Dracula's Children Read online

  Richard Lortz

  DRACULA'S

  CHILDREN

  For Ramon, child of the night

  Originally published 1974 by Dell Publishing Company, New York, under the title Children of the Night.

  First hardcover edition published 1981 by The Permanent Press, Sagaponack, New York.

  First publication in Great Britain 1981 by Jay Landesman Limited, London.

  Copyright © 1974, 1980 by Richard Lortz. All rights reserved.

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 80-85346

  International Standard Book Numbers:

  0-932966-15-2 (U.S.)

  0-905-15032-4 (U.K.)

  eISBN: 1-57962-295-X

  Printed in the United States of America

  “. . . Sometimes I feel like giving up,

  it is no use to fight problems.

  Last year when I was in the 5th grade

  I tried to take the needle from some

  older kids . . . in the school yard.

  I really felt that anything, even dying,

  was better than being here in this life.

  Death has to be better than this.”

  —Carmen, in Can't You

  Hear Me Talking to You?

  Table of Contents

  The First Victim

  Dawn

  The Detectives

  The Street

  The Children

  Julia

  Jamie

  Kathy

  Maria

  Angel

  The Cowboy

  The Park

  The Pack

  The Rendezvous

  The Last of the Victims

  The Men

  The Street

  THE FIRST VICTIM

  NOT LONG after midnight on a dark, wet morning late in July, just as the pale, giant clock on the gray tower of the Greek Orthodox Church that faces Central Park West in New York City tolled the quarter hour through the last of the fog and the glitter of rain that slanted across its single yellow eye, a taxi careened to the flooded curb on the far side, close to one of the park entrances.

  It stopped so abruptly that a cascade of shining water fanned up and outward, window-high, bringing an exclamation of mixed pleasure and alarm from the single passenger seated in the back.

  Middle-aged, pleasant-looking, tastefully dressed, she had clung to the handstrap throughout the whole of the wild, dizzying ride from the Village, half the time praying, the rest just silly and giddy enough from the lingering effects of the two cocktails she’d had after the lecture to enjoy skidding past red lights, lurching around corners, and whooshing madly through flooded intersections as if they’d had an outboard motor tied on the back.

  Now that the car had finally stopped and through the misted window she glimpsed the entrance to her apartment building across the street, she breathed her relief, yet in the next moment laughed. The bright black eyes of the driver flicked to his rearview mirror.

  “What’s so funny?”

  The tone was good-natured enough, yet edged with the kind of playful sadism that told her he was bored and that the ride had been meant to frighten or annoy her. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of either.

  “Nothing. The roller-coaster ride.”

  The eyes in the mirror crinkled half shut and she knew he was grinning.

  “More like Venice.” He peered from his window at the lake that surrounded them. “Can’t let you out on this side. How’s yours?”

  She rolled down the window and looked, her eyeglasses instantly clouding. Through the misty haze she saw a vast pool of ankle-deep water. Did it really matter?

  “I’m soaked to the knees anyway.” But the driver did puzzle her. “Why don’t you swing to the other side? The building with the green canopy; that’s mine.”

  The driver pointed behind them, and what she saw was little more than a blur but obviously a white-and-blue police car parked opposite at the far corner.

  “I know the bastards; they’d give me a ticket sure. Tell you what; I’ll drive you around the block: and come up legal-like on the other side.”

  “No, no.” She dug blindly into her carryall for billfold and change purse, glanced up, squinting.

  “I can’t read your meter.”

  “Four twenty-five.”

  “Good heavens!”

  The cabbie was busy tightening the rubber band that gathered his long dark hair into a thick snake, oily and sleek, that hung to the center of his back.

  “Lady, that’s what the numbers say—right there. It counts all by itself; real smart.”

  “I’m not complaining. Just— Surprised.” She found a five-dollar bill and squeezed it into the ridiculous little go-through box in the plastic shield that separated the passenger’s side from the driver’s.

  “Does this really help?”—tapping the worn, stained wall of plastic. No answer. “Well— No one can hold a gun to your head, or blow poison darts into the back of your neck.”

  The silly man was pretending to have trouble finding adequate change in a cigar box that was obviously overflowing with it.

  “Keep it. And this too.” A quarter and a dime. “A night like this!”

  She gathered up her belongings: carryall, briefcase, two books, a bound stack of mimeographed sheets and drawings from the lecture. What else? Something was missing. Her folding umbrella! But that had been ripped from her hands the moment she’d stepped from the New School into that fearful wind: hurtling aloft like a demonic kite to melt into the writhing sea of fog and blackness that should have been Fifth Avenue.

  Had there ever been such a storm? In New York City? In July?

  The news reports—those she had overheard by hearsay in the lecture hall just before the film— were probably exaggerated. Five inches of rain in less than an hour! Sporadic winds of hurricane force! Even hail that smashed countless windows in the Heights section of Brooklyn! One report, which she didn’t believe, and had to laugh as she tried to picture it, had all the south storefront windows at Bonwit Teller shattered to the ground and a dozen manikins lying in the street like so many well-dressed corpses—a few dismembered limbs, hands, feet, as far east as Madison Avenue!

  “I have no umbrella.” Something oddly plaintive had crept into her voice. “But it’s stopped now, hasn’t it.”

  The cabbie nodded, scooping the change from his little sliding box.

  “Yeah.”

  “At least the heavy part is over.” She swung her door open on the park side, paused, touched again by the same swift, strange feeling that had just now put that queer note of self-pity into her voice. It was fear. Something—she hadn’t even the vaguest notion what—was frightening her.

  The cabbie was grinning, his boyish face slightly dim and distorted through the sheen of misty plastic.

  “Only a drizzle now. And fog.” He glanced out his side of the cab and back.

  “Never seen such a fog. Maybe it ain’t New York. Maybe we’re in London, eh, lady? Piccadilly Square.”

  “Circus.”

  “What?” He remembered. “Oh yeah.” His feet touched the accelerator, racing the motor. He was obviously anxious to be off.

  But she wouldn’t get out! She sat there on the edge of the seat, the door wide open. He leaned back to glance out the door on her side. The water wasn’t that deep. He’d pulled the wheels of the cab right over to the curb so she could step out on the pavement.

  “Is anything the matter?” Her face was peculiar and strained.

  Startled, she shook her head quickly.

  “No. It’s just—” She couldn’t herself decide what the matter was. “I don’t see my doorman. But sometimes he sleeps in the elevator. It’s a tiresome job.”

  “Yeah.” T
he motor raced.

  She fidgeted with her books, her bag; adjusted her glasses.

  “Well . . . ” She had to get out, or find a reason not to.

  “You can say that again.”

  “What?”

  Laughter. “I’m kidding, lady. Have a good night. Or morning. Watch your step.”

  “I will.”

  She stepped out onto the pavement.

  “Got everything?”

  “I think so.”

  His rear wheels whirred and spun in the mud between the curb and the sidewalk, then they caught, and the cab shot off with such an astonishing burst of speed and sound that she thought surely the men in the police car opposite would . . .

  But the police car was nowhere in sight. It had evidently left while she’d been talking to the cabbie. With bewildering dismay—somehow she had wanted it there—she looked right and left as far as she could see. No police car. No car. Nothing. Overturned trash baskets. Broken branches. Beer and coke cans. Leaves. Mud. And water everywhere. A veritable lake in front of her.

  She looked up and across the street at her apartment building, which she could just dimly see. Her glasses were misted; with a brush of fingertips she wiped them clear, too impatient to look for a tissue. It did little to improve her view, merely distorting her vision, but it was certain the doorman was nowhere in sight.

  She noticed the building canopy had become loose in the storm, or perhaps part of it had actually ripped: two big sections of wet canvas were cracking in the wind, looking, from where she stood, like the wings of a gigantic dark bird ready to swoop down and devour her.

  Well, bird or no, doorman or no, there was her building, and the dim light from the lobby’s glass doors cast its warm, comforting glow onto the wet pavement.

  She was home. Safe. —Despite all those peculiar feelings she’d had moments before she’d stepped from the cab. As if . . .

  Instinctively, she turned quickly to glance behind her. Nothing. The park entrance: an avenue lined with deeply-shadowed trees and shrubs, benches, a drinking fountain at one side, street lamps casting an eerie glow.

  Beyond that, centered, as far as she could see, a wall of trees, or at least a kind of thickening green fog as foliage mixed with mist through her again-clouding glasses.

  How still it was! Not a sound. Only the monotonous crack and flap of the canvas across the street. Not a single car passing. Wasn’t that odd? Perhaps not; not after such an incredible storm and so much of the city badly flooded.

  Her eyes again moved to the street directly in front of her. There was absolutely no point in looking for a dry place to cross. There were none. Besides, why care? Her shoes, which were suede, were surely ruined already. Nevertheless . . .

  She smiled, and feeling suddenly silly and secret, imagined it would be fun to take off her shoes and wade across ankle-deep through that shining lake in her stockinged feet.

  As she leaned over to remove her shoes . . .

  A faint cracking sound. Distant, but sharp as a little boy’s cap pistol. It had been a twig! Someone had snapped a twig, broken it between his hands or—in one sudden leap her heart crowded her throat—stepped on it. Someone, something, was behind her, somewhere !

  She turned instantly. But the park entrance was quite as it had been before, though now the mist had thickened in the distance; patches of it had settled closer to the ground and were wafting and rocking gently the way she had often seen it do in the little valleys that dip down on country roads.

  But then, then—quite as if she had known, known all along exactly where to look beforehand, her head turned slowly to the distant left. And there she saw it, or him, or her, and curiously, saw it with an immense rush of relief and initial pleasure . . . because it was not the imagined dreadful thing her mind had been busy conjuring: it was not Count Dracula, black-caped and long-toothed, nor Dr. Frankenstein’s grunting guttural monster, or even—one thing truly possible—a six-foot-four New York junkie, wielding an open razor, half crazed for money to buy his fix.

  But whatever it lacked in provoking dread it more than doubled in inspiring openmouthed astonishment. Because it was a naked child! Small, no more than nine, or perhaps ten or twelve, long hair dripping, soaking wet, standing in the leafy shadows.

  It was not to be believed! And this time her hand dug rapidly through her carryall for a tissue. She quickly cleaned her glasses and replaced them.

  There then! It was not an apparition after all: no meandering of fog and fear, no wraith, incubus, writhing ectoplasmic horror. It was distinctly—yes, a boy: she could see the genitals, even the first faint shadow-growth of body hair.

  There he stood, motionless, close to a tree between thick parted foliage—his shoulder-length hair shaggy, disheveled, shining with streaks and beads of wetness as if he had been out in the pelting rain for hours. He was—no, not a white child, but very light-skinned, handsome, thin but well-proportioned, strong. And because of the mist and the unnatural eerie glow from the park’s carbon-arc lamps that were somehow whitely greenish, his skin had a slightly luminous, almost phosphorescent glow. It was this that had made him seem so unreal, at first an apparition; but he was clearly real and solid flesh: a strange, naked, wet, long-haired, oddly staring, wide-eyed, astonishing boy!

  The woman stood as motionless and staring as the child, quite uncertain what to do. —Or say, for that matter.

  Hello?

  What are you doing here?

  Why are you naked?

  Why do you look at me?

  What do you want?

  Nothing seemed commensurate with a situation that was, to say the least, extraordinary.

  She managed to take her eyes from the child to look right and left, then behind her, hoping, wishing, wordlessly praying that someone, anyone, were there—or would miraculously appear, to share her surprise and uncertainty.

  If only the police car would return! If only she could suddenly see her doorman standing in the lighted lobby across the street to whom she could motion, or call! If only . . .

  But why so much hesitancy, doubt, bewilderment about what to do? When she had first seen the boy it had been with a flood of relief, almost pleasure. But now that they both stood there, motionless, waiting—for what?—her panic grew. Their meeting seemed to be—the word forced itself into her mind—contractual; however unknown and nameless, there was an agreement, a bond between them.

  Then the blood rushed to her cheeks. How silly! How morbid! How shameful, and unlike her! Where was her pity, her courage, her concern? Indeed, her duty! If anything contractual existed, an absurd thought, it was to help this child, whatever his trouble. Surely the answer was simple. He was sick, lost; perhaps beaten by others, and left lying unconscious until the rain had washed him clean of blood and soil.

  At the very worst, he could have been an addict, and drugged himself senseless, or insane, bereft of mind and purpose, tearing the clothes from his body, wandering like a dazed and wounded animal, through the intricate miles of wilderness that was the park.

  So fortified with logic, decision was next: she dared to take one step toward him, and in the most hesitant of gentle voices:

  “Hello—? Who are you?”

  Just one more half step.

  “What . . .” Her voice quavered so much she had to begin again. “What . . . are you doing? In the park? So late?”

  No answer, no motion; not the slightest expression. Even the eyes didn’t blink: only their steady wide stare.

  Another step, and her bottom lip disappeared between her teeth. She knew that any quick, rash, or sudden movement on her part would make him bolt, melt instantly into the foliage, disappear— forever. And she couldn’t bear that. God help her, she had to know about this child.

  Another half step, her heart an erratic hammer. She could literally hear it. Could he? Was he listening to the hammer of her heart—this naked, strong boy, with his unbearably mysterious and, yes—she could see it now—insolent eyes fastened so stead
ily on hers?

  Seeing the insolence, or what she thought to be that, another decision was possible; at least she could fake it, and she became instantly sure, bold, “brave”—scolding him as if he were a naughty child whom she knew very well.

  The feigned anger made her voice irritable and sharp.

  “Look how wet you are! Where are your clothes? Aren’t you ashamed? How can you wander through the park like that? At this hour.” — Gesturing without looking at the great pale yellow eye of the church clock far in the distance behind her. “Don’t you know what time it is? !”

  Her “attack” seemed to change him slightly. Was it visible or did she imagine she saw his body tighten?—the muscles alert and poised, ready for instant flight, and this, of course, was not what she’d wanted at all. Her “naughty-boy” approach had obviously failed, so she altered her tone, sympathy and kindness taking over.

  Her voice was small, but warmed with unmistakable concern, and desire to “do” something.

  “Are you lost . . . ? Aren’t you cold . . . ? Why don’t you . . . ?”

  She had taken several unconscious steps forward and then stopped because the boy had made a swift, almost gliding movement backward, shrinking deeper into leaves and shadow. Now his body was virtually hidden. Only his luminous face peered out, the eyes still wide, unblinking.

  Seeing now that she might lose him altogether, the woman shifted everything she carried into one arm, extending the other in an open, sincere gesture of invitation and friendliness.

  “Don’t be afraid. Please. I’m a . . . a schoolteacher. I know about children; all about them. I love them. So how could I . . . possibly hurt you? All that I want. . .”

  Quick as the shutter on a camera, the wet leaves where his face had been became an unbroken wall. She heard rustling, footsteps, a snapped twig, silence.

  Her dismay and disappointment were almost overpowering, so caught up, so wrapped up now was she in solving the irresistible mystery of this boy, in experiencing its total drama.

  Almost as quick as he, without the slightest hesitation, she moved to the wall of leaves where the child had been and pushed her way through. She felt her feet sink into mud, wet leaves shower her with water that seemed almost icy.