Night of Dracula Page 8

  Jonathan straightened up, regaining control of himself. “I think I should have my attorney here.”

  “One!” Dixon said without so much as blinking.

  Jonathan chuckled. “All you have is hearsay and conjecture. Otherwise you wouldn’t be trying to make a deal.”

  “Two!” Dixon replied, with a smile.

  “Yes.” Jonathan smiled back. “I want my attorney. I was never fully read my rights.”

  Dixon inched closer to Jonathan. His smile broadened. “Three!”

  Jonathan’s smile disappeared. “Wait! All right—yes!”

  “You made the right choice, Doctor. First, the young woman in New York . . . ?”

  “A prostitute,” Jonathan said without remorse. “Street trash. A nobody—a nameless face who perceived the gift of life as an inconvenience. Her death was an accident. She began hemorrhaging, then . . . well.” He shrugged. “She died. What more can I say? It was an accident.”

  Dixon struggled to hold back his outrage. He pointed to the police sketch instead. “And this guy? Who is he, and where do we find him?”

  Jonathan offered a queasy smile. “His name is Dracula, but he goes by the name of Vladamir. He lives, if that’s the right word, at the old Carfax Estate on Route 85.” Jonathan chuckled. “Yes, Detective Dixon. I want you to meet him, this man Dracula. Just promise me you’ll go at night. . . .”

  Dixon scowled. “Why at night?”

  “You’ll be certain to catch him at Carfax at night.” Jonathan grinned mindlessly. “Make me one promise. When you find him—Dracula, that is—at Carfax, in the night, look him straight in the eye and tell him I sent you. Tell Dracula the deal is off.”

  “And Renfield?”

  “Oh, he’ll be there, too.” There was a gleam of pleasure in Jonathan’s eyes. “Carl Renfield never leaves his side.”

  “A decent man like that—how did he get mixed up in all this?”

  “You’ll have to ask him yourself, Detective.”

  Dixon nodded, then rose to his feet. He strode across the room, opened the door, and called over a uniformed patrolman. When the officer stepped inside, the detective pointed to Jonathan Steward. “Hook him and book him.”

  “A little piece of advice, Detective,” Jonathan added. “If you decide to reward yourself for all your hard work with a stay at a five-star resort—don’t! Once you get a taste of luxury, it is impossible to stay at a Howard Johnson’s ever again.” He took a deep breath. “And please don’t forget to tell Dracula that I sent you.”

  “I trusted you,” Dixon said from the doorway. “I trusted you, damn it.”

  Jonathan shrugged. “I guess that was your first mistake.”

  EIGHTEEN

  “Hurry, Carl,” Vladamir urged. Working together on the stairway landing that had served as Vladamir’s den, he and Renfield packed as much as they could. “I don’t want to spend another minute in this house. Not after the other night.” Renfield was on his knees, carefully jamming books into a box. He turned to look at Dracula. “I don’t understand why you’re so bothered about that. Heck, you’re Dracula.”

  Vladamir raised his palm. “Some things a man is too ashamed to tell to even his closest confidant. Even Dracula has his weaknesses.”

  “You forget who I am.” Renfield paused with one of Dracula’s books in his hand. He glanced over his shoulder at Vladamir, with compassion and understanding. “We all have secrets.”

  “True. Still, I wouldn’t care to . . .”

  “To what, Master?” A reassuring smile played across Renfield’s lips. “Admit you’ve made a few mistakes in your life?”

  “Mistakes?” Vladamir broke out laughing. “When you park the car on a steep hill and forget to set the parking brake, that’s a mistake. The tragedy I caused was a bit more serious.”

  Renfield shrugged. “No one is perfect. It’s better to talk about things than to keep them bottled up.”

  Vladamir placed a hand on Carl’s shoulder. “Why, Carl! I didn’t realize you were a psychiatrist.”

  “Me? No. It’s just that—well, we all make mistakes.” He gently shrugged off Vladamir’s hand. “You can trust me.”

  Vladamir nodded diffidently, then moved to his desk and dropped down into his chair. He appeared lost in his thoughts, his eyes unfocused. “I loved her,” he whispered. “You have to believe me.”

  “Alyssa?” Renfield asked, with the greatest of reverence to the name and memory.

  Vladamir slowly inclined his head, but his gaze remained fixed on the dim void surrounding the two. Then he whispered the name “Mariah,” and his face contorted with pain, as if someone had driven a steel spike through his heart. He repeated the name, and his mood turned to anger.

  It was never Carl’s intention to hurt him. Renfield had come to admire and, yes, even love the Master— as a son might love a father. “Perhaps we shouldn’t talk about this,” he interrupted.

  Vladamir drew in a deep breath, then exhaled. His eyes wandered to the vaulted ceiling. “No,” he answered firmly, but faintly. “No, you should know of Mariah. Mind you, I never truly loved her. It was impossible to love such a woman. Oh, but passion, that was an entirely different matter. To know Mariah was to want her.”

  Vladamir’s head suddenly jerked to the right. His eyes narrowed to slits, as if Mariah were standing next to the Master—laughing wildly, perhaps, at the pain her name caused him.

  “You had an affair with this Mariah?” Carl braved to ask.

  Vladamir glowered at Renfield, but said nothing. Eventually, he nodded, once.

  Carl glanced at the floor. Fear was well-advised, when the Master was in such a mood. Still, he pressed on. “Was that how Alyssa became infected?”

  “You’re very perceptive,” Vladamir grumbled. “I should warn you . . .”

  “It’s all right, Master. I understand more than you realize.”

  Vladamir looked at him inquiringly.

  “You seem surprised,” Carl said with a self-deprecating smile. “Yes, I was in love—once. I still am. How could I know that I had become infected after a blood transfusion? But . . .” Carl shrugged. His smile never faded.

  Vladamir leaned forward, lips set grimly. “Tell me, Carl. Did you eventually . . . ?”

  “Forgive myself? Yes.” Carl closed his eyes, remembering. “I loved her, from the moment we met, until the moment she passed away quietly in a hospital bed, with me at her side. I loved her to the moment I accepted the fact that I, too, would die.”

  Vladamir’s eyes widened. “You truly are a remarkable man, Carl Renfield.”

  “Don’t you see? Alyssa must have loved you. And if she loved you as much as I think . . . No! As much as she did love you, she would have forgiven you.” Carl leaned forward, eyebrows raised, as well as the corners of his lips. “This Mariah has no power over you. She can’t harm you, not any more . . . as long as you truly believe Alyssa loved and would forgive you.”

  Vladamir’s eyes filled with tears. Suddenly, the many years since he had last seen her smile, had last felt her touch, didn’t seem so long ago. Maybe—just maybe, Carl was right.

  Vladamir sat back in his chair, smiling with affectionate remembrance.

  “Let it go,” Carl said. “Put it in the past, where it belongs. Mariah has lost her grip on you. There’s no reason to be afraid, or ashamed, or tormented. And . . . And I will always be your friend—your faithful servant, who will never leave you.” Carl cleared his throat. “I suppose we should finish packing.”

  “Yes,” Vladamir answered, half smiling. “But I see no need to hurry now. And Carl, maybe . . .”

  “Maybe?”

  “Maybe you could show me a picture of your wife sometime, and tell me more about her.” Vladamir chuckled. “And maybe you could stop calling me ‘Master,’ for the last time, for Godsakes.”

  Their shared laughter was short-lived.

  Banging echoed from the front door. Vladamir turned to look, just as the heavy oak doors burst open.
Six uniformed Atlanta Police officers raced in, pistols drawn, followed by three plainclothes detectives. One of these was Gene Dixon.

  Shouting filled the cavernous room as the officers stormed in. Renfield heard the metallic clicking from the officers’ weapons, which were pointed at the landing. Five of the officers, not at all slowed by their cumbersome bulletproof vests, rushed to the foot of the stairs. Other officers tried to fix Vladamir and Renfield in the beams of their flashlights.

  “Police!” Dixon shouted. “You’re both under arrest!”

  Vladamir grabbed Renfield’s jacket and pulled him toward a large open window. Renfield started to race alongside his master, then abruptly pulled free and hurried back to the desk. His fingers closed around a flat metal box, which glinted in the crossbeams of so many flashlights as he spun around to rejoin an anxious Vladamir.

  The crack of exploding gunpowder echoed throughout the old Carfax Estate, as a single bullet sped toward Renfield’s chest.

  The metal box flew through the air, spilling out sheets of paper bearing beautiful calligraphy. Carl dropped to his knees, stunned, reaching for his chest. His face twisted with pain. Blood seeped out from between his fingers. Slowly he rolled sideways, and the full weight of his body crashed to the unyielding floor.

  Vladamir ran to Carl, oblivious to the weapons now aimed at him, his long black overcoat flapping like a ship’s sail. When he reached his servant’s side, he knelt beside him, cradling him in his arms. “Why?”

  Vladamir cried. “What have they done?”

  Renfield coughed up bright blood, which streamed down his chin onto his shirtfront. His eyelids fluttered open. He looked around, confused, until his eyes settled on Vladamir. “Your poetry . . .” he rasped. “In the box—your poetry for Alyssa. I couldn’t just leave it.”

  “You foolish—foolish, sweet little man,” Vladamir said, his voice shivering as if from cold.

  Renfield’s blood-soaked hand grasped Vladamir’s dark cloak. He tried to speak, but only coughed up more blood. Finally, he managed to whisper, “ Remember, she has lost her power over you. No one can ever hurt you again. . . .”

  His eyes turned distant and empty, as Carl Renfield slipped into that vast, dark void known as death. There was nothing left for Vladamir to do but mourn the loss of the only man he would ever call friend. Now Vladamir was truly alone. His vast and frightening power over time and space and matter seemed unimportant without the warmth of Renfield’s smile.

  From the foot of the long flight of stairs, Detective Dixon stared up with numbing disbelief. It was not the first police shooting he’d ever witnessed, and death was no stranger to him. But why should this have happened to such a gentle, caring man? However Carl Renfield was involved with Dracula, Dixon was certain his motives were good. His actions precipitating this tragedy surely made that clear!

  Dixon lowered his right hand, as if the pistol in it was suddenly fifty pounds heavier. He started up the staircase, slowly and solemnly. At the landing, he looked down at Carl, feeling empty.

  Vladamir’s tear-filled eyes met Dixon’s. “Words on paper . . .” he whispered. “For this, you kill a man?”

  Dixon couldn’t speak. Perhaps it was for the best. No words could possibly express how terrible he felt, and how he, too, would miss Carl Renfield.

  Other officers rushed up the stairs behind Dixon. “I thought he had a gun!” one of the detectives, Bobby Fulton, said to Dixon.

  “Shut up!” Dixon ordered angrily. “Just shut the hell up!”

  Two of the uniforms pulled Vladamir away from Carl and forced him facedown on the stone floor. They handcuffed his hands behind his back while another detective read him his rights. Vladamir merely lay on the dirty floor, cheek pressed against cold wood, eyes fixed on Carl.

  The powerful lord of the night, Dracula, offered no resistance, not when the officers forced him to his feet, nor when they dragged him down the stairs. When they stuffed him into the back of a patrol car, Vladamir simply rested his head against the smooth glass of the side window. He gazed dully at Carfax, his face void of any expression. There was no evidence of so much as a single thought within that magnificent intellect. His dark world, where only shadows lived, had grown darker, and colder.

  NINETEEN

  Captain Rodney Gilbert, the division commander, sat at his desk reviewing Dixon’s report. Finished, he lay the paperwork flat on his desk, smoothed out the edges, and looked into the impassive face of Detective Dixon. “No, Gene,” he said. “Sorry. It’s a justified shooting.” Dixon pounced forward in his chair. “Captain, I’m telling you, you’ve got a trigger-happy detective. Fulton gunned down Carl Renfield for nothing!”

  “That’s not the way I see it,” Gilbert replied. “You’ve got two suspects, wanted for a series of murders. They try to escape out a window. This man, Renfield, makes a sudden move. He’s holding something metal. To make matters worse, the room is dimly lit. Detective Fulton fires a shot that unfortunately kills one of the suspects, but it did prevent this guy Vladamir from eluding apprehension.” The captain paused and chuckled. “What kind of name is Vladamir Tepevich, anyway?”

  Dixon stared down at the worn blue carpet in the captain’s office. “Romanian, I think,” he mumbled. “You’re not recommending a disciplinary hearing for Fulton?”

  “No.” The captain stretched back in his brown leather chair and crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Besides, Fulton is the least of your problems.”

  Dixon looked up, scowling. “What do you mean?”

  “Steward. Dr. Jonathan Steward . . .”

  “What about Steward?”

  “He’s being released.”

  Dixon slowly rose to his feet. “Released? How? Why?”

  “The state’s attorneys’ office in New York decided not to prosecute. Lack of evidence.” The captain shrugged, indifferent. “And our prosecutor cut Steward a deal. His testimony in court against the Romanian, and they don’t pursue charges. You were never able to prove Dr. Steward actually participated in any of the murders.”

  “Fine!” Dixon slammed his palm flat against the captain’s desk. “I’ll speak with the prosecutor myself!”

  “You could do that,” the captain agreed. “But you’d be wasting your time.”

  Gilbert stood and walked over to the window. For a long time, he studied the sights and sounds of the city, four stories down. Dixon’s fingers drummed a tattoo of frustration on the leather arm of the visitor’s chair.

  “It may be hard to believe,” Gilbert said at last, “but I was a go-getter like yourself—a long time ago. I was out to give ’em hell, just like you. After a while, I came to see things as they are.”

  Dixon cocked his head. “I don’t follow you.”

  “All right. Let’s start with Detective Fulton. You feel he should be disciplined. Maybe you’re right. Did you know he’s only twenty-six? Don’t you think he realizes he shot and killed an unarmed man? And for what? A box of poetry?”

  The captain pointed to Dixon’s chair. “That man sat in that very same chair, crying like a baby. He’s got the rest of his life to think about what happened. That boy, out on the streets trying to do a job no one should have to do . . . not in a so-called civilized world. The rest of his life, he’ll remember pulling that trigger, firing a hunk of lead into Renfield’s chest. Isn’t that punishment enough? What could we do to him that would be worse than the nightmares he’ll have for the rest of his life?”

  “That doesn’t explain Steward,” Dixon interrupted angrily. “Are you telling me he gives a damn about that young girl he butchered back in New York?”

  “Young girl? Hell!” The captain’s tone grew harsh. “You make her sound like a high school cheerleader. The woman was a streetwalker! She was working the streets to support a heroin addiction.”

  “The Romanian murdered a child molester and a bigot who torched an Afro-American church, killing four people during a bible study class,” Dixon complained. “By your logic, we sho
uld not only let him go, but give him a medal!”

  “It’s different with Steward . . .”

  “The hell it is!” Dixon barked. “The only difference between Steward and the Romanian is the balance in their checkbooks, and their social standing in this fine, fair city of ours!”

  The captain slammed his fist against the office wall. He was red in the face. “You know nothing! Have you seen the preliminary medical examiner’s report on Renfield?”

  “What does that have to do with any of this?”

  “Everything!” The captain walked back to his desk and pulled a folder from his top drawer. He slammed it down in front of Dixon. “Renfield had AIDS . . . right?”

  “Right!” Dixon replied.

  “Wrong!” The captain leaned over his desk, supporting the weight of his body by his knuckles. “ According to the initial bloodwork, Renfield tested negative for the AIDS virus. He used to have AIDS, but not any more—not at the time of his death, at least!”

  Dixon grabbed the report. “There has to be a mistake,” he mumbled, scanning through the pages. “Renfield had AIDS. The M.E. must have made a mistake.”

  “No mistake. The medical examiner repeated the test three times. He’s scheduled a full autopsy for this evening, which may tell us a bit more. Meanwhile, it appears Dr. Steward has hit on something. He may well have stumbled on a cure. For that reason, the chief state’s attorney decided it was in the best interest of the public to return him to work.”

  Dixon tossed the report back on the desk. “This is nonsense! I am not about to let that animal walk. He’s a butcher!”

  “Just what the hell are you going to do about it, eh?” The captain chuckled.

  Dixon looked him straight in the eye. “I’ll go to the newspapers. I’ll tell them everything I know about Steward and the deal that was cut for him.”

  “Be my guest,” the captain replied. “But, before you head out that door, leave your badge and gun on my desk.”