Night of Dracula Read online

  Suddenly, Heather stopped and stepped back from Vladamir. She covered her mouth and started crying.

  “My love . . . what is the matter?” Vladamir’s eyes revealed his concern for her.

  “What am I doing? My God, I’m a married woman.”

  He tried to comfort her, but it was no use. Heather ran sobbing from him. Vladamir felt a sudden, uncontrollable rage. He raised his fists and released a blasting growl.

  “Is everything all right, sir?” a waiter asked.

  Vladamir flashed his sharp, white teeth at the young man, and hissed like a wild animal. Bloodthirst glowed in his red eyes. He charged out of the room, grabbing anyone who stood in his way by the throat and tossing them aside. In an instant, Vladamir was no longer the man that others admired. He had become a man others feared with their lives.

  He kicked the exit door open and grabbed the ends of his long black overcoat. Holding out the edges of the dark cloak, as a bat would spread its wings, Vladamir leapt over the metal railings of the fourth-story platform of the emergency staircase. He gracefully drifted downward, as if the laws of gravity didn’t apply to him.

  Renfield awaited him in the black Jaguar. He jumped out to open the rear door for him. His expression was hopeful. “Did you have a nice time, Master?”

  “For the last time, damn it . . . stop calling me Master!”

  “Of course, Mast—” Renfield cleared his throat. “Did you have a nice time?”

  Vladamir rested his head back against the leather upholstery of the backseat. He rubbed his forehead as if he had a splitting headache. “Drive! Get me out of here now!”

  “Where?”

  “Anywhere, Carl. Just get me away from here. No. Wait! I have an idea.” His voice grew sinister. “Tonight, I feed!”

  Renfield glanced over his shoulder, timid and apprehensive. “Is this really necessary?”

  Vladamir glared into his frightened eyes. “Drive!”

  Renfield slowly nodded, complying with his order, ashamed of himself for not having the courage to resist.

  Fifteen minutes later, the black Jaguar arrived in a dingy end of the city: a place where true monsters stalked the streets under the flashing neon lights. Vladamir rolled down the tinted rear window to savor the sights and smells, and slowly scan the faces of the wretched that surrounded them. Tonight there would be a feast—a feast in blood!

  When Renfield stopped the car for a red light, the Jaguar was quickly surrounded by women in tight dresses. Their brightly painted faces and cheap perfume nauseated Renfield, but Vladamir seemed to relish the smell of decadence.

  “Hey, Sugar, looking for a party?” one woman asked, tugging the front of her low-cut blue satin dress. Vladamir climbed out of the car, smiling. A nervous Renfield locked his door.

  Vladamir abruptly snatched her arm, turning it to reveal a line of needle marks. “You’ll tell me where I can find this man,” Vladamir ordered.

  “What?” The prostitute yanked her arm back. “What is this? What man?”

  “Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear.” Vladamir grabbed her by the throat and raised her off the ground. “I want to know who sold you the heroin!”

  She kicked and clawed, trying desperately to pull his long fingers away from her throat, but his grip was like a steel clamp. She pointed down an alley, and choked out the name “Rosco.”

  “Rosco, you say? Good! Very good!” Vladamir carefully set her down on the filthy street. He turned to face the alley.

  “Oh, Mr. Rosco . . .” Vladamir whispered, smiling, his eyes glowing red. “From Hell’s heart, I stab at thee! For hate’s sake, I shall make a banquet of you. I shall cause you pain, and when you cry out, I will inflict more pain. When you are dead, I shall laugh and take comfort in the knowledge that you will suffer an eternity of agony in the flames of Hell!”

  Come sunrise, the police would discover a white Lincoln Continental, its windows smashed out and covered with blood. Farther down the dingy alley, a man’s body was stuffed in a garbage can, an expression of sheer horror frozen on his face. It was a fitting end to the life of a heroin dealer named Rosco.

  THIRTEEN

  Detective Dixon strolled into Jonathan’s office at the hospital, grinning like the cat that ate the mouse. He flopped a gray folder down on Jonathan’s desk and proudly announced, “I got him!” Jonathan cocked his head to stare back at him. “You have a suspect in custody?”

  “It’s only a matter of time.” Dixon opened the gray folder. He tapped his index finger on a police sketch. “That’s him. My serial killer. I thought you might be interested, considering the work you’ve done on the case.”

  Jonathan glanced down. He suddenly felt sick to his stomach. The sketch was perfect, as if Vladamir himself had posed for the artist. He cleared his throat. “How did you get this?”

  “There’s more. My suspect drives a brand-new black Jaguar.”

  “There are a lot of black Jaguars.” Jonathan shrugged.

  “This one is special.”

  “How so?”

  “No chrome. My suspect stripped every bit of reflective metal off the car. Even the hubcaps.”

  Jonathan licked his lips and took a deep, calming breath, trying to look as innocent as possible. “Why would he do that?”

  “Ever see a military vehicle out in the field? The chrome is either painted over or stripped off. The vehicle becomes virtually invisible at night with the lights off.”

  Jonathan dropped back in his leather chair, feeling even weaker. He was no longer frightened. He just felt numb. Finally, he asked, “How did you get this information?”

  “Let me tell you something about criminals, Doctor.” Dixon unbuttoned his off-the-rack jacket and sat facing Jonathan’s desk. “A smart criminal always works alone. He knows how to keep his mouth shut and, most important, moves on to another state to commit the same type of crime. That sort of criminal is the toughest to catch. Thankfully, that sort is also rare. Usually, a person commits one or two crimes and thinks he’s gotten away with it. He gets bolder, thinking he’ll never be apprehended.”

  “What mistake did your suspect make?” Jonathan interrupted.

  “He didn’t kill the witness.”

  “Witness?” Jonathan raised an eyebrow. “What witness?”

  “He struck again last night. A heroin dealer named Rosco Richards. A prostitute who was assaulted by our suspect saw everything. She ran before the guy in the sketch came back after her. But there’s another reason for my visit, Doctor.”

  “More?”

  “Doctor, where is Carl Renfield?”

  “Renfield?” Jonathan chuckled. “Why do you ask?”

  “Our witness says the man in the sketch had an accomplice. She heard the killer call this second suspect ‘Renfield.’ Her description matches your patient to a T.” Dixon stared into Jonathan’s eyes. “So I ask you again, Doctor: where is Carl Renfield? I know he’s been released. I checked.”

  “Renfield? Ridiculous!” Jonathan laughed again. “Renfield’s no murderer.”

  “I agree. Not the good citizen Carl Renfield I know. But long illnesses can affect the mind, and his abrupt recovery may not have been as complete as it appeared.”

  Jonathan waved a dismissive hand. “Renfield was here at the hospital when the first murders occurred. Hell, he couldn’t even lift a book, let alone drive a car.”

  Dixon’s gaze hardened. “I never mentioned that Carl drove the Jaguar. How did you know that, Doctor?”

  Jonathan cleared his dry throat and shrugged. “I just assumed . . . I don’t know. A lucky guess?”

  Dixon’s voice grew more official. “Tell me, Doctor—you’re in charge of the infectious disease unit here. How does someone get AIDS?”

  “There are many ways to become exposed to the virus,” Jonathan said, stumbling over his words.

  “Drug use—dirty hypo needles? Is that one way?”

  “Yes,” Jonathan answered reluctantly.

  “What about sex? Is
n’t sex another means of transmitting the virus?”

  Jonathan slowly nodded.

  “So drug dealers and rapists must do their share of damage—in spreading the disease, I mean.”

  “What about O’Sullivan?” Jonathan countered, snatching at straws. “He set fire to that church and killed those parishioners. He wasn’t a drug dealer or rapist.” Jonathan pointed a triumphant finger at the detective.

  “O’Sullivan, yes. That’s the one who was murdered here in your hospital. Right?”

  Jonathan looked at him sternly. “Are you accusing me of something, Detective?”

  “Nope.” Dixon shrugged. “It must get pretty frustrating, seeing so much suffering without being able to do anything about it. I couldn’t blame a guy in your position for wanting to pop a few of these animals who deal in drugs or sexually assault women, especially when one of those women happens to be one of your best friends—like, I don’t know, maybe Heather Hieden? Sounds like justifiable homicide to me.”

  “Ridiculous.” Jonathan held the police sketch next to his own face. “I hardly match the description of your suspect, do I?”

  Dixon shook his head. “We’re dealing with more than one suspect, Doctor . . .”

  “Then you are accusing me!”

  The detective stood and buttoned his jacket. “I trust my gut, Doctor. And my gut tells me you’re involved somehow. My bullshit detector is going off like crazy.”

  “Perhaps I should have my attorney present the next time we speak,” Jonathan replied, playing his best card. “Perhaps you know him . . . Miles Carson. He used to be state’s attorney.”

  Dixon wasn’t impressed. “I think that’s a good idea. You might also want to tell this attorney friend of yours that we did some checking with N.C.I.C.”

  “The what?”

  “The National Criminal Information Center. There was a series of murders in New York similar to the ones we’re investigating. The victims all had criminal records, or were awaiting trial, for charges ranging from drug trafficking to sexual assault. No one was ever apprehended. Didn’t you work as a physician in New York City?”

  “That was several years ago.”

  “How many?”

  Jonathan slammed his hand down on the top of his desk. “That will be enough! I want you out of here—now!”

  Dixon reached across the desk to grab his folder. He started toward the door. With his hand on the knob, he turned to look at Jonathan over his shoulder. “What did that criminal psychologist from the F.B.I. say again? Yes! He suspected that the draining of the victim’s blood symbolized some cleansing ritual. Wasn’t that what I said not long ago, right here in your office, Doctor?”

  Jonathan said nothing. He just sat in his chair, glaring at the detective.

  “Damn shame you can’t do that with your patients, Doctor,” Dixon added. “I mean, drain the blood to cleanse the body of the HIV virus.”

  “That’s impossible, Detective,” Jonathan answered firmly.

  “To the rational mind. But we’re not dealing with a rational individual, are we, Doctor?”

  Dixon turned the knob and opened the door. He started to step through, then paused. “One last thing, Doctor. If you have any travel plans, I would cancel them.” There was a distinct tone of authority in his voice. “In other words, Dr. Steward, don’t leave town!”

  The remark struck Jonathan like a bucket of icecold water. A chill raced up his spine. He felt truly afraid. Jonathan didn’t need the advice of his attorney friend to realize he was an accessory to murder—the murder of the white supremacist. He was also guilty of aiding and abetting a man wanted for felony murder.

  How could things have escalated so quickly? he wondered. He felt his life spiraling out of control, his brilliant career fading before his eyes. He remembered an old saying: ‘The decision you make in a split second defines your true character.’ Well, in a split second he had made a decision that would cost him everything—his career, his marriage . . . Christ, his freedom. Jonathan lay his head on his desk. He felt like crying. His stomach knotted up even tighter.

  FOURTEEN

  The hour was well past midnight. Wind howled through Carfax Manor. A misty fog settled around the old estate. Window shutters slammed and banged against the fieldstone walls. A rusted weathervane creaked as it spun in a frantic circle. But only in Vladamir’s mind. Outside, all was fairly quiet. The brewing storm was nothing more than a symptom of his disease. Vladamir needed the antibody. He needed it quickly.

  He paced around his desk on the landing of the ornate staircase, filled with nervous anticipation. Every so often, he rubbed his sweating palms against the sides of his black trousers. He would stop pacing, look frantically around, eyes wide open with fear, then step quickly in a circle around his desk again.

  Then it started, almost like clockwork—the groans and cries of pain. The noise was deafening, scraping at Vladamir’s nerves like the crash of shattering glass. He slapped his hands against his face, shaking like a frightened child. When he braved a glance through the slits between his fingers, he saw a misty white figure at the bottom of the stairs. The phantom raised an arm to point at him, and called out his name with a haunting chant: “Dracula!”

  “Curse you to hell!” Vladamir exclaimed. “I refuse to indulge your morbid obsession of tormenting me!”

  “Dracula . . .” the bizarre phantom shrieked in answer. “Dracula!”

  Vladamir shook his fist at the apparition. “ Cherished and loved were you to me in life. You now slither your way up through the cracks of Hell to torment me! Be gone!”

  “Dracula!” the specter cried out again, never drifting from the spot where it appeared to float, at the foot of the staircase.

  Vladamir ripped open his shirt to expose the pale white skin of his chest. “Then strike me down, if you have the will to,” he demanded. “Drive it deep into my heart! Kill me!”

  For a fifth time, the apparition groaned out, “ Dracula.”

  Vladamir collapsed on the treads of the staircase. He broke into mindless laughter. When he was able to compose himself, he turned to the specter and said, “Impossible! You don’t exist! I don’t believe in you. How can I? I never studied the supernatural as a youth. The only parapsychology I ever got was out of a bottle. How could you be real?”

  He rolled onto his side and sat upright, laughing again wildly. “You are the product of a fever—a disease! You’re not real. You cannot be real.”

  “Dracula,” the apparition responded with its ghostly tone, “Dracula!”

  Vladamir slowly rose to his feet. His eyes glowed with fire. “Dracula? Yes! I am Dracula! I stand in your service for reminding me of that fact.

  “The Prince and Lord of Darkness! I fear not the wind, but rather, cause it to blow at my will. I command the forces of nature. Dracula? Yes, I am! And I shall descend upon you with a vengeance, my tormentor. I may die in the process, but you first! And I shall give you cause to curse the name Dracula again, my cherished love.”

  Vladamir grabbed the ends of his long black overcoat, held out his arms and plunged downward to the base of the staircase, like a hawk attacking its prey. But when the soles of his glossy black shoes clacked on the stone floor, the phantom was gone, leaving the room quiet as a graveyard.

  His head snapped left and right, eyes desperately scanning the room. There was no phantom. No mist. No haunting chants of the name Dracula. There were only the primitive sights of low-burning candles and layers of cobwebs draping the walls and furniture.

  Vladamir slapped his hands against his cheeks. He broke into manic laughter, as if he had lost the last shreds of his sanity. Then he began to sob. He collapsed on the cold stone floor, shaking. His thoughts were clouded. His body felt weak. He whispered, “How long is this to go on? When does the soul find peace? When am I to be forgiven?” He glanced up toward what would have been the night sky, had it not been blocked by the timbered roof. He called out, “Alyssa . . . Alyssa!”

  In
his chambers, Renfield heard the cries of his master. He sprang to his feet and ran in pajamas and robe to the main room of the old Carfax estate.

  There Renfield knelt on the stone floor and put a hand on the master’s shoulder. “What’s happened? What’s the matter?”

  Vladamir tried to lift himself up, but he was too weak. He rolled onto his back. His eyes, still glowing red, focused on Renfield. “Is she gone?”

  “Gone? Is who gone?”

  “Didn’t you hear it?”

  “Hear what? Who did this to you?”

  “Not who,” Vladamir answered. “What. The only thing in this universe with a power greater than mine.”

  “What, then? What is it?”

  “It’s found me again, Carl! It always finds me. She wears me down—robs me of my strength, leaves me barely alive. She couldn’t simply kill me. No! That would be too easy. She would rather punish me, and go on punishing me, throughout eternity.”

  Renfield smiled to reassure him. “A nightmare. That’s it. You fell asleep at your desk, and had a terrible nightmare.”

  Vladamir knew otherwise. He grasped Renfield’s hand. There was no strength to his grip. “Carl, please . . . help me to the car. You must take me to Dr. Steward at once.”

  FIFTEEN

  Vladamir lay flat on his back on the rear seat of the Jaguar as Renfield raced through the city. He slipped in and out of consciousness. When his eyes were open, he saw only the reflections of headlights from passing traffic. Occasionally, he heard the muted sounds of the city, but he couldn’t distinguish one from the other. Further into the suburbs, it all blurred into white noise. The car suddenly screeched to a halt. Vladamir nearly slid onto the Jaguar’s carpeted floor. “Damn! We’ve got to get out of here!” Renfield’s voice was tinged with panic. He spun the car in a sharp U-turn.

  Vladamir’s gaze drifted, finally settling on the back of Renfield’s skull. His voice was but a whisper, barely discernible over the roar of the car engine. “What’s the matter? Carl, get me to Dr. Steward!”