Dracula's Ghost - Chapter 14
A Man of Diabolical Cast
Aboard the Orient Express
1893
He can live for centuries, and Mina is but a mortal woman, Jonathan thinks. Time is to be dreaded since he placed that mark upon her throat.
The ride across Europe seems to last forever. Van Helsing and Seward remain occupied by the task at hand, and Jonathan, who has barely eaten or slept, envies their detachment. Mina puts up a pleasant façade of her own, and several of the passengers have complimented him on her pleasant nature. Jonathan, who sees the lines beneath her eyes and the scar on her forehead, knows better. Arthur grieves deeply for Lucy but copes surprisingly well, and Jonathan watches him closely. Mina’s growing illness fills him with dread, and Arthur appears nothing less than a vision of his future self. One man emerges from the bitter waters as another is pulled into its depths. Only Quincy Morris seems unaffected. He chats with the men and smiles at every unattached lady. At one point, Jonathan catches him speaking fluent, if atrociously accented, French to a porter. It takes Mina to point out what, in hindsight, should have been obvious.
“His hands tremble, and he hasn’t been fully sober for the entire trip.” Mina arches an eyebrow and sighs in her men-are-such-dullards way. “Lucy had three suitors, and all of them are sharing a sleeping car. Arthur grieves publicly as her fiancé, and Jack puts on his doctor’s face. Quincy? He has no outlet for his sorrow.”
Jonathan can see her neck as she disrobes, and the ugly punctures are scabbing over and fading. Mina stiffens for an instant as he places a hand on her bare shoulder, then breathes deeply as he runs his fingertips between her shoulder blades. When she is asleep, Jonathan dresses and slips quietly from the berth.
Quincy Morris stands on the platform between the dining car and the lounge, smoking and watching the thunderclouds roll by to their north. Lightning illuminates the clouds in flashes of blue, and the wheels rolled beneath their feet in a soft clack-clack that Jonathan finds soporific. Quincy offers him the flask, a potent American rye that numbs his tongue, and gestures at the clouds with the glowing ember of his cigar.
“Beautiful, isn’t it? It’ll burn you to a crisp if it touches you, but few things on earth are prettier than a lightning storm.”
“How are you holding up?” Jonathan asks. Quincy chuckles quietly, and Jonathan wonders if he has given offense, but the smile beneath the mustache is full and genuine.
“Tell Mina that I’m holding up fine. Did she send you out here, or did she merely plant the idea in your head?”
“The latter, I suppose,” Jonathan says, slightly abashed. “She’s perceptive.”
“Mina is truly a good woman.”
They ride in silence for a while, smoking and drinking as an occasional raindrop stings their cheeks. Jonathan checks his watch, worried that Mina will awaken and find him absent.
“John, do you know where we are?”
“Somewhere in Hungary, I believe.”
“The Hungarian Plain,” Quincy says. “Westernmost point of expansion for the Mongol Empire. Horse archers.”
“A fierce people,” Jonathan nods.
“Indeed.” Quincy stares into the darkness. “The western armies plodded along on foot, and the Mongols rode – always circling, retreating advancing. Always appearing where they weren’t expected and utterly ruthless. Some say they were stopped only when the Great Khan died, and the army returned east to select a new leader. World would be a different place if they had kept going.”
“And yet they failed in the end,” Jonathan says quietly.
“They did. Forty years later, the Hungarians were better prepared. They built stone castles and trained armored cavalry, and when the Mongols returned, their entire army was wiped out.” He pitches the stub of his cigar over the rail. “Sometimes, a fierce enemy is no match for a good plan.”
“A good plan,” Jonathan scoffs. “He’s been a step ahead of us at every turn.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure of that.” The wind lashes at their faces and threatens to make off with Quincy’s huge Stetson. “He never counted on your escape, did he? How about the old Dutchman figuring out Lucy’s illness, or the loss of his precious boxes of dirt? Even better, do you think he counted on Mina revealing his secrets? Now let’s get inside before we’re fried by a lightning bolt.”
Do you think he counted on Mina revealing his secrets? In his mind’s eye, Jonathan watches again as Abraham Van Helsing stares intently into Mina’s face. She sits rigidly upright, a faraway look in her eyes, and Jonathan, who had dismissed mesmerism as little more than a conjuror’s trick, is left breathless by the effect.
“Where are you, Mina?”
“It is dark. I hear the lapping of water. The sound of men stamping overhead as they run about.”
He is on a ship, Jonathan thinks. He means to escape. That knowledge is worth more than the finest gold, but the final realization is truly a gem.
He doesn’t realize that we know his plans.
I.
Berlin
1933
Rudolf Diels considered himself largely devoid of sentiment. One might quibble with this or that piece of the Fuhrer’s program, but Diels agreed with him wholeheartedly on one thing. Life is struggle. The rich rule poor, the strong rule the weak, and the violent rule the peaceful. His quarrel with Heydrich was history in a microcosm. One would devour the other, and the world would be a better, or at least a fitter, place. We’re all pieces on the great chessboard, nothing more. Still, Sigmund’s weeklong absence left him troubled, and though Diels chalked up the feeling to hardheaded practicality - he had an agency to run, and Sigmund was his best investigator - he felt the loss keenly. It’s the old lesson from the trenches, he thought. Be careful of close friendships, because it hurts to lose a friend. What’s more, concern for a Jew is potentially career-ending in the new Germany.
All of these things were on his mind as he walked through the Tiergarten. Diels had agreed to the meeting yesterday afternoon as he contemplated the envelope on his desk. Heydrich waited for him beneath the statue of Richard Wagner, staring up at the old man in rapturous contemplation. Diels tucked the envelope into his jacket, and they stood together.
“Do you practice that in front of a mirror?”
The beady regarded him without comprehension. “Practice what Herr Diels?”
“That pose. Head up, chest out, staring resolutely into the future.” Diels stiffened his own posture in pantomime. “You look like one of those ghastly paintings from Russia.”
“Such a funny man. Are you familiar with the Odyssey, Herr Diels?”
“Of course. Hated Greek as a schoolboy.”
“Good. Then you remember what happens to traitors.”
“Planning to feed my entrails to your dog?”
“A lovely thought, but for now, dear Rudolf, I am the least of your worries,” Heydrich said. “You hid the Englishwoman in the Fuhrer’s private residence! When he finds out, and he will find out eventually, you are finished.”
“Is that so?” Diels smiled, and Heydrich cringed at the sunny grin. “I heard there was break-in, and someone ransacked through the house - closets emptied, mattress thrown from the bed - the Fuhrer is livid over the damage - but there was no missing woman. I’m sure the burglars will be identified in due time. In an unrelated matter, the Fuhrer has issued a memorandum reminding party members to please refrain from alcohol consumption when in the possession of party-owned automobiles. Apparently, there was an embarrassing incident at the Austrian border.”
“Doubtless the criminals will be identified and punished,” Heydrich said. If the threat unnerved him, Diels thought, he concealed it well. “And of course, I shall admonish my subordinates about the dangers of intemperance. Is there anything else?”
“You called me, Reinhard, remember? It’s your meeting.”
“Of course. How silly of me.” Reinhard Heydrich smiled, an unpleasant rictus that did not touch the eyes. “I came here to tell you that your Jew was killed in Vienna. A most unfortunate accident.”
“I see.” Diels slipped a hand into his jacket, and Heydrich stepped back, alarmed. “Did Frau Spencer suffer a similar accident?”
“That is none of your concern, Herr Diels.”
“Never play poker, Reinhard - your face gives too much away.” His fingers caressed the envelope as Heydrich fidgeted. Afraid of being shot? “She got away from you again, didn’t she? Ask me where she is now.”
“Do not trifle with me, Rudolf. I will not –”
“Ask.”
“Fine.” The eyes rolled in exasperation. “Where is she?”
“I have no idea.” Diels slipped the envelope from his jacket. “But I found your precious castle yesterday.”
“You can’t be serious.” Heydrich’s brow wrinkled. “How exactly did such information fall into your lap?”
“Because no one knows the difference between Party headquarters in Berlin and the SS office in Munich. Anything that looks threatening lands on my desk. I’m serious, Reinhard.” Diels waved the envelope in his face, “This is the place you seek.”
“And what’s in it for you?”
“Nothing. My free gift.”
Heydrich scoffed. “Rudolf Diels does not give free gifts. What do you want in return?”
“First, stop chasing Frau Spencer all over Europe. It’s unseemly, and Germany is too weak for an incident with the English.”
“Always the German patriot, aren’t you?”
“Second,” Diels rested one hand on Heydrich’s shoulder, and the taller man squirmed beneath his touch. “I want Sigmund’s body returned, either to Germany or some other place of my choosing.”
“Fine.” Heydrich shrugged off his hand. “The Jew is your problem, not mine. Give me the envelope.”
Diels’s hand felt surprisingly light, as if a weight had been lifted from his own psyche, as he handed the envelope to Heydrich. The thin man acknowledged the transaction with a polite nod and turned to leave.
“Reinhard? One more thing.” Heydrich turned to face him, clearly annoyed.
“I’d be careful with that if I were you,” Diels said. “Do you know what happens when you hunt dragons?”
“No Rudolf.” His eyes moved to his newly acquired treasure. “What happens?”
“Sometimes you find them.”
II.
Near Keleti railway station
Budapest
They stayed in the room, a dismal flophouse on the outskirts of Vienna, for three days. Gabriela procured food and clean clothes while Sarah remained hidden, eating little and scrubbing her hands to remove the flecks of dried blood. When the passports arrived from Graz, they boarded the first available train for Budapest. Sarah moved timorously through the station, certain of imminent arrest, but the customs officer stamped her papers without a second glance.
The streetcar carried them southeast, and she watched the scenery pass through her window. In better times, Sarah might have enjoyed the city, but lassitude had settled into her bones, and the tree-lined streets and Baroque architecture barely registered in her mind. Mama and papa were married here, she thought. Perhaps they had happier memories. In the outer suburbs, they reached the end of the line and continued on foot. Brick houses gave way to ramshackle slums, where emaciated children played and horse-drawn carts passed as they walked.
“Who lives here?” Sarah asked.
“Mostly Romani, and a few Ukrainians who escaped from the east.” Gabriela paused at an intersection to survey their surroundings. “Some of them find honest labor, and others are petty criminals or smugglers. They will help us get across the border to Romania.”
A counterpoint of protest - I don’t want to go to Romania - rose in her mind, then faded, half-formed. Sarah had eaten little for days, and when she closed her eyes, images of Sigmund’s death flashed behind her retinae in a kaleidoscopic pattern. At night, she dreamed of her father, mourning at the graves of his wife and son but with no monument to mark the passing of his daughter. Her waking hours were filled with thoughts of her son. Archie was safe in London, and Sarah was thankful for that, but his father would eventually remarry, and a stranger would take her place as Archie’s mother. After all, the journey ends with my death, doesn’t it? She wondered how much time would elapse before her own face faded from the boy’s memory.
Their walk ended at a dilapidated garage. They filled the car with petrol and stored additional fuel in metal cans. An hour later, they were on the road.
III.
Munich
What happens when you hunt dragons? Sometimes you find them.
His wife expected him to be home for dinner; instead, Reinhard Heydrich went to his office and locked the door. Diels was a man without honor, and there was no reason to take his information at face value. Nonetheless, the embassy in Bucharest confirmed the main elements of the story, and the Foreign Ministry provided a copy of the police report. Heydrich reviewed the photographs again.
The attack had been savage. Both corpses exhibited gaping wounds where the throats were torn open, and their necks had been snapped, an injury that the pathologist noted as an internal decapitation. Heydrich visited a camera shop before his departure from Berlin, and the proprietor confirmed that under low-light conditions, a photographer could produce excellent images with a long exposure and a tripod. Perhaps the hands of the dead are unusually steady. If it was him, it must have taken exceptional nerve to remain exposed so close to sunrise. And of course, there was the lack of blood, which convinced the police that the unfortunate pair had been murdered elsewhere and dumped at the refinery.
In accordance with his instructions, a series of maps had been left on his desk. Jonathan Harker covered his tracks well, and Heydrich had long ago dismissed the landmarks in his journal as dead ends. He opened the largest map, and when he had narrowed down the area, he carefully reviewed a series of smaller maps, high-resolution projections prepared specifically for military use. An hour later, he found what he was seeking. He re-read the note, and the coordinates, specified to the arc second, were sufficient to identify the location to within a hundred feet. A single sentence was scrawled at the bottom of the page.
You’re looking in the wrong place.
Heydrich flipped through the photos again. The grisly pictures laid bare the sender’s ruthlessness and talent for violence, but the other photograph intrigued him the most. That image, a single word painted on a rusty oil tank, hinted at a flair for drama, a certain malevolent playfulness. As he studied the picture, Heydrich repeated the word softly, like a mantra:
DRACULA
What happens when you hunt dragons? Sometimes you find them.
Indeed we do, Rudolf. And sometimes the dragons come to you.
IV.
The knock came shortly before midnight, and Jonathan placed the revolver on the sofa before answering the door. The haunted countenance of Rupert Holmes reminded Jonathan of British soldiers on the veldt; hungry, sleepless, and worn down by disease and violence. He helped himself to a large glass of whisky, and though Jonathan considered himself sufficiently jaded to be beyond surprise, the inspector’s first words struck him like a thunderclap.
“I know the truth about Lucy Westenra.”
“All right,” Jonathan sighed. “How did you find out?”
“In September of 1893, four children were attacked on Hampstead Heath,” Holmes said. His hand trembled as he poured another drink. “The news stories were vague about the nature of these incidents, but all four children reported that they were accosted by a young woman. Of course, none of this is news to you. As far as we know, the children survived with no ill effects and grew into normal, if somewhat troubled, adulthood. Is that correct?”
Jonathan nodded. “The first, a boy, was killed in a carriage accident in 1908. The second was killed at Ypres in 1915. The third was a girl. She grew into a troubled young woman and died of alcohol poisoning in 1922.”
“You never found the fourth, did you?” Holmes stared at the dark liquid in his glass.
“No,” Jonathan said, his voice a low murmur. “I stopped searching after Mina died.”
“The fourth victim, the youngest, was also a boy.” Jonathan started to speak, and Holmes silenced him with a raised finger. “He grew into a normal young man, more or less, joined the army in 1914, and survived four years in the trenches. Four years, can you imagine it? Entire armies were swallowed up, yet he was alive at the end of it all. Perhaps he even crossed paths with your son.”
“He was content there, wasn’t he?” Jonathan said. The air inside the study was hot, oppressive, and Jonathan thought of Arthur, sweating in the African summer. “In the trenches, he wasn’t tormented by his dreams.”
“And what dreams they were.” Holmes stared at the dark liquid in his glass. “That beautiful woman with a blood-stained dress, eyes like rubies, and a face as pale as sun-bleached bone. I was four years old, Mr. Harker. A sickly, vulnerable little thing with no business wandering after sunset. I’ve carried that memory for forty years, Mr. Harker. Forty years with no answers – until tonight. Because you’re going to tell me everything. About Lucy, about yourself, and how this entire mess ties in with your missing daughter.”
“First of all, I am responsible for everything, from Lucy’s death to Arthur’s suicide.” Jonathan refilled both glasses. “I should have hanged, but my confession would have earned little more than a stint in the madhouse. With those preliminaries out of the way, let us begin.”
V.
The bottle was nearly empty and the sky was growing lighter in the east when Jonathan finished his tale. If he’s lying, he’s one hell of a storyteller, Holmes thought. Jonathan’s voice trembled at the memory of the women in the castle, and he spoke of Abraham Van Helsing with reverent awe. He remembered Seward, Morris, and Holmwood with genuine affection, and at the darkest point, Mina’s wounding by Dracula, Jonathan sobbed openly. When they finished, there were dark circles beneath the old man’s eyes, but he looked surprisingly sanguine, as if the retelling of his ordeal had salved his own worries.
“I wonder how your son found out.” Holmes lit his pipe with deliberate care as he collected his thoughts. “You destroyed most of the written materials?”
“For the most part, yes,” Jonathan nodded. “Still, John Quincy found something that we overlooked and carried it across the Channel.”
“Where it was lost to the Germans,” Holmes said. “But you held something back. Why?”
“At Mina’s insistence, we kept a map and one journal,” Jonathan said. Holmes raised an eyebrow but let him continue. “Directions to our final resting place in case one of us – or all of us – disappeared. Mina never truly accepted that she was cured, and when she died, she was buried with a sprig of hawthorn in her right hand.”
“A traditional folk remedy against the rising of the dead.”
“Along with other protections, carried out by Doctor Seward. And for the sake of those records, Seward is dead, and Sarah is missing.” Jonathan paced the room. “What in God’s name would the Germans want there?”
“Perhaps they’re looking for gold,” Holmes said.
“But you don’t think so.”
“No.” Holmes shook his head. “I think they want the man, not the gold.”
The pacing stopped, and Holmes watched as Jonathan stared out the window. In the east, the stars were gone, and a thin ribbon of light was glowing on the horizon.
“Dracula is dead,” Jonathan said. “I killed him myself, and Van Helsing destroyed the others. For forty years, I’ve told myself that the old castle is nothing more than stone and bad memories.”
“But something changed your mind,” Holmes said. Jonathan opened a drawer in the large desk and handed him an envelope.
“The address is in Sibiu. It’s a hundred miles south of Bistritz and near the location - the real location - of the castle. I can take the train from Paris to Bucharest and travel overland.”
“You’ll never make it,” Holmes said. “That route passes through Munich, and the Germans will snatch you at the first opportunity.”
“What other options do I have?”
His mind protested at the idea - be careful what you promise Rupert - and Holmes pushed the thought aside. After forty years, it was time to exorcise the specter of Hampstead Heath from his memory.
“Pour yourself another drink, Mr. Harker. You may need it when you hear what I’m thinking.”
An hour later, they had the workings of a plan. Holmes bade him good day and made is way toward the Underground, weaving a little as he walked. The coming days would be busy ones, and he would need to be rested. It’s a good plan, he told himself, and it gave them the best chance of avoiding detection. The only part that he disliked was the recovery of the map. Holmes understood the logic, but the very thought of return filled him with a dread that cut through the haze of whisky, as if he were four years old again and wandering the heath at sunset.
He did not like it. Not at all.
V.
Jonathan lay on the bed and allowed his mind to drift. He was on the veldt, with Arthur and his ridiculous helmet, then in London, calling out for Mina his voice desperate with longing. Dreams are funny things, he thought. He gave himself fully to sleep and allowed his mind to wander where it would.
They are riding through the woods, racing the Szgany and the sunset. They have no more than ten minutes, Jonathan knows, before Mina is lost forever. The forest gives way to an open meadow, and he sees the castle on the horizon, perhaps a mile away. Quincy Morris is shooting the Winchester, and the bullets find their mark as they close the distance. Two Szgany fall, and the next round strikes the horse that draws the cart. The horse stumbles, then goes down, and the cart crashes to a halt. Its cargo, the long box that they have followed from London, falls halfway to the ground.
Somewhere outside his window, a cloud passed over the sun, and Jonathan moaned aloud in his sleep.
The driver of the cart rolls to his feet and draws a huge knife as he advances on Jonathan. Quincy Morris pushes him to one side and advances, his own knife held in a low ready position. There is a brief skirmish, and Quincy leaps back as the driver, now mortally wounded, takes a final slash at his abdomen. He almost makes it.
Jonathan pries at the box with the kukri as the last rays of sunlight fade in the west. The lid gives abruptly, and he stumbles backward as Quincy climbs atop the box. Jonathan hears an unearthly wail from inside the coffin as Quincy plunges the knife downward, and he readies a final blow as Dracula seizes Quincy’s upper arm.
Its mouth opens, and the monster disgorges a large volume of blood, which smears their faces and gets in their eyes and mouths. Dracula smiles a triumphant, hateful grin, and the coppery taste makes him retch, but Jonathan will not be denied his final act of vengeance. The kukri shears through the neck with a vicious downward stroke, and the blood in Jonathan’s mouth turns to dust as Dracula’s head separates from the body. Quincy is draped over the coffin, one hand loosely wrapped about the grip of the Bowie knife. Jonathan pulls his Quincy from the cart and lays him on the ground, but even before he shakes the limp form, he knows that Quincy Morris is dead.
VI.
Germany
1933
When Paul Von Hindenburg, the aging and senile president, appointed Adolf Hitler as Chancellor, it was manna from Heaven to the faithful. In February, the Reichstag burned, and though the Prussian Security Police, led by a cynical opportunist named Rudolf Diels, determined that the arsonist acted alone, the crime was used to suppress the Communists and Social Democrats and to pass an enabling act - an emergency bill that allowed the Chancellor to rule by decree. In April, Jews would be dismissed from the Civil Service Law, though in a rare moment of lucidity, the President insisted on an exemption for War veterans. It hardly mattered - the Party wielded real power now, and it was only a matter of time until President Hindenburg, already dying, bequeathed the nation to the Fuhrer.
He was still young, but his commitment – he joined the Party before their seizure of power – was noted by the old fighters. His fledgling security service was answerable only to the Party itself, and Reinhard Heydrich kept a close watch on the Prussian Security Police and its leader as he waited for an opportune moment.