Return of the Wolf Man (33 page)

“What do you mean?”

“Dracula may be living on one of the other islands,” he said. “Those islands are British and neither of us has a passport.”

“Oh, but I do,” Talbot said.

Stevenson grinned. “Yes, but it probably expired about, when? Two generations ago?”

Talbot frowned. That
was
one advantage Count Dracula had over him. All it took was a glance or the crook of the index and middle fingers for the Lord of the Vampires to go where he wished.

As Stevenson banked toward the east, Talbot turned his attention to the boats that filled the wide, U-shaped natural harbor. His eyes were drawn almost immediately to one of the vessels, a motor yacht nestled alone amidst the small freighters and pleasure boats. The yacht shined a clean, arrogant white in the sunlight. There was no one onboard and the other boats were anchored a respectful distance away. Because they
knew?
wondered Talbot.

“You can put one worry to rest,” Talbot said.

“You see his boat?”

“Yes,” Talbot said. “The sleek one sitting beside that freighter taking on sugar cane.”

The attorney contacted the tower and was given clearance to land. He made a tight turn to the south and swung the aircraft toward the field.

The airport consisted of a single runway, a small hangar, and a conical, two-story white tower with a dome on top. It was located on the southeastern side of the island, roughly a half mile from the harbor. Stevenson came in low over the trees, scattering flocks of mourning doves and horned larks. Talbot noticed that none of the people working in the sugar cane fields bothered to look up.

The plane gently rocked and bounced as it sailed in. It touched down lightly, hopping from the left wheel to the right before settling down. Stevenson taxied to a spot near the tower and, after securing the aircraft, went to talk with the airstrip manager. Talbot stood outside, his face turned to the sun.

For the first time in his life Lawrence Talbot felt the warmth of the tropics. The pleasant breeze filled the shirt Deputy Clyde had given him, made him smile. But only for a moment. For as he stood alone on the quiet field, his face and neck warm from something other than bloodlust, Talbot knew that the joys of this place, of being human, of sharing the sun with Miliza Morelle or Joan Raymond or Catherine Cooke could never be his. Unlike Count Dracula, who regarded himself as superior to humans, Talbot understood that eternal, carnivorous existence was without meaning.

Stevenson returned quickly. “We’re all set,” he said. “Sunset’s at six-forty tonight, which”—he looked at his watch—“is a little over six hours from now. There are cabs out front. We can hop one to the harbor.”

“Caroline won’t still be on the boat,” Talbot said.

“No, I don’t imagine so,” Stevenson replied. “But I’m guessing that someone there might be able to tell us where to find the owner.”

Talbot looked up at the tower. The two men inside were looking out the window at them. “I have a better way,” Talbot said. “Wait here.” Talbot walked to the tower, opened the door, and went inside. He was gone for just over a minute. When he returned, he was wearing a wry smile.

“What did you do?” Stevenson asked.

“I just saved us some time,” he said. “I asked them if they could direct us to the residence of Count Dracula.”

“Why did you do that?” Stevenson asked. “They’ll alert him.”

“They can’t,” he said. “Not while it’s still light out.”

“What did they tell you?” Stevenson asked.

“That they never heard of him.”

“A lie, of course.”

“Not exactly,” said Talbot. “Dracula often assumes other names, such as Count Alucard, Baron Latos, or Dr. Lejos. So I asked the gentlemen if they would direct us to the master of the island. Whatever he called himself, Dracula would have established himself as that.”

“And what did they say?”

“They said they knew no such man, only this time they weren’t indifferent.” Talbot looked up at the window. One of the men was gone. “Let’s go,” he said.

“Where to?”

“The harbor,” Talbot replied. “I’m betting that by the time we reach it, someone will be there to meet us.”

TWENTY-FIVE

T
he harbor of Marya Island was busy without seeming to be hurried. Bare-chested, slow-moving stevedores loaded sacks of raw cane sugar onto the small freighters while fishermen returned with the morning’s catch. Men in loose-fitting white shirts and shorts and straw hats offered the handful of sightseers tours of the islands on their motor launches. Their manner was easygoing, their pitches low-key. Because it was nearly lunchtime, food carts were beginning to line the jetty, with men and women selling everything from spicy pepper steak to soda from America.

Stevenson paused to buy chunks of chicken and onion on a stick and a soda.

“Do you want anything?” he asked Talbot.

“Thanks, no,” Talbot replied. “I never eat—chicken.”

The truth was, Lawrence Talbot had consumed nothing but human blood and flesh since the bangers and sauerkraut he’d wolfed down on the night he went to the Gypsy camp with Gwen Conliffe and Jenny Williams. He knew he wouldn’t be able to keep cooked animal meat down. To the wolf spirit or whatever it was that possessed him, that would be the equivalent of cannibalism.

The two men made their way to the motor yacht. They walked slowly, making sure to point at it and make their interest in the vessel clear. No sooner had they reached its gleaming bow than a man approached, stepping from behind a stack of crates on the other side of the ship.

The man stood several inches taller than Talbot, about six-foot-six. He was dark-skinned with a bald head, tight, sunken cheeks, and large, rusty hands. He wore dirty sandals, an open white shirt, and ivory-colored trousers that reached to just below his knees. His chest was bare and hairless. The newcomer also carried a silver smallsword stuck through his hemp belt.

When Stevenson saw the weapon he poked Talbot in the side. Talbot nodded. He too recognized the blade Dracula had wielded in LaMirada.

But what interested Talbot most were the heavily lidded eyes of the newcomer. They appeared to stare past rather than at the men. There was something unwholesome about them and he just now noticed what it was. They were dry; the man did not blink. Typically, the eyes of Dracula’s slaves were red due to the excess of blood in their bodies. The dryness of this man’s eyes, and the fact that he was abroad in daylight, indicated that he was enslaved by something other than vampiric means.

“Is there something I can do for you?” the tall man said. His voice was strong but monotone and strangely muted, as though it were coming from inside his chest and not from his throat.

“That depends,” said Talbot. “Who are you?”

“My name is Andre,” he said. “May I know who you are?”

“We’re acquaintances of your employer. We’d like to see one of his guests, Dr. Caroline Cooke.”

“I am sorry,” Andre said without emotion, “but Gentleman Singe does not entertain callers.” Andre pronounced the name “sang”—as in “sanguine.”

“He’ll entertain us,” Talbot said confidently. “You see, I know who your employer really is. His name is Dracula. I also know
what
he is.”

“You are mistaken.”

“Fine,” Talbot replied. “If you won’t help us find Caroline we’ll have to do it on our own.”

“You will not trespass on any of the lands belonging to Gentleman Singe,” Andre warned. His voice didn’t change in volume or tone, yet there was menace in it.

“You don’t scare us,” Stevenson said. “I’m an attorney and I’ve had experience in international law.”

“Have you had experience with wolves?” Andre asked.

Stevenson frowned. “Are you threatening us?”

“Not at all, sir,” Andre said. “I am warning you. The wolves roam the fields of the Gentleman. They roam . . . freely.”

“Thanks for the warning,” Talbot replied, “but I’ve had experience with wolves. We’ll be all right.”

“No,” Andre said. “You will die.”

Talbot fixed his gaze on the other man. “Not unless the wolves have silver teeth,” he said.

As Talbot watched, the expression on the Maryan Islander’s face changed slightly. There was a very slight dip in his thin eyebrows as well as a barely perceptible downturn at the edges of his mouth. It was as if he were undertaking an almost palpable, seemingly painful process of reasoning. It was followed by a visible relaxing in the shoulders, arms, and legs.

“I will take you to the residence,” Andre said suddenly. “The conveyance is this way.”

“Thank you,” Talbot said.

Andre extended a powerful arm. His finger rose slowly and he pointed across the old, uneven cobblestone road to a long, low-lying warehouse. On the far side of the structure, barely visible, was an old wooden cart. Hitched to it was a large black draft horse with an exceptionally long mane.

Moving with somnambulistic slowness, Andre crossed the road and stepped up into the driver’s seat. He sat down slowly as Talbot and Stevenson climbed into the back. There were no seats so the men sat facing one another with their backs against the dark, weathered wooden sides.

The horse snorted deeply and shook its matted mane. It started out even before Andre had picked up the reins, clopping along the road and turning right at the end of the warehouse. There, the ancient cobblestones gave way to dark soil and the road curved away through a curious collection of flora. These ranged from tree-sized prickly pear cacti to tall bamboos and palms. Lower to the ground were slender foxtails and bushy orchard grass. Insects flitted amongst them in thick, buzzing clouds. They did not come near the wagon or its occupants.

As soon as they were on softer ground—where they wouldn’t have to shout to be heard—Stevenson leaned toward Talbot.

“All right,” he said softly. “You want to tell me what happened back there? What made Andre change his mind?”

“I believe that Dracula was listening to what we said.”

“Listening! But how?”

“Through Andre. I suspect that even in his coffin Dracula could hear us.”

“Then he knows who we are—who you are.”

Talbot nodded.

“But why bring us
to
him?”

“So he’ll know exactly where we are,” Talbot said. “So he can have his servants destroy us or hold us until he wakes. Given how little time we have, it seemed the best way to reach him.”

Stevenson looked at the late afternoon sun. “At least we’ll have one advantage. Time to prepare.”

“That’s what I’m hoping,” Talbot said. “As I said, Count Dracula enjoys the hunt as much as the kill. I don’t think he’ll let his people harm us. He’ll reserve that pleasure for himself.”

Talbot looked over at the driver. He was sitting stiffly in his seat, his hands raised in front of him, the reins lying limp in them.

Stevenson followed Talbot’s gaze. “Speaking of servants, this man’s clearly not a vampire. He’s moving about in the sun.”

Talbot nodded.

“Then why is he like this? Is he hypnotized?”

“The islands of this region are home to a variety of voodoo religions,” Talbot said, “black arts whose practitioners use blood and incantations to raise the newly dead as zombies. I believe that Andre is such a creature.”

“How are . . .
zombies
different from vampires?” Stevenson asked. He was still looking at the driver.

“Zombies require no sustenance and no rest,” Talbot said. “They feel no pain and they can only be destroyed by fire or beheading. I believe they were originally bred as warriors. Later they were used as slave labor.”

Stevenson raised his ponytail off the back of his neck. He fanned his flesh with the other hand. “You know what the most frightening thing is about all of this, Lawrence? I can’t think of any explanations, other than the ones you’ve given, to explain all of this. It’s weird to think that what we knew instinctively as children, that there were things to be afraid of in the dark, was true.”

Talbot gave Stevenson a reassuring pat on the leg. It suggested confidence, which he himself didn’t feel. The farther from shore they moved, the more aware Talbot became that even in the daytime, the evil odor of the Lord of the Vampires permeated this place. It was in the strange character of the breeze, a warm air that disturbed nothing—neither grass nor insects. It was in the inexplicable lack of color, as though the foliage and the water and even the sky had been suffused with gray. It was in the musty smell that stuck in the nostrils, the scent of rot—of death.

As soon as the horse reached the dirt path it slowed down. The men could have walked as fast as the cart was traveling. Talbot felt eyes on them as they moved past the field of sugar cane—pale, cruel eyes. Wolf-eyes. After a few minutes the road turned north into the sprawling fields of sugar cane. There was no fence or wall between the fields and the plantation. There was clearly no need for one: the eyes were still upon them. Occasionally, Talbot would see workers cutting stalks with machetes, the same people he and Stevenson had seen from the air. The wolves did not bother them. The men and women were cutting the stalks close to the ground and stacking them on burlap sheets. Like the wolves, the workers moved with slow fluidity, apparently unaffected by exhaustion or heat. Talbot was sure that if he got close enough to look into their eyes he’d see the same parched deadness he saw in Andre’s gaze.