them, at fragments of the shattered statue, an outer layer of whitish ceramic, now mixed with what had evidently been its hidden contents. “What’s this?”

  “Last night, when still intact, it was a small, white statue. I do not know the nature of the dark material now revealed to be inside, but it is very old, and at least partially organic.”

  Keogh grunted. “Weird. I wonder.”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, two days ago I was in the Field Museum, looking at their Egyptian exhibit. I don’t remember any little white statues, but in one of the cases there was a little panel, very much like that one on the bed. The label on it said … what did it say?” Joe ran strong fingers through his sandy hair. “Yeah. A ‘false door,’ that was it.”

  Maule was intrigued. “You were at the Field in a professional capacity? Perhaps regarding theft?”

  “Professional, yes. But they haven’t had anything stolen, it’s just that their alarm systems are acting up. A couple of times they’ve shown evidence of intrusion, but when their people go to check it out, there’s never an intruder. I’ve been called in to consult.”

  “Complications, complications.” Maule was frowning. “I wish to retain possession of this panel for a time. But it might be well for you to photograph it, and show the picture to your contact at the Field.”

  Joe nodded. “All right.” He rubbed his hands together and looked around. Knowing Maule as he did, it had not even occurred to him to ask if cops were going to be called in. “Lots to be done. But before anything else I want to get my kid out of here. Thanks for calling me.”

  “I entirely agree, Andy should be removed at once. I must apologize for his accidental involvement in this—this monstrous invasion of my home.” Maule’s thin-lipped mouth was twisted.

  Joe seemed torn between anger and relief. Then he managed a brief grin. “We’ve been through even worse than this.”

  Maule nodded grimly.

  “After I take Andy home I’ll come back and help. I expect you can use some help?” The question was calm and businesslike.

  “Your offer is gratefully accepted, Joseph. I expected nothing less. But do not come back here today—I plan to be elsewhere.”

  The doorchime sounded.

  Andy had risen from his kitchen chair and started toward the front door, but somehow, without seeming to make any special effort, Maule managed to traverse the bedroom hallway and get there two steps ahead of him. As soon as he arrived, he relaxed. The face on the screen was that of John Southerland, Joe’s brother-in-law and Andy’s uncle. Maule let him in.

  John came in warily, face unshaven, clothes rumpled, as if he had thrown them on before he was fully awake. Then he relaxed. “Hi, Joe, Andy. Hi, Uncle Matthew.” He looked around. “What’s up?” John Southerland was about the same size as Joe, a little under six feet, and younger by twelve or thirteen years. In his high school days John had been quite an amateur wrestler. He was strong-jawed and sturdy, light brown hair now graying at the temples and showing a tendency to curl.

  Three minutes later, father and son were in the kitchen, while Maule was busy acquainting John with the contents of the third bedroom. The doorchime sounded again.

  This time Joe Keogh was first to reach the little entryway. He recognized the young woman shown in close-up on the video screen near the entry, but before he could resp
ond to her presence in any way Maule was at his elbow. The effect of nearly instantaneous movement was so strange that this time Joe had to fight back an impulse to giggle.

  Maule looked at the screen, grunted something, and relaxed. When he opened the door, the woman in the corridor gazed at him blankly with her wide, dark eyes, and smiled winningly with cheerfully painted lips. Her voice was light and musical. An indeterminate faint accent came and went. “Mr. Maule? I have come to your door to sell you a magazine subscription. You may win a gr-reat prize in our contest!”

  Maule shook his head, frowning. “Come in, Constantia. No need to play games. I believe you have met Joseph Keogh, and John Southerland.”

  The dark eyes flashed at each man in turn. “Ah yes! Regrettably only a brief encounter in each case. But for years dear Vlad has been telling me marvelous things about both of you. Ah, Johnnee, your poor hands, both little fingers missing—how could one ever forget the story of your bravery?”

  John murmured something in response. The fingers had been gone for more than twenty years, and few people even noticed. It was hard to believe the woman before him was almost as old as Maule, but he knew it to be true. Connie looked wide-eyed and innocent, prim and ladylike, though she was not dressed to fit that role, wearing tight pants and some kind of high-heeled sandals showing bright red toenails. Dark curly hair and heavy silver earrings contributed to a gypsy look. An entrancing wave of subtle perfume entered with her.

  She turned as Andy emerged from the kitchen, coffee cup still in hand. Her red lips shaped briefly into a perfect O. “And here, the handsome young one with the nice new beard could he possibly be Kate’s son? I see something of her in his eyes—how is your lovely wife, by the way? And Judy?”

  “Kate’s fine,” Joe Keogh said abstractedly. “She’s home. Judy’s traveling in Europe this summer, along with Andy’s sister.”

  Constantia turned back to Joe. “How fortunate for you to have married into the Southerlands, for they are of Mina Harker’s blood. And so they are dear Vlad’s—excuse me, Mr. Maule’s—favorite breathing family—and have been for a long time now—my goodness, it must be more than a hundred years!” She marveled prettily.

  Joe cast a sharp glance at his son. The bit about a hundred years of blood-related friendship, if it had registered with Andy, ought to just about sink any possibility that the Family Secret could be kept from the younger generation much longer. But the kid still looked somewhat dazed. So far he was still ignoring the spear stuck in the wall.

  “Who are Vlad and Mina?” Andy asked, frowning. He was making a game effort to follow the conversation, though much of it was going past him.

  Connie’s gaze came back to the youth, and she murmured: “Pretty earring!” and smiled at him fondly—a tentative movement of her small pink hand toward the ear in question earned her a warning glance from Mr. Maule. The movement came to an abrupt halt.

  For a moment there was silence. Then John cleared his throat and said quietly to Maule: “Uncle Matt? I can start that job for you now, if you like. The cleanup in there.” He moved his head just slightly in the direction of the rear hallway.

  “Not just yet, but soon,” said Maule, and nodded gratefully. “Thank you.”

  Andy asked: “What cleanup?” No one answered. He turned back to the kitchen. “I’m having some more coffee.”

  Maule was looking thoughtfully at Connie. “What brings you here?” he asked in a low voice.

  “I have just been talking to our mutual friend,” Connie reported. “I mean, of course, the old one, Dickon.”

  Maule grunted. “Friend or not, I was reasonably sure he had survived. He is actually very good at survival, though not at much else. Where is he now? He must tell me everything that happened here.”

  “He asked me to intercede for him with you, dear Vlad. I am here as his surrogate—is that the right word?—to beg forgiveness for his running away last night. He didn’t tell me much, but I got the feeling some very bad things must have happened … Vlad, you won’t be mean to him, will you? He says to tell you that he intended no harm, it’s just that he was very much afraid.”

  “Abject terror is Dickon’s normal state. Where is he now?”

  “I don’t know, honestly! I can only tell you where he said he was going.”

  “Constantia—”

  “All right, all right! He told me he would be hiding out on the roof of the main public library. At no great distance from here, on the street called State, just north of Congress.”

  “I know where it is. But on the roof …” Maule seemed to find the answer utterly bewildering.

  “That’s what he said.”

  “But it is broad daylight, early in the morning.” Maule squinted toward the windows, where brutal sunlight burned around the margin of closed drapes.

  “You are right as always.”

  Maule shook his head. “The day promises to be sunny, and there cannot be much shadow there … he might find it rather awkward.”

  Constantia shrugged, dismissing Dickon and whatever problems he might have. “Now that I am here, how can I be of service?”

  Maule considered. “Did you notice as you approached, whether anyone was watching the building—? No, I suppose you would not have noticed. Probably your most useful function will be to carry a message from me to Dickon.”

  “Have you tried to phone him?” Connie asked.

  Maule pressed his fingers to his head. “Was Dickon carrying a cell phone—? No, not when he was here. Because he said something about wanting to use mine.”

  “And what is the message, dear Vlad?” Constantia now seemed to be working at an imitation of an efficient secretary.

  “I want to give him a conditional reassurance, that if he helps me now, tells me all he knows, holding back nothing, he will not be punished.”

  The secretary approved. “You are not going to try to hunt him down?”

  “Certainly not now. I have more important things to do than haunt the roof of the public library.”

  The prospect of carrying her message to that exposed environment in daylight did not seem to worry Connie—taking note of this, Maule surmised that perhaps she really had no intention of going there at all. Well, for the time being he would be content to have her out of his way.

  Evidently wishing to speak with Vlad Tepes privately, she switched to another language, sibilant, not quite as old as Dickon’s native tongue. “Are you going to be very angry with him, Vlad?” she persisted. When he did not answer at once, Connie looked at him closely. “I see you are. Oh, how unpleasant!”

  Maule answered in English. “The sooner I can talk to him, the better. You must try to convince him of that. Tell him I admit that what happened in my house is at least partly my own fault. I am ready to listen to Dickon now, and if he will tell me the absolute truth, the unpleasantness will be minimized.”

  “Then—if no one is going to tell me exactly what happened here last night—?”

  “No one is going to tell you now.”

  “Then I will be on my way.” To Maule’s relief, she took her departure in a conventional manner, protected behind dark sunglasses and a broad-brimmed hat. To make sure, he listened until he could hear her boarding an elevator. He would not have put it past her to try climbing down the building’s shaded outside wall.

  ~ 3 ~

  Maule felt a strong impulse to begin a personal search for Dickon without delay, to get his hands on the elder one as soon as possible and question him, intensively if necessary. But regretfully he decided that it was necessary to deal with certain other matters first. And it would be not only dangerous, but probably unprofitable, to spend valuable time on the roof of the public library.

  Again he was struck by what a bizarre hiding place that was for any vampire to choose. Maybe Dickon had been lying to Constantia. Or maybe the old one had in mind some particular hidey-hole on the roof. Eight or more hours of unshielded summer daylight, even at Chicago’s relatively northern latitu
de, would be more than enough to kill any vampire. Having visited the library on occasion, Maule was able to recall some structural details. The old coward, if he was really there, would almost certainly be somewhere in among the folds of the molded decorative draperies whose shapes on the high roof suggested gargoyles, or to some less imaginative minds, gigantic flowers. These were made of some artificial material, plastic or fiberglass the grayish green of weathered bronze, and when seen from street level gave the building a look of having been infested by monsters. Maule supposed the one advantage of such a hiding place would be that no one would ever think of looking there—which, come to think of it, might well outweigh the shortcomings.

  He roused himself to pay attention to Joe Keogh, who was coming up with some practical questions. The two of them were in the kitchen again, while out in the living room John was keeping Andy’s attention focused on the computer.

  The things Joe wanted to know had nothing to do with the Internet. “Did this Tamarack and the other fella arrive together? And were they driving, or—?”

  Maule had the unfamiliar feeling that his memory was shaky. He pressed the fingers of both hands to his temples. “They did arrive at my door together. What did Dickon tell me? That they walked from Old Town? No, he said they drove, in a vehicle belonging to Tamarack.”

  Maule now repeated, as best he could, Dickon’s vague but suggestive report of a fire and worse, that had driven him and Tamarack to look for sanctuary. Dickon had also said something about being forced to abandon his car, and that they had come in Tamarack’s.

  Joe Keogh, easing comfortably into the role of investigating officer, nodded. “So the vehicle belonging to the late Mr. Tamarack is probably still down in the garage, unless this Dickon drove it away. Is he—?”

  “Dickon, nosferatu? Yes. The other one—” Maule indicated the back bedroom with a nod “—was not.”

  “Didn’t think so. Let’s go take another look at him. And I want a picture of that little panel. And some of that other stuff, before it gets cleaned up.” From a side pocket of his sport coat, Joe pulled a camera, very small. To Maule it looked extremely modern and efficient. He didn’t know whether he ought to find that reassuring or not.