A Sharpness on the Neck

Chapter Two

June, writhing and straining, suddenly made her own effort to break free. But her first try fared no better than Philip's, though her struggle lasted somewhat longer. Phil on observing what his wife was doing gamely made another try himself, but their captor had no trouble at all managing them both at the same time, one arm to each. The dark-haired intruder sat through this interlude with a thoughtful expression on his lean face, and seemed to be waiting, like an experienced parent, for the kids to get the nonsense out of their systems.

June, gasping and tired, at last gave up, and breathed out a prolonged whine of frustration.

"Phil, do something!"

He grunted and strained again and muttered a few obscenities and oaths. But this time his heart wasn't really in it. He understood, as he sat waiting for his lungs and heart to slow to normal, that he might as well have saved his energy.

Glaring at their captor, June said: "I don't see how you think you can just come into the car and—and…"

"But I can." His voice was calm, infuriatingly parental. "Depend upon it. Nevertheless, you have nothing to fear from me."

So, it seemed that they were well and truly kidnapped. Philip in the back of his mind was already running through a mental list of people who might be expecting to hear soon from either one of them. The list was short, and offered no comfort. The Radcliffes could be out of communication with the world for a long time before anyone else became alarmed.

After a few seconds of silence, the girlish-looking vampire in the front seat turned her head long enough to call back cheerily: "Call me Connie. And you're Phil and June. But you already know that." And she giggled.

"You may call me Mr. Graves," said the somber man who sat, apparently relaxed but watchful as a statue, between his captives in the rear.

"You're hurting me," June told him, in a tone of voice that suggested it was mainly her sensibilities which had been injured.

"My apologies," said Mr. Graves, sounding in fact not all that sorry. His voice suggested that of some Middle European diplomat with faultless yet not native English, and his dark suit did nothing to dispel this impression. He turned his face toward June. "I shall release you. But only on the condition that you must, for a while, accept my presence, and my guidance."

Evidently she gave some sign of her acceptance. Radcliffe, feeling like a fool in his helplessness, looked across and saw that his wife was now indeed free. She was rubbing her slender arms and shoulders, inspecting her wrists and hands, with a puzzled look, as if she were sure there must be someplace where she was really hurt.

Phil let out a breath of partial relief. "Put on your seat belt," he reminded his wife mechanically.

She pulled the strap into place, and snapped the buckle, in a kind of reflex action.

Graves had now turned his dark, compelling gaze to his left. "Mr. Radcliffe, will you also ride peacefully beside me?"

"Doesn't seem like I have much choice," Phil gritted through his teeth.

"An intelligent observation," his seatmate observed.

The numbing grip relaxed. It was Philip's turn to rub his arms and shoulders, and to feel puzzled at the lack of damage. All that strength should have left something bruised or strained; but he felt only a faint tingling, like the aftermath of a good massage.

No one man, especially one so thin, could be that strong. It had to have been some trick…

"Please put on your seatbelt," the trickster urged him solicitously.

Radcliffe clicked the halves of the buckle into place. Then, summoning up his not inconsiderable courage, he demanded of his kidnapper: "And who the hell are you?"

"You may call me Graves," the dark-suited man repeated patiently. "Mr. Graves, if you are in a mood for formality. When we have reached our destination, we are going to discuss my identity more fully. It has a certain bearing on our business." For the first time he smiled faintly, showing a glimpse of white teeth.

Connie in the front seat turned her head briefly, glancing at Phil. Then she remarked: "He does look like him, doesn't he, Vla… doesn't he, Mr. Graves?"

"A definite resemblance," Graves agreed.

"Who do I look like?" Radcliffe demanded.

"You look a whole lot like a certain ancestor of yours," Connie remarked; over her shoulder. "One who lived about two hundred years ago."

Philip, his mind still numb, mental faculties staggering off-balance and scrambling through trivia to try and find a foothold, decided that Connie appeared to be about a decade younger than Mr. Graves, who had to be at least thirty. And she sounded like a native English-speaker, which the male intruder did not.

* * *

The man who called himself Mr. Graves had turned his gaze upon his male captive, and was studying him intently. Philip was the one, by all indications, in whom Graves was really interested. He didn't know whether to be pleased or not that June was being virtually ignored.

Connie, without looking round again, remarked: "Yes, this has to be the one that Radu wants."

"Really there can be no doubt." Graves was nodding slowly. The resemblance is definitely there. The eyes, the mouth. Unusually strong, after so many generations."

"So I look like my ancestor?" Radcliffe's own voice seemed surprisingly loud in his ears. "Does this mean I inherit the whole fortune?"

Ignoring his comment and facetious question, the woman said: "I agree, as to that. And I have an excellent memory for faces."

June piped up: "So, you're taking us to someone called Radu?"

"Taking you to him? On the contrary!" Graves, turning his head to look at her, smiled in some private amusement.

Connie, her mind still off on another pathway, muttered musingly: "I wonder—to how many 'greats' should that ancestor of his now be entitled?"

June said: "Phil?" in a small, lost voice. But then she let it go at that. He looked past their kidnapper at her, and was vaguely relieved to see that she was bearing up, so far—and that she had her seat belt on.

Connie drove on for more than an hour, heading generally west and north, steering from one small road to another, never seeming to have the least doubt as to where she was going. They passed through no towns; here and there a lighted window appeared only in the distance, and other traffic was nonexistent. Phil kept formulating plans for sudden violence, for taking their captor by surprise—and giving them up. The attitude of the man beside him, the memory of that grip, were thoroughly discouraging.

Twice he was on the point of telling Connie to turn the headlights on, and twice he held back. Let her hang up the car on one of these roadside rocks, if she thought she could see in the dark—anything to disrupt the kidnappers' plan. But though the darkness deepened steadily, the driver proceeded unerringly and at the same speed.

Now and then she turned her head to smile solicitously at her victims. Meanwhile Graves spent most of the time sitting motionless, as if lost in thought.

Eventually, flicking on headlights at last, she pulled the convertible into what was obviously a prearranged rendezvous. A kind of rude driveway, no more than a set of rutted tracks, curved away from the thin road, leading behind a rocky outcropping to a building, some kind of abandoned shed, whose location effectively hid its presence from casual traffic. Here the deceptively flat-looking landscape had put up enough of a bulge to conceal till the last moment an isolated shed, surrounded by a small grove of trees. A dusty Suburban, two or three years old, was parked just beyond the shed.

As the car braked to a stop, Phil started at the sight of a small handful of masked figures, men and women, who suddenly appeared in the glare of his car's headlights, standing around the shed. Radcliffe saw with a chill that these people, dressed in nondescript clothing, were wearing rubber Halloween masks over their heads; ghosts and witches were represented, smiling, along with Frankenstein's monster, whose rubber features looked less happy. Radcliffe's uneasy attention took note also of a mummy and a werewolf.

So, the young man thought, with a sinking sensation. Numbers and organization proved that it wasn't just a couple of crazed acrobats who were doing this. He and June were somehow victims of a real, professional plot, well-organized if fundamentally crazy, based on some total misunderstanding of who he was. He now began to understand, or thought he did. Somehow these people had convinced themselves that Philip Radcliffe was as wealthy as his name suggested. Well, they were in for a jarring disappointment.

One of the masked figures opened the car door, and spoke in a friendly male voice. "Mr. and Mrs. Radcliffe, we're glad to see you. Please get out."

Others murmured assurances that they were not going to be harmed. Their spokesman handed June out of the car like a gentleman.

Philip, encouraged by the mildness of the reception, was shaking his head at them, raising his voice, trying to get in a telling word before things went too far. "If any of you expect to collect a ransom—"

"We don't," the masked spokesman assured him calmly. "Don't worry about that."

Philip had time to notice that the license plates on the Suburban were so obscured with dried spattering of beige mud as to be unreadable.

Simple but clean toilet faculties were available just beyond the shed, in the form of a new portable chemical toilet of the type used on construction jobs.

There was an interval of waiting, with people standing. Nobody was smoking. Radcliffe supposed that would have been hard, with the masks.

While the kidnapped couple were being allowed a few minutes to use the facilities in turn, their baggage, including two or three backpacks and satchels, was transferred to the new vehicle. There was also some dirty laundry in a plastic garbage bag, and a small ice chest which now contained nothing but some cold, ice-melt water. All items were opened, with apologies, and inspected, before being loaded into the van.

"Oh, that's all right," June responded to the second or third expression of regret. Her nerve was up again, and so was her temper. "If you're going to kidnap us, what do we care if you search our baggage? I've been treated worse by airlines."

Rubber masks turned silently toward her. It was Graves himself who responded in a dry voice: "Your courage does you credit, madam. In fact, one would be virtually certain to be treated worse by airlines."

Not until Radcliffe's nervous gaze had fallen two or three times upon the waiting Suburban did he notice that its windows were shaded or heavily tinted. Riding in the second or third seat of that vehicle at night, a couple of kidnap victims would be able to see very little of anything outside except for passing headlights.

He kept trying to fight off moments of panic. Now might be his last chance to try to find out where he was, where they were being taken. Looking around him in search of a landmark, something that might later help him identify this location, Philip could see nothing familiar and nothing memorable.

The sun had now been gone for almost two hours, but the last glow of sunset still clung to the western sky.

Counteracting the prisoners' tendency to panic was the fact that all the kidnappers, masked and otherwise, continued to treat them with an incomprehensible, eerie courtesy. Radcliffe was several times assured that he and June would get their car back. He was allowed to see that it was being securely parked, its convertible top raised against possible changes in the weather, hidden partially inside the shed, which lacked one wall.

Before pulling out on the next leg of the journey, some of the masked people discussed a possible effort to erase the convertible's tire tracks from a long section of dusty road.

"The rain will take care of it," Connie remarked, as if to herself.

What rain? Philip thought. Then only moments later he saw the first flash of lightning, in the southwest.

* * *

Twelve minutes by Philip's watch after their arrival they were on their way again, the Radcliffes being transported by three of the masked folk in the new machine. Both Graves and Connie had been left behind, but not until Graves had assured both his prisoners that he would see them within a few hours: "Certainly before dawn."

Radcliffe thought he heard one of the masks murmur a question to another: would it now be necessary to tie the prisoners' arms and legs? The answer seemed to be no, but it was worrisomely long in coming.

The Suburban had seats for nine people, in a pinch, and currently six were aboard. From the sound of the tires, and the rocking motion of the vehicle, it was easy to tell that part of the trip was off-road, and a larger part on some secondary, unpaved route. Occasionally a piece of gravel pinged against the underbody.

This leg of the journey was longer than the previous one, lasting more than four hours. Gradually the area where rain was threatening was left behind. The victims had been allowed to keep their watches. Since their wrists weren't tied, they could look at them; but it did no good. With the windows of the vehicle darkened, it was hard to tell even the general direction they were now taking.

This time the masked driver used the headlights, and drove at a less alarming speed over the bad roads.

While they were under way, a couple of their masked guardians rode with the victims in the back seat, making reassuring comments, and from time to time engaging them in casual conversation. There were remarks about the weather and the baseball season. And about the coming election.

Radcliffe had little patience with this tactic. "What are you going to do with us?"

The people in masks were patiently reassuring. "Nothing that will hurt you. You will be required to stay for a time in a place where it will be relatively easy for us to offer you protection."

"Why?" Phil's was a ragged, anguished cry.

"It's a long story. Like I said, we're not going to hurt you, whatever happens. And you do need protection, depend on it. The thing is, we had to act first and explain later."

"Can't you at least tell us why?"

"I'd like to hear the explanation!" June challenged.

"You will, ma'am." The male voice was calm and courteous; it might have belonged to a good cop and not a kidnapper. "But from someone who can do a better job of it than I can."

From time to time Phil tried again: "We're not wealthy, you know. None of our relatives are wealthy. You think my company is going to ransom me? Hah! You're not going to get any money out of this."

The nearest rubber mask was nodding. "We understand that. Making money out of this is not our intention at all."

"Then what is?"

"Have a little patience. Everything will be explained."

"Why not explain it now?"

A hesitation. "Mainly because it'd sound too crazy. That's the truth. Mr. Graves had better be the one to do the job."

"Why?"

"He can do it more convincingly."

There came a mysterious interval in which some time was spent parked and waiting, evidently for a signal of some kind to be given from up ahead.

As if they were taking turns at trying to lay the groundwork for the task of explanation, which they foresaw would be long and hard, the guardians observed more than once that they had reached the couple barely in time.

"Barely in time for what?"

But of course that question received no satisfactory answer.

Graves after several hours' absence rejoined his captives and their guards. In the mystic grayness just before dawn, he stood waiting in the road, and boarded the vehicle when it pulled up and stopped for him. This time he climbed aboard in the ordinary way, moving with smooth agility.

The dark, mysteriously impressive man plainly did not care whether his victims saw his face or not. That was ominous when Radcliffe thought about it.

Having gone through his prisoners' pockets and purse, Graves said, in a tone of finality: "You are Philip Radcliffe." It sounded madly as if he were going to add: "I have a warrant for your arrest."

"Yes." In a way he was suddenly afraid to admit his identity, but with all the ID in his billfold, credit cards and such, it seemed pointless to try to deny the fact. Then, responding to what he was still convinced must be on his captors' minds, he repeated yet again: "But I don't have any money."

Philip's billfold, including the modest amount of money in it, was soon returned to him. "I am not interested in your money. You are not being held for ransom. You may as well believe me; what reason could I have for lying to you on that point now?"

Philip had been aware for most of his life, ever since he had grown old enough to be aware of such things, that some people after looking at him and hearing his name tended to assume that he was wealthy instead of moderately prosperous. Some even assumed he was immensely wealthy. He was at a loss to understand this, except that the cause had to be something in his name, or in his looks.

"All right," he demanded of his kidnapper. "If you don't want money, then what?"

"Believe it or not, our only object is to save your life. You are now in protective custody."

"If that's all it is, you can let us both go. I don't need to be protected." Why do some of them take pains to hide their faces, while this man and woman don't care? Could the others conceivably be people I would recognize?

The other appeared not to have heard that comment.

"You expect me to thank you? I didn't know that either of our lives were in any danger."

"You have put your finger on an important point. Your ignorance, through no fault of your own, is indeed something of a problem." Even as he spoke, Dracula kept looking over his shoulder. Consciously or not, he gave the impression of a man on guard against the pursuit of an opponent he obviously considered extremely formidable. "And whether you eventually express your gratitude or not is a matter of indifference. What I have sworn, I have sworn."

"What exactly have you sworn?"

"That you will be protected."

Radcliffe thought that over for a little while. The explanation seemed to be going in a circle. Trying to get back to practical matters, he asked: "Where are you taking us?"

"To a place where, for the time being, you will be relatively safe."

"We'll be safe at home."

"Alas, no." Slowly the dark, unmasked man shook his head. "Unfortunately that is not the case, for either of you. Not just now. But if all goes well, you should be safe at home in only a few days."

"Why do all your helpers wear masks, and you don't?"

"They are masked because you might, if all goes well, someday see them again. If you were to recognize them, an awkward situation could arise."

"But I'm never going to see you again?"

The other smiled faintly. "Probably not—but to me it is a matter of indifference whether you do. It will make no difference if you someday describe me and complain about meto the police."

"Oh, it won't? And to Constantia? If that's her real name."

"She and I, as you may have observed already, are different from the others."

"Different how?"

"That is part of the explanation to which you are entitled. But it will take time."

A little time went by before Radcliffe asked: "Safe from who? From what?"

"From a certain man, one who has vowed not only to cut off your head, but to drink your blood."

Radcliffe couldn't think of anything to say in response. Up front Connie, or someone else, was driving; he could see only the faint outline of a head. The vehicle roared on. Maybe they'd be lucky and a speed cop would pull her over.

June asked: "Is that the 'Radu' you mentioned earlier? And does he want my head too? To drink my blood?"

Their captor nodded solemnly. "I know him well, and he is quite capable of doing both. I would not be surprised to see that he had the guillotine all ready."

That silenced June for the moment. Phil stepped in: "You know this Radu. All right, who is he?"

"Someone I have known for a long time."

"How long?"

The other appeared to be considering his answer carefully. Finally he said, clearly: "More than five hundred years. Alas, he is my brother."

That put an end to all conversation for almost a quarter of an hour.

The sun was on the verge of rising when the vehicle at last pulled into a scanty patch of woods, between a pair of sandy hummocks, and rolled to a stop in front of a pair of small mobile homes. It was the kind of housing Radcliffe would have expected to see provided for workers at a small isolated mine—not that there were any visible signs of mining activity near.

Here two more masked kidnappers were waiting. The victims were bidden to get out of the van. By this time, both Radcliffes had recovered to some extent from the original shock, and each had begun trying to think of some way to escape from their kidnappers.

They got out of the van to smell a chill and dusty wind, and find themselves standing in front of a small, dimly lighted mobile home. A few yards away, the shaded windows of a similar dwelling gave out a muted glow. The night was gone, the day was here, the sky still marked by a thin rising moon, and those stars bright enough to survive the early stages of the change. Mountains, ghostly shapes along the newly revealed horizon, loomed in several directions, the closest no more than twenty miles away.

Both little houses were set directly on the ground and appeared to have settled into their sites, as if they had been in place for some time.

A power line, looking out of place, came marching on its small poles across the desert.

A small, primitive landing strip was in view behind the buildings. A faded windsock hung limply. No aircraft were in sight at the moment.

Radcliffe and his wife were watched carefully but treated gently, like valuable objects, as they climbed out of the vehicle. While Mr. Graves watched the sky, as if suddenly interested in the weather, one of his masked helpers led Philip and June to the smaller of the two mobile homes.

"Come in, make yourselves at home. You're going to be here for a while."

"How long?"

"However long it takes."

The front door, which Radcliffe saw had been newly armored with a heavy grill—there were still scorch-marks from the welding torch—was held open for them. Somehow the professional workmanship that had obviously gone into the armoring was more frightening than almost anything else that had yet happened.

Inside, the structure was divided into a few small rooms, cheaply but cleanly furnished. The front entry led into a small sitting-room with an open door showing a small bedroom beyond. An archway on the opposite side led to a little kitchen.

"It's not fancy, but it's safe." The speaker, one of the masked people, sounded almost apologetic.

Wandering numbly from room to room, Phil and June entered the small kitchen. On looking around, the newcomers discovered it was stocked with a surprising variety of food. The refrigerator held an unopened half gallon of milk bearing tomorrow's date, along with fresh fruits and vegetables, chicken and ground beef in butcher's wrappings, and a variety of drinks. The latter included half a case of premium imported beer, actually Phil's favorite brand, in twelve-ounce bottles. There were soft drinks in cans, a couple of varieties of bottled water. Breakfast cereals had been visible on the counter, along with a small assortment of dishes. Radcliffe took silent note of the absence of anything like a sharp knife.

The sturdy iron grillwork which protected the front door could be locked only from the outside; Phil supposed the same would be true of the kitchen door, if there turned out to be one on the far side of the structure.

Further inspection of the house confirmed that the windows, too, were all covered with heavy grills. Some thought and effort had evidently gone into making the place escape-proof.

At least the place looked clean and in reasonably good repair. The furnishings were new, or nearly so. An air-conditioning unit in the window waited silently, ready to deal with the day's heat when it came.

None of the masked people who were bustling in and out, carrying baggage and checking provisions, seemed to be watching the prisoners at all closely. Their baggage was promptly carried into the one small bedroom. Radcliffe, feeling exhausted, his mind wavering near hysteria, had the crazy notion that someone was going to expect a tip.

There was no mirror in the bedroom, but one in the bathroom, in the expected location over the sink.

"Phil, what… what…?" June was whispering. She made a gesture indicating desperation.

He spread out his hands helplessly. "I don't know what I don't know any more about this than you do."

Radcliffe and June had not long to wait before Mr. Graves came to speak to them politely.

"There is a videotape, which will explain much. You must watch it." He lifted in one pale hand a small black case which had been lying on the table beside the television and VCR.

"A videotape."

"Indeed. This will lay the groundwork for the explanation you very naturally demand. When you have seen it through, and considered its contents, we shall be able to talk to some purpose. Your many questions will be most swiftly answered if you will watch the tape."

"Wouldn't it be easier just to tell us?" June put in.

"I think not. A face-to-face discussion would inevitably involve arguments, demonstrations, a tedious business for which I will not have the time today, nor probably tomorrow. These hours I must devote to more important things." The dark eyes fixed on Phil. "You may place little value on either your blood or your life, but I have sworn a serious oath that I will save them both."

Phil nodded slowly. He knew the expression on his own face must indicate that he was seriously impressed. And indeed he was. This man Graves is as nutty as a fruitcake factory.