Night of Dracula Read online

  “That would be fine.” Jonathan reached into the inside pocket of his tuxedo jacket. “Here’s my card, with our address.”

  Vladamir took the card, but turned to look at Heather. “Will you be joining us for dinner as well?”

  Mina stepped around Jonathan to stand behind Heather. She placed her hands on the other woman’s shoulders and smiled devilishly. “Of course,” Mina answered. “She wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  TWO

  Jonathan Steward pulled a wrinkled paperback book from the side pocket of his white laboratory coat. He sat in the visitor’s chair next to Carl Renfield’s hospital bed, in a private room at the infectious disease unit of St. Mark’s Hospital. “Let’s see, where were we? Oh, yes . . . Chapter nine.” He returned Renfield’s frail smile with a brisk wink. But Renfield wasn’t quite up to The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, though he truly enjoyed hearing the story Jonathan faithfully read to him every evening. He shook his head no, with as much strength as he could muster.

  “Okay. Tomorrow—perhaps.” Jonathan’s tone grew solemn. “Carl, I spoke with your father again. He telephoned this morning.”

  Renfield turned his head away, refusing to even look at Jonathan. His emaciated body barely rippled the sheets. Before Renfield’s situation had turned critical from pneumonia, he’d asked that his father never be allowed to visit him. This was not out of spite. Carl wanted to spare his father the horrible ordeal of watching his only son deteriorate before his eyes from AIDS.

  Jonathan released a slow sigh, quietly nodding. He studied Renfield’s withered, pale body and the endless tubes that kept him barely alive. “Okay. We’ll do it your way.” He reached over to gently squeeze Renfield’s frail hand.

  Remarkable . . . truly remarkable, Jonathan thought to himself. A man who had given so much to his community. To face death alone. Jonathan looked away from Carl, feeling ashamed of himself as a physician and as a man.

  THREE

  Jonathan, Heather, and Vladamir sat in the living room of the Steward’s plantation-style home, on the outskirts of one of Atlanta’s most affluent suburbs. The low-burning flames of the fireplace, soothing classical music from the stereo, and twinkling white lights on a tastefully decorated Christmas tree all added to the warmth of the evening. Through the murmur of light conversation and occasional laughter, Mina made her entrance, carrying a silver tray with four glasses of champagne. She wore yet another of the overpriced evening gowns she prized, in contrast to Heather’s rather plain dress, which was highlighted only by a single string of pearls. Mina set the tray down on an ornate seventeenth-century French oak coffee table and sat next to their guest, offering him the first glass. “I’m dreadfully sorry for keeping you waiting,” she said to Vladamir, ignoring Jonathan and Heather, who had to reach for their own drinks.

  Vladamir, dressed in a black suit, black shirt, and necktie, stood, as a gentleman does when a lady enters a room. He slowly inclined his head. “It’s wonderful to see you again, Mina. I thank you again for your hospitality. Such a magnificent home!”

  “We love it. We’ve lived here ever since moving to Atlanta from New York. The plantation once belonged to Robert E. Lee. He was a famous general for the South during our Civil War, you know.”

  Jonathan quickly interrupted. “Actually, General Lee only stayed here as a boy, and only for one summer. But it did belong to the Lee family.”

  Mina glared at Jonathan. Heather interposed quickly. “Vladamir, where are you staying?”

  “I have leased the Carfax estate for the winter.”

  “That old dump?” Mina exclaimed. “That place is enough to make your skin crawl. It gives me the creeps.”

  Vladamir appeared amused, rather than insulted, by her remark. “Actually, I find it rather charming. It reminds me of Romania. Rather provincial, I would say.”

  “Without electricity?” Jonathan interrupted, sharing Mina’s surprise. “Those stones must be colder than winter!”

  Vladamir smiled. “The many fireplaces can supply all the heat I should need, and with candles . . . the atmosphere is quite comforting.”

  “It sounds wonderful,” Heather said timidly. “How truly marvelous, to disassociate yourself from the modern world. I think it’s wonderful.”

  Vladamir turned in slow motion to meet Heather’s eyes. His smile faded. “How unusual,” he finally said, “that someone as lovely as yourself finds beauty in what others consider grotesque.”

  A smile flickered across Heather’s moist red lips. She glanced down to the glass in her soft, petite hands, and the room fell silent a second time, except for the faint strains of Mozart playing in the background.

  “Say, Vladamir . . .” Jonathan’s words distracted their guest’s wild, hypnotic stare into Heather’s blue eyes. He turned to look at Dr. Steward over his shoulder, but said nothing in reply. “I did some checking on the name Tepevich.”

  “Really?” Vladamir’s face betrayed no expression, but his tone carried a hint of suspicion. “And what did your investigation reveal?”

  Jonathan responded with regret. “Oh, I apologize, Vladamir. I didn’t mean to suggest I was checking on you. Heavens, no. It’s just that I knew I had heard the name Vladamir Tepevich before.”

  “Of course,” Vladamir replied in a low voice. He still seemed wary. “Please, continue.”

  Jonathan cleared his throat. “I looked up the name Tepevich in a medical journal. And I was correct. A Vladamir Tepevich lived around the turn of the twentieth-century.”

  “Really?” Heather leaned forward in her chair with evident fascination. Jonathan’s discovery appeared to fascinate her. “Please, tell us about him, Jonathan.”

  Vladamir, however, remained vaguely dismayed.

  “Let’s just say that Tepevich was a very interesting character,” Jonathan said, suddenly evasive.

  “The doctor is being polite,” Vladamir grumbled, turning to Heather. “It was a dreadful time for our otherwise peaceful, happy country. In 1898, a terrifying virus swept through the villages of the Carpathian Mountains. Hundreds died before my great-grandfather, Dr. Vladamir Tepevich, was able to recognize the symptoms early in the disease. He acted quickly, isolating the infected, thus saving thousands of lives. His name is held with great reverence among the people of Romania.”

  Vladamir’s story seemed to impress Heather, but Jonathan, who knew otherwise, felt an uncontrollable sense of professional outrage. “That’s not quite the entire story, Heather. The name Vladamir Tepevich is certainly remembered, but not as a savior. The man was a monster!”

  “How so, dear?” Mina suddenly grew interested in the conversation, and with what she considered to be an amusing little confrontation between her husband and their guest. She settled more comfortably into her chair.

  “Yes, do continue, Doctor,” Vladamir challenged. His face tightened with an anger that was becoming difficult to control.

  Jonathan set his glass on the coffee table that divided the two men. “Since you all insist . . . these so-called quarantine facilities were nothing short of barbaric, according to a priest who recorded his visit to them. The sick and dying were dragged into catacombs below the ground and left to die unattended. There were no provisions—no water, no food. Then the underground chambers were set on fire. Villagers could hear the screams as those still alive burnt to death. . . .

  “Vladamir’s crimes didn’t end there—oh, no! This man attempted to find a cure, to be used on his own family. His experiments involved dissecting living human beings in a grotesque attempt to learn how the virus attacked the body. Vladamir Tepevich . . . hardly a name I would use to describe a true humanitarian.”

  “Outrage!” Vladamir sprung to his feet. He pointed a trembling finger at Jonathan. “Have you never attempted something good, only to be judged otherwise by those who could not understand? You know nothing! You, with your billion-dollar medical facility, your clean, white sheets, your trained staff and technology. You know nothing of wha
t that man endured, trying to save his people. You are very quick to condemn circumstances you couldn’t begin to imagine, not in your worst nightmares.”

  Strangely, a sinister smile suddenly raised the corners of Vladamir’s red lips. He glared into Jonathan’s eyes even deeper. “I take my leave of you now, Doctor. But take care! Don’t ever cross my path again!”

  Jonathan slowly rose to his feet. “Are you threatening me?”

  Vladamir released a low, dry laugh. “Good evening, Doctor,” he said, and turned to walk to the front door. He moved like a dark phantom, eerily drifting out of their view.

  Heather chased after him. “Please, Vladamir! Wait!” Heather reached for his arm as he made his way down the fieldstone steps outside.

  Vladamir slowly turned to look at her, and smiled warmly. Cold December air turned his breath to vapor, and the light of a full moon illuminated the whites of his eyes. He pulled up the collar to his long, black overcoat and quietly pleaded with Heather to go back inside.

  “I must speak with you first,” she insisted. “I’ve never seen Jonathan act like that before. You must understand, he’s under a great deal of pressure at the hospital. Try to forgive him, please. He truly is a wonderful man.”

  “A wonderful man? Yes, he must be,” Vladamir answered softly. “To command the friendship of one such as yourself, he must be. Please, extend my deepest regrets over my actions. And I ask that you forgive me as well.”

  Vladamir was interrupted by the distant cry of an animal. A wolf, perhaps, which was not uncommon for this region. He quietly stared off into space. “Children of the night,” he whispered. “What music they make.”

  Heather took another step down. “I’ve never quite thought of those cries as music before. I’ve always been afraid of the dark.”

  He slowly glanced at Heather, standing at his side. He smiled again. “You shall never again have to fear the night. I give you my word.”

  For some odd reason she believed him, and suddenly felt reassured by the darkness surrounding them. She couldn’t explain why, nor did it matter, but she felt protected with Vladamir, this magnificent, dark stranger who had crept into her life.

  FOUR

  Detective Gene Dixon of the Atlanta Police Department was a ruggedly built young man with a flattop haircut. His mannerisms were abrupt, bold, straight to the point. When he stepped into Jonathan’s office at St. Mark’s Hospital at 7:20 A.M., he skipped the usual pleasantries and bluntly announced, “We got another murder.” “Another one?” Jonathan stared at Dixon from across his antique mahogany desk. He leaned forward in his blue leather chair and pushed up the sleeves of his white laboratory coat. He was startled by the announcement, but not by the visit. Jonathan knew the detective didn’t fully trust his colleagues at the department, not since a shooting incident back in 1996, the details of which the detective never spoke about. Dixon’s eagerness to trust Jonathan was not only touching; it suited the doctor’s purposes.

  “Are you sure they’re related?” Jonathan asked.

  “Positive.” Dixon unbuttoned his coat and pulled up a high-backed leather chair. “The murder took place in Columbus. The victim, Jerry Randall, was found by a family member, in his home, with a broken neck. Once again, toxicology reported the presence of an unknown virus.”

  “And the puncture wound?” Jonathan asked.

  The detective pointed to the right side of his neck, just below the jawbone. “Just like the three on the yacht.”

  “Any leads?”

  “One,” Dixon replied. “All of the victims shared something in common . . . Randall was out on bail for an assault charge. He’d attacked a paraplegic thirteen-year-old girl. Randall knew the family, and was baby-sitting. He’s placed under arrest, his mother bails him out, and boom—the guy is found dead the next morning in his trailer.

  “Now here’s where it gets weird.” Dixon leaned forward; his voice dropped to a whisper. “Randall was twenty-seven-years old, over six feet tall, and weighed in at two hundred and thirty-seven pounds. The guy was built like a brick wall . . . a weight lifter! Yet someone simply walks into his trailer, snaps his neck like a dried chicken bone, and siphons approximately two quarts of blood out of his body. And there was no sign of a struggle. Nothing in the room had been disturbed!”

  “Was he asleep at the time?” Jonathan asked.

  “Nope. He was sitting at his kitchen table, eating dinner. Someone just walked in and killed him where he sat, without a struggle.”

  “You mentioned a connection with the victims I performed autopsies on?”

  Dixon nodded. “The two men on that yacht were also out on bail, from drug-trafficking charges in Miami. The woman was a girlfriend of one of the victims. Whoever killed these people really hates criminals.”

  “A vigilante?”

  Dixon shrugged in frustration. “I don’t know what to think.”

  Jonathan cringed. “Why drain the blood?”

  “Who knows? A criminal psychologist from the F.B.I. believes it’s some sort of a ritual. A cleansing of evil through the blood.”

  Jonathan cocked his head. “But you don’t believe it, do you?”

  Dixon rubbed his forehead. “I don’t know what to think anymore.” The detective stood up and wandered in a circle around his chair, hands shoved deep in his gray trouser pockets. After a minute, Dixon turned back to Jonathan. “I have a greenhouse at my condominium. I got two dogs and a cat.”

  “Really?” Jonathan threw the detective a warm smile.

  “Yes.” Dixon’s face softened. “When I come home at the end of my shift, I play classical music and work in the garden. It’s peaceful. Everyone gets along, and the world is a beautiful place. I guess I’m a loner by nature.” His expression hardened again. “There’s nothing wrong with a man wanting a little peace in his life, is there, Doctor?”

  “Not at all, Detective.” Jonathan offered a more reassuring smile. “We all need a quiet place to retreat to, considering the world we live in.”

  Jonathan was interrupted by a young nurse stepping quickly into his office without knocking. Her face was pale, her voice hurried and flustered. “You’d better come at once, Doctor. It’s Carl Renfield.”

  “Renfield?” Dixon asked. “The same Carl Renfield awarded the Mayor’s Citizenship Medal two years ago? I’d heard he was ill, but . . .”

  “Very ill, Detective,” Jonathan said, rising quickly. “But it sounds as if his suffering is near an end. Nurse?”

  The woman shook her head. “I can’t . . . You’d better come see for yourself.”

  “Excuse me, Detective.” Jonathan rushed out his office door. Detective Dixon said nothing, merely watching the doctor run down the hallway toward Renfield’s room.

  To enter, Jonathan had to push through a crowd of nurses and doctors who had come to witness what one intern described as a “miracle.” A miracle? Jonathan didn’t believe in miracles. Yet, there he was . . . Renfield! A man who, less than a day ago, lay dying in his bed.

  Renfield glimpsed Jonathan inching closer to his bed, and smiled a robust smile. He raised an arm to point to the window and the sunlit blue skies outside. “Have you ever seen such a wonderful morning, Doctor?” he asked.

  Jonathan turned to the staff. “Please, everyone, return to your duties. Please. I’d like to speak with Carl in private.” The staff slowly withdrew, but not before applauding Dr. Steward.

  “I thought you’d be happy for me, Doctor Steward,” Renfield said when the two were alone. “You look disappointed.”

  Jonathan sat on the edge of the bed and stared into Renfield’s eyes. He shook his head in disbelief. “I have no explanation for what’s happened to you. None!” Jonathan tightened his lips, then quietly added, “You should be . . .”

  “Dead?” Renfield said, grinning. He climbed out of bed and held his arms out to his sides. His eyebrows lifted, and his smile broadened. “As you can see, I’m quite alive.”

  Alive? That was an understatement. Carl R
enfield was more than just alive. He was extremely healthy. Somehow, overnight, he had been miraculously cured. He could breathe again, without the aid of oxygen tanks. His color had returned, as had his weight. Renfield seemed to have gained over thirty pounds in less than twenty-four hours.

  “I have no explanation,” Jonathan repeated.

  Renfield walked over to him and rested a hand on his shoulder. “Then just accept it, Jonathan. Let go of your science, and accept the fact that there are forces surrounding us we will never understand—that we were never meant to understand.”

  No, Jonathan insisted to himself. There had to be a reason. “A remission!” Jonathan pointed at Renfield. “That’s it. You’re experiencing some sort of a remission.”

  Renfield shook his head. “Why can’t you just accept what’s happened, and be happy for me?”

  “Happy for you?” Jonathan grabbed Renfield by the shoulders. “The millions who will become infected with HIV! The thousands who will die! You want me to simply be happy for you and forget it?

  “Do you know how many Carl Renfields I’ve watched die? Do you have any idea how many men, women, and children? No! We are going to find out exactly what happened. We are going to run one test after another. And when we’re finished, we will repeat those tests over and over, until I know for certain what’s going on inside that body of yours!

  “But first, Carl, tell me everything you remember over the last twenty-four hours. Everything! Carefully describe what you’ve experienced: pain—any sensations—anything you can remember, no matter how trivial it might seem to you. I want you to tell me everything!”

  “You wouldn’t believe me,” Renfield answered quietly.

  Jonathan’s grip on Carl’s shoulders grew more gentle. “I will, Carl. I give you my word. Trust me. Please.”

  Renfield turned away from Jonathan and staggered to his bed like a man in a trance. He slowly sat down on the white sheets. “It happened last night,” he whispered, staring at the floor. “A red fog filled the room. I thought the room was on fire! Then I saw a man . . . a dark shadow of a man, with glowing red eyes. He said to me, ‘Blood! Blood is life! Clean, untainted blood, Mr. Renfield. All the blood you shall ever require will I give you, if you will obey me!’ ”