They Thirst (35 page)

Awaken,
the voice whispered. Mitch Gideon heard it quite clearly. But he didn't have to open his eyes because they were already open; his head simply seemed to jerk backward, and his vision cleared as if he'd been looking through frosted glass. It took him a moment to fully realize where he was. When he did, the shock of it almost staggered him.

He was standing in the entrance foyer of the Gideon Funeral Home Number Four on Beverly Boulevard near CBS Television City. Behind him the heavy, chrome and oak doors stood wide open to the street; a cold breeze was rushing in around him. He heard a noise like the tinkling of Chinese wind chimes and looked to his side—he was holding his key ring with the key that unlocked the front doors still grasped between his thumb and forefinger. He was wearing brown bedroom slippers and his brown velour robe with the initials "MG" on the breast pocket over his usual white silk pajamas.
I'm in my pajamas?
he asked himself incredulously.
What the fuck's going on here? Am I dreaming, hypnotized, or what?

Overhead a huge chandelier with electric candles lit up the entrance foyer with a rich, golden glow. He didn't remember flicking the wall switch.
Damn!
he thought,
I
don't remember anything since I got into bed beside Estelle at . . . what time had that been?
He looked at his wrist but knew his watch was sitting on the chest of drawers in the master bedroom where he put it every night before going to sleep. He felt like shouting the two questions aloud: What am I doing here? And how the hell did I get down from Laurel Canyon to Beverly Boulevard in my
sleep
for Christ's sake?

Gideon turned and walked back out of the building into the parking lot. There sat his Lincoln Continental in the space marked, "Mr. Gideon Only." But there was another vehicle in the parking lot as well—a large U-Haul truck. He stepped closer to it but didn't see anyone sitting in the cab. And when he looked back at the Tudor-style funeral home, he saw a light burning in a window on the upper floor.
My office,
he realized.
Have I been up there working? How did I get out of the house? By sleepwalking? Didn't Estelle hear me leave?
He seemed to remember being behind the wheel of his car, the hot splash of headlights and traffic signals on his face, but he'd thought that was only a dream. He was grateful that tonight he wasn't dreaming of that conveyor belt full of coffins where the workmen were beginning to grin at him as if he were one of their own. His brain felt feverish and violated, as if someone or something had peeled back the top of his head and gone to work in there, fitting him with a wind-up key that could be turned to send him spinning madly in any chosen direction.

He whirled around and stared into the dark distance.
It was that goddamned house,
he thought suddenly,
that castle where some maniac had sawed Orlon Kronsteen's head off.
The place was preying on his mind, intruding into his thoughts both day and night, making him crazy. He thought he could see the castle even now outlined against the darkness in blood-red neon.
Crazy,
he thought,
I'm going fuckin' crazy!

And from the corner of his eye, he saw the light go off in his office. Gideon stared at the black window, his heart beating rapidly. Chill bumps had risen on his arms and legs beneath the silk pajamas.
My God,
he thought.
Oh, my God . . . did I unlock the doors for someone else?
He walked back across the parking lot to the building's threshold. The only sound in the entire funeral home seemed to be the ticking of a large grandfather clock at the far end of the central corridor where a wide marble staircase with black, cherrywood banisters curved gracefully up to the second floor. Gideon moved along that corridor until he could make out the hands on the clock— two-ten. He'd closed his eyes in his own bedroom at just after twelve o'clock.

From somewhere upstairs there came a muffled, soft
thump.
Gideon knew what that sound was from years of hearing it—the noise of a coffin lid closing, probably in the first of the three display rooms. He came to the end of the corridor, the grandfather clock ticking madly in his head. And he started up the long stairway, hand clenching the banister. There was another corridor on the second floor and several rooms on either side; at the corridor's end a shorter stairway led up to the third floor and the administrative offices. Gideon's searching hand found the wall switch, and instantly the corridor was lit by a dozen wall-mounted electric candles. On the first of the polished oak doors there was a golden plaque that said Blue Room, and underneath that in white plastic letters pressed against a black velvet background, Mr. William R. Tedford. Gideon opened the door and pressed another wall switch. A sapphire-colored chandelier blazed to life. Everything in the room was blue—walls, ceiling, carpet, sofa, and chairs. Blue flowers peeked from azure vases; a six-foot statue of a blue angel with unfolding wings stood in a corner; the guest book, powder blue, sat atop an indigo pedestal. But the room's main fixture, supported on a royal blue dais, was a closed ebony coffin containing the remains of a certain Mr. Tedford.

From further along the hallway came the quiet sound of a door closing. "Who's there?" Gideon said, his voice sounding weak and defenseless in the thick silence. He stood where he was for a moment, listening, and then moved forward past the Gold Room, past the Green Room, past the Amber Room. He peered cautiously into the Red Room, switching on a chandelier that lit up the place like the center of an inferno. He could almost smell the sulphur and smoke. But then he saw that the coffin's lid was propped open and, as he neared it, he realized with a start of alarm that the corpse—an elderly woman in a pale pink gown—was smoking a cigarette.

Or rather, a burning cigarette had been forced between the dead lips. It was almost out now because, of course, she wasn't inhaling. A few ashes lay on her cheek, gray against artificial peach.
Someone's playing a joke,
Gideon thought angrily as he plucked out the cigarette and tossed it aside.
It's not very funny. Not very funny at all!

He was answered by a single peal of laughter from one of the other display rooms. He went back out to the corridor, trembling, wanting to run but knowing he couldn't hide. "Where are you?" he shouted. "What do you want with me?" There were two more rooms further along the hall—the Violet Room and the White Room. Gideon looked from door to door, his legs refusing to move. "What do you want?" he shouted again. "I'm going to call the police if you don't get out of here!"

Dead silence.

Gideon threw open the door to the Violet Room. It crashed against the wall, knocking down a gilt-framed picture of purple flowers in a dark green and lilac field. He approached the coffin and looked in, recoiling instantly. The corpse—a shrunken old man with sharply protruding cheekbones—had been painted to look like a clown. There were red spots of lipstick covering his cheeks and the bulb of his nose, the lips had been painted bright red and the sewn-shut eyelids as well. Gideon slammed down the coffin's lid and backed away into the corridor where he turned to face the White Room's door.

He stepped inside, holding his breath in this place of glacial, heavenly whiteness. In this room, the most expensive and ornate of all the display rooms, even the coffin was white with gleaming, gold-plated trim. There was a white grand piano with gold-plated keys replacing the black ones, and a long, black and white checked sofa. Two tall, golden candelabra stood on either side of the coffin dais, each holding six electric candles that now guttered with golden light. But there was no one in here, no one at all. Gideon, bloated with relief, turned toward the door.

And then the ice-white coffin began to open.

He whirled around, a long whine beginning in his throat. The coffin's lid rose, pushed by a bare arm. When it was fully open, the corpse sat up. It was a young Chicano boy with shining black hair, wearing a white T-shirt and dirty jeans. Gideon could see that he'd been lying on top of the other corpse in the coffin, a blue-haired society matron who'd kicked off in her sleep, and now the boy started to climb out of the coffin, his dark eyes transfixing Gideon. He reached out, felt the silk lining of the coffin, and grinned. "Real nice, man," he said softly. "You know how to make 'em real good, don't you?"

Gideon couldn't speak. Couldn't move. Couldn't think.

"Just trying it on for size, Mr. Gideon," the boy said, his gaze flicking to the corner.

And the black-haired girl who'd been standing there leaped for Mitch Gideon's throat.

"Ah," Prince Conrad Vulkan said softly, pressing his white fingers to his temple. He opened his green cat eyes and looked across the room at Phillip Falco. "There. Mitch Gideon is ours. We can begin mass production tomorrow night."

"Sir, if you'll allow me," Falco began quietly, "you took a great risk in bringing him down from his home like that. .."

"Risk? What risk?" Vulkan's eyes moved, green marbles in a pallid face, toward his servant. "If the police had stopped him, he simply would have awakened from his trance. That's all. We need the coffins; we need his factory. And what military leader in all of history has been a stranger to risks?" He sat motionless for a moment, then rose to his feet and moved across the stone-floored room to the huge fireplace. It was large enough to hold more than a cord of wood, but now only six or seven logs blazed in there, and the yellow-orange glow splashed across the vampire's face. There were crates scattered about the room, some of them open, with old, rare books spilling out. Beautiful paintings, many of them cracked and faded but obviously the work of masters, hung on the walls along with delicate fragments of rotted tapestries. At the center of the room there was a large, blue and red Oriental carpet and a long, polished table on which sat a silver candelabra and eight guttering black candles. Before Vulkan's black velvet chair were maps of L.A., Torrance, Glendale, Pasadena, Compton, and most of Orange and Los Angeles counties. Vulkan stared into the fire, his eyes glittering. Soon the servant who called himself Roach would be bringing him his food for the night, and the prospect of drinking hot blood made him eager and impatient. He had missed his feeding last night because he felt it unwise to use that human again so quickly. He'd been reading the newspapers Falco brought to him, and he knew that it would be foolish to do something that would call needless attention to his servant. "Roach will be here soon," he said, watching a log burst into flame. He pondered what had to be done tonight; fast or slow, that was the question.

"Master," Falco said, stepping closer. "That man is dangerous. He takes chances. He's going to cause you harm. . ."

"Why should
you
care?" the prince asked softly.

Falco paused for a moment, watching the slight figure dappled red and black by the flames. "I only mean to say, Master, that the police are bound to catch him sooner or later. I know you've chosen him because you found his mind most. . . receptive, but the time is coming for you to dispose of him. I could bring them for you. Why not let me?"

Vulkan turned toward the other man, smiling slightly. "Let you? Let you, Phillip? Time has used you all up. There's nothing left of you. You're old and weak, and the women would get away from you too easily. No. Roach is young, strong, and . . . new." Vulkan regarded him in silence for a moment, then shook his head. "No, Phillip. If anyone causes me harm, it will be you. Won't it?"

"Me?" A cold flame of terror flared in Falco's soul. "I don't understand what you're —"

"Oh, yes, you do. It's time to stop the charade. Do you think just because I sleep during the day I know nothing of what transpires? You sadly misjudge me, Phillip." Vulkan's voice had dropped to a soft, gentle whisper. "How unfortunate. The Headmaster visits me as I sleep, Phillip. He sees everything, even what hides in your heart and mind. That is how I know you've been thinking of betraying me . . ."

"No!" Falco said, his eyes widening. "No! I swear it isn't true!"

"Oh, but it is. Ever since we left Hungary, you've grown more and more . . . how shall I put it? . . . penitent? Now you sink to your knees and pray to a god who will have nothing to do with you. You pray, and you repent—for what good it does you. And you have been thinking of going to the police."

"NO!"

"The Headmaster told me, Phillip. And he never lies. Never." Vulkan turned his back on Falco and watched the fire burn. "I've given you a good life," he said after another moment. "Why did you want to hurt me?"

Falco trembled, his mind reeling. He put his hands to his face and drew in a tortured breath. Above him in the high rafters of the room, he could hear the wind moaning like a chorus of doomed souls. "It's . . . it's not right!" he blurted out, a strangled sob breaking from his throat "It's perverted, unholy . .. !"

"You can do better than that."

"I . . . I remember in Budapest, when I was a young art dealer and . . . the old man came to see me . .."

"Kovak," Vulkan whispered. "A loyal and true servant."

". . . with that priceless, Byzantine woodcarving, so beautiful it stunned me. And I remember he said there were more pieces of art like that one, hundreds more in a monastery atop Mount Jaeger. He said his . . . his Master had heard of the auction I'd arranged for the Koppe estate, and perhaps I could arrange an auction for Prince Vulkan as well." Falco's eyes grew cold. "Vulkan. The first time I ever heard your name I felt. . . contaminated."