Night of Dracula Page 7

  Jonathan Steward’s plantation-style house was surrounded by black and white police cruisers. Strobe lights illuminated the night sky, flashing red and blue. Crackling radios could be heard several blocks away.

  Renfield glanced over his shoulder. “Can’t! The place is swarming with cops. Don’t worry, Master. You’re in good hands. I’ll take care of this myself.”

  “It’s too late,” Vladamir whispered, his voice growing weaker.

  “Don’t worry. I know exactly what to do.” Renfield reached under the driver’s seat, pulled out a tire iron, and waved it in the air. “See? Everything’s under control. Just let me handle this. You’ll be all right—trust me.”

  Weak as he was, Vladamir chuckled. “You can’t go around hitting people over the head, Carl . . .”

  Renfield glanced over his shoulder again and winked. “I’ve got a plan. Just take it easy. We’ll have you fixed up in no time.”

  “Have you anyone in mind, or are you just going to hit the first person you see?”

  Carl laughed. “You forget, this is Atlanta. Half of the people in this city deserve to get knocked over the head. I’ll find us a real good donor.”

  Renfield parked the black Jaguar in an alley in one of the worst neighborhoods in the city. He turned off the lights and ignition. “Be very quiet, Master,” Renfield said as he slid the tire iron up the right sleeve of his overcoat.

  “I’m in no position to help if you get in trouble, Carl. You’re on your own.”

  Carl smiled. “Relax. I’ve got a plan.” Vladamir mumbled something, then slipped out of consciousness again. As he lay on the back seat, Renfield stepped out of the car. He reached for a wad of cash in his left pocket, then headed for the street.

  As he walked along the sidewalk, a short distance from the alley, he pretended to count the money. There weren’t many people around. Two guys stood beside a burning oil drum, and a few more sat on the concrete steps of decaying buildings. Everyone noticed the cash Renfield waved in the air.

  Carl glanced casually at the hardened faces. He slid the cash back in his pocket, then walked back toward the alley, glancing over his shoulder and whistling out loud.

  At the opening of the alley where the black Jaguar was parked, he let the tire iron slide down the sleeve of his coat until its end rested in his sweating palm. He was about to peer around the corner for a second look when he heard the click of a switchblade. Carl smiled, then turned to face the man who was rapidly closing in on him.

  The stranger grabbed Renfield’s lapel with one hand and showed him the dirty, cold blade of the knife in the other.

  “God!” Carl said, cringing. “When was the last time you took a bath?” Carl was more offended by the odor than the knife the mugger held. The man smelt like a dead fish that had been left out in the sun in the middle of August.

  The mugger gripped the lapel tighter. “Shut your mouth! Give me the cash!”

  Carl smiled at him. “Too late. I already locked it in my car—that real expensive Jaguar behind you.”

  “Give me the keys!”

  “Okay, but first . . . have you ever sold drugs or harmed a woman?”

  “What? Are you retarded or something?” The mugger pressed the knife blade against Carl’s cheek. “I’m gonna cut off your ears!”

  Carl’s eyes widened with delight. “That will do nicely.” He jingled the car keys in front of his attacker. “Help yourself. It’s in the backseat.”

  The mugger released Carl’s lapel and snatched the keys from his hand. He turned to the Jaguar. When his hand touched the dull black door handle, Carl struck him on the back of the head with the tire iron.

  “Shit!” the mugger screamed. “You little jerk! You hit me!”

  “Well, you were going to cut off my ears. . . .”

  The switchblade slipped from the mugger’s hand, clattering on the filthy alley street. He rubbed the top of his head. “Damn! You little jerk, that really hurts!”

  “Well, I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to do it again. We just need a little bit of blood. . . .” Renfield opened the Jaguar’s rear door, struck the mugger on the forehead, and pushed him inside on the floor of the backseat.

  Carl climbed in, then slammed the car door shut. Vladamir’s eyes slowly opened. He tried to speak, but couldn’t. Carl quickly inserted one end of the needle from Vladamir’s blood transfusion kit into an artery of the mugger’s neck, and the other into his master’s shoulder. He injected one of the antibody vials to begin the process of restoring Vladamir.

  As the blood began flowing, Carl heard a noise. His head shot up. He peered out into the alley. He couldn’t see much of anything through the Jaguar’s tinted windows. He rolled down the window a crack to take a better look. Still nothing.

  He shrugged it off. The night was filled with strange sounds, especially in the city. Then he heard a metallic clang. He decided to investigate.

  Renfield quietly opened the door and stepped out once more into the garbage-strewn alley. He locked the car door, then slowly turned left and right. Yes. There it was, a flicker of a shadow moving across the red-brick wall, in the dim street lights.

  He reached inside his overcoat for the bloodstained tire iron. As he started to take another step, Renfield saw a rat scurry by.

  “That’s a bad little thing, you!” he said. “Scaring poor Carl like that.”

  Renfield shrugged, then turned to reach for the door handle of the Jaguar. As his fingertips brushed the cold metal, a pair of hands grabbed his wool overcoat.

  A third hand covered his mouth, while a fourth pulled his hair. It was as if an octopus had grabbed him, preventing him from moving or crying out for help; not that anyone was around to help him.

  Renfield felt himself pulled backward. The heels of his black leather shoes dragged against the rough pavement. He glimpsed a passing twinkle of a star overhead, through the smog-filled sky.

  His eyes filled with sweat. He desperately tried to catch some glimpse of a face, but saw nothing. He could only feel himself being pulled farther and farther from the safety of the car.

  Finally, Carl felt the weight of his body slammed against the slimy surface of the asphalt beneath him. He struck the ground with enough force to knock the breath out of him. The cold, rounded barrel of a pistol pressed against the side of his head.

  “What did you do with the brother?”

  Carl looked up at one of the men pinning him to the ground. “Brother? You’re white!”

  A thick hand smacked him across the face. “Shut your mouth! What did you do with him?”

  Carl Renfield felt tears well up in his eyes. He wasn’t a particularly strong man. Still, he refused to speak.

  His attacker raised a hand to strike again.

  Suddenly, the alley was filled with the roar of a thunderous explosion. Everyone, including Carl, turned to look toward the Jaguar, then quickly jerked their heads to look away as the explosion shattered the car’s windows, sending glass flying in every direction. The Jaguar burst into flames. In seconds, the black car became the center of a raging inferno. Carl closed his eyes and cried. He cried over the death of Vladamir. He cried for himself.

  When the shock of the explosion passed, one of the four men who had captured Renfield pointed a handgun at Carl’s face. “Say good-bye, little man!”

  “Please don’t. Please don’t hurt me.”

  The man laughed. He loved to hear his victims beg for their lives. It gave him a real sense of power. “Beg some more,” he gloated. “Maybe I’ll let you live. Probably not, though.”

  Then one of the others shouted, “What the hell?”

  The gunman and Carl both looked at the burning car. Through the flames and smoke, a dark figure slowly rose into the air. It was a man, dressed entirely in black, his arms crossed in front of his chest—smiling. The intense heat of the fire had no effect on him. It was Vladamir . . . Dracula!

  Dracula’s eyes glowed red as he took in the sea of frightened faces. He laughe
d wildly, as if death were nothing more than a minor inconvenience, a negligible obstacle to overcome.

  “No way!” the man who held Carl down shouted. The other three slowly stood to gaze at the dark figure floating above the fire.

  Dracula made no reply. He waved a hand in front of himself—smiling. He never once stopped smiling.

  When his hand came to rest at his side, he drifted downward. And when the soles of his shoes touched the asphalt-covered earth, the alley began to fill with rats. Rats! Dozens, hundreds, perhaps a thousand rats, their eyes blazing red—salivating in anticipation of the taste of human flesh.

  The four men inched backwards—carefully, quietly, so as not to provoke an attack. Dracula walked over to Renfield. He lifted Carl up into his arms, then carried him toward the dim light from the city street.

  When they reached the mouth of the alley, Dracula looked back at the men who would have harmed his faithful Renfield. A sinister smile raised the corners of his red lips. He whispered, “I leave these men to you, my tiny children. Take this, what I give to you. Take the flesh. Take what is yours!”

  Dracula is the poet of pain and suffering; not of life, but of death. In his existence there is only the movement of shadows—the faces and sins of his past, hurrying about him, whispering faintly in his ear, “We are dead!”

  At his will, he may conjure up the dead like a general holding review. He sits calmly on his dark, spectral charger as his ghostly battalions file past. They cast anxious glances at their general, with their long faces, shedding silent tears at the sight of their master.

  From death they shall rise again, these servants of the dark. The night sky casts lights of white and red upon them, like drops of sweat and blood. Beneath their feet are tombstones, decay, and corruption. Dracula’s legions reach upward—painfully tearing their souls from the body, only to sink down to the earth, a feast for the worms. But his armies shall fall. Dracula, the great tyrant, shall sink into ruin. His time is at an end.

  SIXTEEN

  Detective Dixon stalked up to the front door of the Steward home. A patrol officer was stationed by one of the massive white columns at the front entrance, to prevent unauthorized persons from entering or leaving. “Is he inside?” Dixon grumbled to the baby-faced officer.

  “They got him in the living room.”

  “Has anyone charged him yet?”

  “No. We were told by dispatch to hold the suspect until you arrived.”

  Dixon nodded and stared grimly ahead as he pushed open the front door and stormed into the house.

  Mina Steward stood beside the couch on which Jonathan sat fidgeting in his pajamas and silk bathrobe. She wore a casual blue housedress, in marked contrast to her usual extravagent gowns. One uniformed officer stood, ill at ease, by the living room door; a second pretended to peer out the picture window. Both turned to silently acknowledge Dixon’s arrival.

  “What in the hell is this all about?” Mina demanded of the detective. She stared at him furiously. “You’re making a career decision, Detective. I warn you, we know every influential person in this city!”

  Dixon ignored her, focusing on Jonathan, who, surprisingly, made no protest about the police invasion of his house. Standing over Jonathan, Dixon said, “You’re under arrest. The charge is first degree murder.”

  “What are you talking about?” Jonathan asked meekly. “I don’t understand.”

  “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. I suggest you shut the hell up!”

  Mina covered her mouth to stifle a sob. “You promised they would never find out!” she screamed at her husband. “You promised, damn you!”

  Jonathan leapt up. “Shut up! Mina, shut your mouth—now!”

  Mina turned to Dixon, eyes wide in panic. “That girl . . . He didn’t mean to . . .”

  Dixon arched his eyebrows. “Girl? What girl, Mrs. Steward?”

  “Back in New York . . .”

  “Mina!” Jonathan yelled. “Damn you, shut up!”

  Dixon turned to the uniformed officers at the door. “Cuff him.”

  “New York . . . that’s why you’ve come, right?” Mina sobbed.

  “No, Mrs. Steward.” Dixon studied her grimly. “I think we should have a talk.”

  The detective turned back to Jonathan Steward. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper: the warrant for Jonathan’s arrest. He showed it to the doctor. “Brad O’Sullivan,” Dixon said. “The security cameras recorded everything.”

  Ashen-faced, Jonathan passively let the officer pull his arms behind his back. The cold steel handcuffs seemed almost to burn the skin of his wrists as they clicked into place, squeezing the flesh.

  The second officer approached Dixon from his left. “If you’re done with him . . .”

  “Yeah, take him downtown. Put him in a holding room. I’ll be there soon.” Dixon turned back to Mina. “Mrs. Steward and I are going to have a little talk.”

  “The hell we are!” Mina snapped. “The only person you’re going to talk to is our attorney.”

  “All right,” Dixon said coolly. “I’ll contact the N.Y.P.D. I’m sure they can tell me what’s going on.”

  “Good luck,” Mina snarled. “They’re about as smart as you are. You’ve got nothing. As for this trumped-up charge of murder . . .”

  Before Mina could say anything else, Dixon pulled a small black-and-white photograph from his jacket pocket. He held it up for Mina to see. Though grainy, the photo clearly showed Jonathan removing the leather straps from O’Sullivan’s lifeless body on a metal gurney. Mina knew he had performed some kind of blood transfusion at Vladamir’s request—Jonathan could keep no secrets from her—but hadn’t been interested enough to ask for details. Strangely, the picture only showed Steward and the corpse, as if Vladamir’s image could not be captured on film. “This man was found in a Dumpster behind the hospital,” Dixon explained.

  Mina only laughed. “Save it for court, Detective. I’ve got nothing to say.”

  “You love your husband that much, that you would protect a murderer, Mrs. Steward?”

  The smile faded from Mina’s red lips. “Go to hell!”

  Dixon took a deep breath. “If that’s the way you want it.”

  The detective turned to leave the room, but paused after a few steps. “You realize of course, you’re an accessory, if only after the fact, to whatever your husband did back in New York. I will find out what’s going on. Are you sure you don’t want to have a talk?”

  Again, Mina defiantly told the detective where he could go.

  SEVENTEEN

  Jonathan stared blankly at the white cinder-block walls of the interrogation room. His arms rested on the table in front of him, fingers locked together as if in prayer. He might have thought of praying for himself, had he not been an atheist. After seemingly hours of waiting quietly in the interrogation room, alone, he finally heard the doorknob turn. The heavy wooden door slowly opened. Jonathan looked up at the man who entered—a man he’d considered a friend—Detective Gene Dixon.

  The detective kicked the door shut with the heel of his shoe. He glared at Jonathan. He strode over to the table and opened a brown folder, balancing it in his palm. “You’re not a doctor,” he said, his voice low and angry. “You’re a butcher!”

  Jonathan made no protest. He tilted his head to stare at the table.

  “Look at me when I talk to you!” Dixon screamed.

  Jonathan glanced up, but only for a moment before his eyes wandered down again.

  “Then I’ll do the talking!” Dixon barked. He yanked a set of faxed 8x10 color photographs from the folder and tossed them on the table. “Look familiar, Doctor?”

  Jonathan shook his head, not even glancing at the pictures.

  “Look at them!” Dixon demanded.

  Again, Jonathan shook his head.

  Dixon reached across the table and grabbed Jonathan by the hair. “When I tell y
ou to do something, you damn well better do it!” He pushed Jonathan’s head down until his eyes were inches from the photos. “Look familiar, Doc?”

  Jonathan started to sob. His tears splashed on the image of a young woman on a blood-soaked bed—horrifying pain frozen on her dead white face. “New York City!” Dixon yelled. “Some fleabag hotel, where you performed a bit of illegal surgery. She didn’t make it, did she?

  “I did some follow-up with the N.Y.P.D. New York had a witness and fingerprints, but no name to connect to the evidence. You had one hell of a side business going for yourself as an intern, didn’t you?”

  Jonathan cried harder, jerking his head away from the portrait of death. Still he said nothing.

  Dixon reached into his folder again to retrieve the police sketch of Vladamir. He dropped it next to the crime scene photos. “Now that we understand each other, here’s the deal: you give me this guy’s name and tell me where I can find him. You also give me a statement regarding the death of that young girl in New York.”

  “Why should I?” Jonathan countered. “What’s in it for me?”

  Dixon sat on the edge of the table. He lightly grabbed Jonathan’s chin. “You know something, Doc, you’re not a bad-looking man. Hey, you’re even fairly young. You’re going to make a lot of guys happy in a New York prison when you’re sentenced for life for first degree murder. Assuming you dodge the lethal injection.

  “On the other hand, you could cooperate—cop a guilty plea on involuntary manslaughter for the death of this young girl. Claim temporary insanity on the O’Sullivan murder, and do your time in a minimum security facility. Put that medical training to use in a cushy job in the infirmary.”

  “You mean . . . ?”

  “I spoke with the state’s attorney’s offices in New York and here in Atlanta. Cooperate with us, and they prosecute for manslaughter in New York. As for O’Sullivan? Hell, the guy burned down a church, for Chrissake.” Dixon leaned forward. “There’s just one catch. You’ve only got to the count of ten to make up your mind.”