due. The only place to go in town was the diner and that seemed on the point of closing. I noticed more of those ornamental crucifixes, attached above every door as if it were a religious holiday. Mojave Wells was wary of its new neighbours.
Geneviève was coming from the East and going to the West. Meagre as it was, this was the first place she’d hit in hours that wasn’t a government proving ground. She knew nothing about the Anti-Life Equation, Manderley Castle or a viper named Khorda, let alone Racquel Ohlrig.
But she was a vampire and this was all about vampires.
‘Why all the questions?’ she asked.
I told her I was a detective. I showed my licence, kept up so I could at least do the sub-contract work, and she asked to see my gun. I opened my jacket to show the shoulder-holster. It was the first time I’d worn it in years, and the weight of the Smith & Wesson .38 Special had pulled an ache in my shoulder.
‘You are a private eye? Like in the movies.’
Everyone said that. She was no different.
‘We have movies in Europe, you know,’ she said. The desert wind was trying to get under her scarf, and she was doing things about it with her hands. ‘You can’t tell me why you’re asking questions because you have a client. Is that not so?’
‘Not so,’ I said. ‘I have a man who might think he’s a client, but I’m doing this for myself. And a woman who’s dead. Really dead.’
I told the whole story, including me and Linda. It was almost confessional. She listened well, asking only the smart questions.
‘Why are you here? In... what is the name of this village?’
‘Mojave Wells. It calls itself a town.’
We looked up and down the street and laughed. Even the tumbleweeds were taking it easy.
‘Out there in the desert,’ I explained, ‘is Manderley Castle, brought over stone by stone from England. Would you believe it’s the wrong house? Back in the ’20s, a robber baron named Noah Cross wanted to buy the famous Manderley - the one that later burned down - and sent agents over to Europe to do the deal. They came home with Manderley Castle, another place entirely. Cross still put the jigsaw together, but went into a sulk and sold it back to the original owners, who emigrated to stay out of the War. There was a murder case there in the ’40s, nothing to do with me. It was one of those locked-room things, with Borgia poisons and disputed wills. A funny little Chinaman from Hawaii solved it by gathering all the suspects in the library. The place was abandoned until a cult of moon-worshippers squatted it in the ’60s, founded a lunatic commune. Now, it’s where you go if you want to find the Anti-Life Equation.’
‘I don’t believe anyone would call themselves that.’
I liked this girl. She had the right attitude. I was also surprised to find myself admitting that. She was a bloodsucking viper, right? Wasn’t Racquel worried that she was to be sacrificed to a vampire elder? Someone born in 1416 presumably fitted the description. I wanted to trust her, but that could be part of her trick. I’ve been had before. Ask anyone.
‘I’ve been digging up dirt on the ALE for a few days,’ I said, ‘and they aren’t that much weirder than the rest of the local kooks. If they have a philosophy, this Khorda makes it all up as he goes along. He cut a folk rock album, Deathmaster. I found a copy for ninety-nine cents and feel rooked. “Drinking blood/Feels so good”, that sort of thing. People say he’s from Europe, but no one knows exactly where. The merry band at the ALE includes a Dragon Lady called Diane LeFanu, who may actually own the castle, and L. Keith Winton, who used to be a pulp writer for Astounding Stories but has founded a new religion that involves the faithful giving him all their money.’
‘That’s not a new religion.’
I believed her.
‘What will you do now?’ she asked.
‘This town’s dead as far as leads go. Dead as far as anything else, for that matter.
Geneviève was coming from the East and going to the West. Meagre as it was, this was the first place she’d hit in hours that wasn’t a government proving ground. She knew nothing about the Anti-Life Equation, Manderley Castle or a viper named Khorda, let alone Racquel Ohlrig.
But she was a vampire and this was all about vampires.
‘Why all the questions?’ she asked.
I told her I was a detective. I showed my licence, kept up so I could at least do the sub-contract work, and she asked to see my gun. I opened my jacket to show the shoulder-holster. It was the first time I’d worn it in years, and the weight of the Smith & Wesson .38 Special had pulled an ache in my shoulder.
‘You are a private eye? Like in the movies.’
Everyone said that. She was no different.
‘We have movies in Europe, you know,’ she said. The desert wind was trying to get under her scarf, and she was doing things about it with her hands. ‘You can’t tell me why you’re asking questions because you have a client. Is that not so?’
‘Not so,’ I said. ‘I have a man who might think he’s a client, but I’m doing this for myself. And a woman who’s dead. Really dead.’
I told the whole story, including me and Linda. It was almost confessional. She listened well, asking only the smart questions.
‘Why are you here? In... what is the name of this village?’
‘Mojave Wells. It calls itself a town.’
We looked up and down the street and laughed. Even the tumbleweeds were taking it easy.
‘Out there in the desert,’ I explained, ‘is Manderley Castle, brought over stone by stone from England. Would you believe it’s the wrong house? Back in the ’20s, a robber baron named Noah Cross wanted to buy the famous Manderley - the one that later burned down - and sent agents over to Europe to do the deal. They came home with Manderley Castle, another place entirely. Cross still put the jigsaw together, but went into a sulk and sold it back to the original owners, who emigrated to stay out of the War. There was a murder case there in the ’40s, nothing to do with me. It was one of those locked-room things, with Borgia poisons and disputed wills. A funny little Chinaman from Hawaii solved it by gathering all the suspects in the library. The place was abandoned until a cult of moon-worshippers squatted it in the ’60s, founded a lunatic commune. Now, it’s where you go if you want to find the Anti-Life Equation.’
‘I don’t believe anyone would call themselves that.’
I liked this girl. She had the right attitude. I was also surprised to find myself admitting that. She was a bloodsucking viper, right? Wasn’t Racquel worried that she was to be sacrificed to a vampire elder? Someone born in 1416 presumably fitted the description. I wanted to trust her, but that could be part of her trick. I’ve been had before. Ask anyone.
‘I’ve been digging up dirt on the ALE for a few days,’ I said, ‘and they aren’t that much weirder than the rest of the local kooks. If they have a philosophy, this Khorda makes it all up as he goes along. He cut a folk rock album, Deathmaster. I found a copy for ninety-nine cents and feel rooked. “Drinking blood/Feels so good”, that sort of thing. People say he’s from Europe, but no one knows exactly where. The merry band at the ALE includes a Dragon Lady called Diane LeFanu, who may actually own the castle, and L. Keith Winton, who used to be a pulp writer for Astounding Stories but has founded a new religion that involves the faithful giving him all their money.’
‘That’s not a new religion.’
I believed her.
‘What will you do now?’ she asked.
‘This town’s dead as far as leads go. Dead as far as anything else, for that matter.
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