Dracula's Ghost - Afterimage: Chapter 18

Part III: The Witch of Endor

I.

Berlin

1934

“The Fuhrer likes you, Rudolf – he always has.”

Rudolf Diels knew that his days at the Gestapo were numbered, though he could not quite fathom why his performance was considered unsatisfactory. Yes, I disregarded a few orders – when the Reichstag burned, he had ignored the directive to round up the Communists, but Diels had identified the perpetrator, and the madman responsible for the act had been punished. The root of his problems, Diels suspected, was Reinhard Heydrich – his rival had always been an ass, but since his monthlong absence, the blonde thug seemed different, as if some vital cord in his psyche had frayed. My God, Diels thought. He seems almost… fearful. But of what? If his time in Romania left the SS man chastened, it did not show in his daily work, and Heydrich became more vindictive as Adolf Hitler settled accounts with his rivals. And he isn’t going after Jews or Communists, Diels thought. He’s plotting against his most faithful companions, the men who served him for years.

Gregor Strasser sat in his office, and Diels waited patiently as the older man fiddled with his hat. He felt a touch of sympathy, for Strasser had been the face of the National Socialist Party when Adolf Hitler was in prison, a fierce nationalist and anti-capitalist who was forced into retirement once he became inconvenient for the Fuhrer. Save your pity for those who need it, he thought. Diels hated communists, and for all of Strasser’s rhetoric about the German Volk, he was half-communist himself. And yet…

“Rudolf, what’s going on? I retired from politics, but I keep hearing that I’m in trouble.” 

“It’s nothing, Gregor.”  He doubted that this was true, but there was little that he could do at this point. “The Fuhrer is having a little spat with the rank and file, but it doesn’t concern you any more.”

“It isn’t fair!”  Strasser’s jowls quivered, and Diels wondered if he was about to cry. “I gave everything for the Party, and when it was needed, I even gave my own resignation!  I quit politics, but I keep hearing that the Fuhrer has it in for me!  Why?” 

Because you’re a rival, Diels thought. Someone who can replace him. “Relax, Gregor. The old fighters are a bunch of gabbling hens, and they’re feeding you nonsense. What have you heard?” 

“It’s about you.”  The brown eyes widened. “I keep hearing that you’re going to have me killed.” 

“That’s ridiculous,” Diels said, too canny to let his expression betray his feelings. “No one – not me, not anyone else – is planning to kill you.” 

“Then what about the rumors?”  Strasser said, his own fear hardening into obstinance. “Everyone knows that Hitler is planning to purge the party ranks to satisfy the businessmen and the army.” 

“And that has nothing to do with me,” Diels said.  His voice was touched with a hint of impatience, a mixture of affect for his audience and real frustration. “I’m a policeman, not a politician.” 

“You were a policeman, Rudolf. Now you’re the Fuhrer’s hatchet man, aren’t you? And when the Fuhrer has a problem – a political problem – to whom do you think he will turn? Don’t tell me you don’t want it to be you.” 

If only things were so simple, Diels thought. A memory rose in his mind, of a prisoner he had interrogated last month. “

“Do you know who I am They call me the Prince of Darkness, because bad things happen to people who get my attention.”  It is a good line, one that he uses at cocktail parties, and Diels finds that it frequently has the desired effect – show the mailed fist, and your charges will be grateful for the velvet glove.

“Do you know what I think, Herr Prince?” The prisoner, to his consternation, is unfazed. “I think you’ve boarded the wrong train, and now you’re running down the corridor in the opposite direction.” 

 “I’ll tell you what, Gregor. Go home – even better, go find a beer hall – and have a drink. Relax and find a pretty girl to chat with. Your problem is that you spend too much time pining for your old life, and not enough time enjoying yourself.” 

“You’re not going to have me killed?”

“If I were going to kill you, I would have strangled you when you walked through the door.  I could smuggle your body out in a rug… stop looking at me like that, it’s a joke. No – I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Promise?”

“I promise,” Diels said. For whatever it’s worth.

On April 20, the Fuhrer’s forty-fifth birthday, Rudolf Diels was dismissed from his position as head of the Gestapo. They sent Goering to break the news. The Fuhrer likes you, Rudolf – he always has – but a great storm is brewing, and he thinks that someone with a little more ruthlessness will better serve for the coming trials. Two months later, Gregor Strasser was murdered by the SS. Diels heard that he did not die immediately, and that Reinhard Heydrich, his replacement, left Strassor to bleed out slowly in his cell.

II.

Budapest

1956

There is a saying - God is on the side of the big battalions. In the early hours before dawn, the Soviet troops began their endgame, a massive invasion of tanks and infantry. The fighting would continue for the better part of a week, but all organized resistance was crushed in the first day, and the leader of the revolution took refuge in the Yugoslav Embassy. He was arrested after leaving the embassy on a guarantee of his personal safety and would languish in prison for eighteen months before his hanging.

On the third day of fighting, Yuri Andropov received word that a group of English and American spies had taken refuge in the West German embassy. The KGB advocated for a hard line against the foreigners, and he sat at his desk for several minutes, fingers beneath his chin as he contemplated their fate. In reality, his mind had been made up almost immediately – we have enough troubles for now – and the refugees were escorted to the airport along with the body of a priest who had died several days prior. The passengers, living and dead, arrived in Bonn the next day, and Yuri Andropov was lauded in Moscow for his decisive actions in Budapest.

Another man spent two days dodging Russian patrols, and at sunrise on the third day, he visited the cemetery with a shovel and sack. He worked carefully to separate the ashes from the soil, for the bag would be carried for a long distance, and he did not wish to burden the courier. Another item went into the bag as well – it would add weight, but Egon could not bear to discard it, for it had been a treasured possession of its owner. When his task was finished, he returned to the warehouse, where Rupert Holmes awaited. The box of grave soil rested in the bed of the truck, and Holmes mixed several handfuls with the ashes – the remaining contents and the box itself would go into the Danube when they were finished. The Englishman hefted the bag, frowning a little at the weight, then peered inside. Using two fingers, Holmes lifted the old pistol, its barrel melted and the wooden grip blackened beyond recognition, and raised a single eyebrow.

“He would have wanted it,” Egon stammered.

“Of course.”  Holmes returned the pistol to the bag. “I think he kept it as a reminder of better times.” 

“Of what he was… before.” 

“Yes,” Holmes said, loading the bag into the truck. “Are you sure you won’t come with me?” 

Egon shook his head. He was an old man with no desire for a long journey.

The truck disappeared around a corner, and he stared into the empty street for another five minutes. Egon felt no sadness, for he had seen too much to remember the past fondly, but his newfound freedom was tinged with loss. He was a bad man, but… At last, Egon Kass began walking, moving south as the sun rose higher in the sky. The owl watched from a nearby tree, turning its downy head to mark his passage.

III.

London

Evangeline Morris rose late and went downstairs, where Archie Spencer read the morning news as he sipped from a cup of warm tea. The photographs, the same pictures that she found during her break-in, were spread across the wooden desk, and Evangeline let her eyes wander over each image. Jonathan and Mina Harker – Archie had adored his grandfather but had never known his grandmother. Archie’s own mother, pictured with her infant son, was a near-flawless reproduction of Mina. Change the clothing and hairstyle and they could pass for twins, she thought. Archie posed with Rupert Holmes in another image – the boy looked about twelve, and Rupert Holmes looked scarcely different than he had at their meeting in Houston. The final photo was of a young Mina Harker posing with two other women, and Evangeline noted with a touch of sadness that one of the faces was slightly blurred. It was a shame, she thought, for the girl had been quite beautiful.

“How’s your mother?” she asked.

“Getting settled in Amsterdam,” he said. They had agreed that London was not an option, for too many questions would be asked after Sarah’s long absence.

“And your new stepfather?”  Evangeline grinned at his sour look.

“God, I hope they don’t get married.”  Archie made a sour face. “I can’t stand the idea of a bloody stepfather who’s younger than I am. Diels is handling his refugee status, and he’ll join her as soon as the paperwork clears. Just a wealthy English widow and her domestic servant enjoying retirement on the Continent. By the way, this one is for you.” 

Archie handed her the photograph, and she studied the face closely. What did Grandma say? Things would have been better if Quincy had stayed in America.

“What are you thinking?” he asked.

She went to the window and stared at the street below. It had rained overnight, and the sky was an ugly gray.

“I am thinking that six months ago, I had no money and no skills beyond a few minor talents as a grifter. Life comes at you fast.”

“I suppose it does.”  He rose from the desk and stood next to her. “Six months from now, and you’ll be a proper English lady – or some facsimile thereof.” 

“I doubt it.”  She gave his arm a playful slap. “I’m already thinking of stealing your money and skipping town. Seriously, what do I do now?” 

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that,” he said. “If I learned one thing from Rupert Holmes, a competent grifter will always make their way in the world.” 

IV.

Romania

The sun set over the old monastery, and he went aboveground to watch the stars. It had been a good trick, and he had laughed about it for the better part of the first night, until he could laugh no more, and his laughter dissolved into screams. The wolves on the far shore had answered his cries as the castle, his home, beamed in his consciousness like a lighthouse on a rocky shore, tantalizingly close but out of reach. It galled him to admit that Quincy Morris had outsmarted him, but he was no mindless revenant, rapping on the walls until the structure fell to pieces around him. He could face the truth of his own defeat. Besides, he had proven himself adaptable, and his current circumstances were no more than a temporary setback.

First, however, he had to find a way off of this rock.

He continued to watch the stars, naming each constellation and tracing its outlines. Ursa Major, Cygnus, Hercules, Draco. Periodically, he scanned the far shore for lights but saw nothing. If no one came in a day or a year, perhaps his mind would snap, and he would walk gibbering into the water or wait on the rocks for the sunlight to burn him to ashes. And if you take that final step, then Jonathan Harker has won, he thought. Doubtless the fool was watching him even now, peering at him from some dark recess of the underworld and laughing at his misery.  And that is why I will not die here. The sky began to glow in the east, and he watched it, slightly anxious. The crypt beneath the monastery was cool and enclosed, and he was grateful for that at least, for he could retreat underground and sleep until memories faded. He could take comfort in the knowledge that Quincy Morris, at least, was finished.

Are you certain? The idea vexed him, and ghosts – Harker, Holmwood, Seward, and Morris –swirled in his memories, all dead but solid and tangible in his own memory. They watched in silence as another spectre, a beautiful girl with dark ringlets, appeared in the distance. She whispered to him with the silky purr of an enchantress, and though he could perceive the rhythm and syntax that emanated from her lips, he could perceive no meaning in her words. He stood at the water’s edge, and as the sky grew brighter and his time with the living continued to ebb, he tried to remember her name. No matter, he thought.  He would sleep in the darkness of his new home, his spirit wandering realms unknown to the living while the sun shined. There, he could explore the bleak spaces of bloodlust and pain from which even Quincy Morris might have recoiled in horror and dream of what might have been – of victory – in which the architect of his ruin suffered for his crimes and the man’s wife and daughter became his own brides.    

He watched the horizon until the red glow in the east became suffused with tinges of yellow. Still troubled, he slipped into the ruined crypt to rest and wait.

V.

Romania

December 1956

There is magic in love, Rupert Holmes thought. More potent, perhaps, than any other kind. Wind whistled through the bare trees, and the priest pulled the coat tightly against his body. Holmes had slipped him across the border from Poland, and though they faced a long prison term if captured, the request had been approved directly by Rome. The box lay at the bottom of an unmarked grave, and the priest recalled the particulars.

“Father Cristofor Albu, born 1903, ordained into the priesthood 1926. Served in Graz, Vienna, Budapest, and Cologne, and his wartime service was marked by extraordinary devotion and self-sacrifice. Martyred 1956 in Budapest –” the priest shot a glance at Holmes “– under circumstances that the Holy Father has placed under seal.”

He sprinkled the grave with holy water and began the funeral mass as Holmes watched from a respectful distance. He fiddled with his pipe until the service was finished, then offered cheese and bread to the priest as he filled in the grave. The priest watched the sun’s position carefully, as if the quiet glade left him with a bad feeling.

“One more thing.”  The priest pointed. Next to the freshly disturbed earth was a rectangular depression. “Whose grave is that?” 

“A childhood friend.” Holmes noted the expression on the priest’s face and quickly added, “I think she was a cousin, and they grew up together like brother and sister.” 

“Of course.”  He scraped away the leaves, and they read the inscription on the marker.

Gabriela de Cel

1904 - 1933

Shouldering their packs, they started north, heading for a gap in the mountains as the sun moved across the sky and the first snowflakes began to fall.

IV.

Carfax Abbey

January 1957

The wind howled outside, a rare London blizzard that made travel impossible. We’ll be stuck here overnight, Holmes thought with a touch of unease. He found himself wishing that the boy was here, for Archie had chafed at being left behind in London, but if things went badly, he saw no reason to risk more lives than necessary. The oblong box lay on the floor, filled with the gatherings from Budapest and grave soil from Highgate Cemetery, and Evangeline Morris watched him, her own face pale in the lantern’s glow. She had teased him about the lack of ritual. No magic circles, no chants, no naked dancing?  Indeed, the whole thing was simplicity itself. As for naked dancing, what she did with the young Master Spencer was her own business. He removed the lid from the box and laid out the pocketknife.

“It only seems proper to ask your permission before proceeding,” Holmes said. “As his descendant, the final say is yours.” 

She nodded assent, and Holmes cut the base of his palm with the pocketknife. Blood trickled into the box as she took the knife and sliced her own hand, wincing a little at the pain. It may take hours or days, or it may not work at all, he thought. When it was finished, he bandaged their wounds, and they sat back to wait as the droplets mingled in the pungent soil. Evangeline Morris wrapped herself in a blanket and fell asleep as Holmes fed the small fire in the hearth. Sometime afterward, he slept as well.

The fire died, but the coals in the hearth bathed the chapel in a weak glow as Holmes sat up, awakened by the cold.  The blankets at his side were empty, and he saw Evangeline Morris leaning over the box, peering inside. Holmes lit the lantern and joined her.

“My God,” she whispered. “I don’t believe it.”