I guess I’ll have to fall back on the dull old business of going out to the castle and knocking on the front door, asking if they happen to have my wife’s daughter in the dungeon. My guess is they’ll be long gone. With a body left back in Poodle Springs, they have to figure the law will snoop for them in the end.’
‘But we might find something that’ll tell us where they are. A clue?’
‘“We”?’
‘I’m a detective, too. Or have been. Maybe a detective’s assistant. I’m in no hurry to get to the Pacific. And you need someone who knows about vampires. You may need someone who knows about other things.’
‘Are you offering to be my muscle? I’m not that ancient I can’t take care of myself.’
‘I am that ancient, remember. It’s no reflection on you, but a new-born vampire could take you to pieces. And a new-born is more likely to be stupid enough to want to. They’re mostly like that Rubber Duck fellow, bursting with impulses and high on their new ability to get what they want. I was like that once myself, but now I’m a wise old lady.’
She quacked the duck at me.
‘We take your car,’ I said.
* * *
Manderley Castle was just what it sounded like. Crenellated turrets, arrow-slit windows, broken battlements, a drawbridge, even a stagnant artificial moat. It was sinking slowly into the sands and the tower was noticeably several degrees out of the vertical. Noah Cross had skimped on foundation concrete. I wouldn’t be surprised if the minion who mistook this pile for the real Manderley was down there somewhere, with a divot sticking out of his skull.
We drove across the bridge into the courtyard, home to a VW bus painted with glow-in-the-dark fanged devils, a couple of pick-up trucks with rifle racks, the inevitable Harley-Davidsons and a fleet of customised dune buggies with batwing trimmings and big red-eye lamps.
There was music playing. I recognised Khorda’s composition, ‘Big Black Bat in a Tall Dark Hat’.
The Anti-Life Equation was home.
I tried to get out of the Plymouth. Geneviève was out of her driver’s side door and around (over?) the car in a flash, opening the door for me as if I were her great-grandmama.
‘There’s a trick to the handle,’ she said, making me feel no better.
‘If you try and help me out, I’ll shoot you.’
She stood back, hands up. Just then, my lungs complained. I coughed a while and red lights went off behind my eyes. I hawked up something glistening and spat it at the ground. There was blood in it.
I looked at Geneviève. Her face was flat, all emotion contained.
It wasn’t pity. It was the blood. The smell did things to her personality.
I wiped off my mouth, did my best to shrug, and got out of the car like a champion. I even shut the door behind me, trick-handle or no.
To show how fearless I was, how unafraid of hideous death, I lit a Camel and punished my lungs for showing me up in front of a girl. I filled them with the smoke I’d been fanning their way since I was a kid.
Coffin nails, they called them then.
We fought our aesthetic impulses and went towards the music. I felt I should have brought a mob of Mojave Wells villagers with flaming torches, sharpened stakes and silvered scythes.
‘“What a magnificent pair of knockers,”’ said Geneviève, nodding at a large square door.
‘There’s only one,’ I said.
‘Didn’t you see Young Frankenstein ?’
Though she’d said they had movies in Europe, somehow I didn’t believe vipers - vampires, I’d have to get used to calling them if I didn’t want Geneviève ripping my throat out one fine night — concerned themselves with dates at the local passion pit. Obviously, the undead read magazines, bought underwear, grumbled about taxes and did crossword puzzles like everyone else. I wondered if she played chess.
She took the knocker and hammered to wake the dead.
Eventually the door was opened by a skinny old bird dressed as an English butler. His hands were
‘But we might find something that’ll tell us where they are. A clue?’
‘“We”?’
‘I’m a detective, too. Or have been. Maybe a detective’s assistant. I’m in no hurry to get to the Pacific. And you need someone who knows about vampires. You may need someone who knows about other things.’
‘Are you offering to be my muscle? I’m not that ancient I can’t take care of myself.’
‘I am that ancient, remember. It’s no reflection on you, but a new-born vampire could take you to pieces. And a new-born is more likely to be stupid enough to want to. They’re mostly like that Rubber Duck fellow, bursting with impulses and high on their new ability to get what they want. I was like that once myself, but now I’m a wise old lady.’
She quacked the duck at me.
‘We take your car,’ I said.
* * *
Manderley Castle was just what it sounded like. Crenellated turrets, arrow-slit windows, broken battlements, a drawbridge, even a stagnant artificial moat. It was sinking slowly into the sands and the tower was noticeably several degrees out of the vertical. Noah Cross had skimped on foundation concrete. I wouldn’t be surprised if the minion who mistook this pile for the real Manderley was down there somewhere, with a divot sticking out of his skull.
We drove across the bridge into the courtyard, home to a VW bus painted with glow-in-the-dark fanged devils, a couple of pick-up trucks with rifle racks, the inevitable Harley-Davidsons and a fleet of customised dune buggies with batwing trimmings and big red-eye lamps.
There was music playing. I recognised Khorda’s composition, ‘Big Black Bat in a Tall Dark Hat’.
The Anti-Life Equation was home.
I tried to get out of the Plymouth. Geneviève was out of her driver’s side door and around (over?) the car in a flash, opening the door for me as if I were her great-grandmama.
‘There’s a trick to the handle,’ she said, making me feel no better.
‘If you try and help me out, I’ll shoot you.’
She stood back, hands up. Just then, my lungs complained. I coughed a while and red lights went off behind my eyes. I hawked up something glistening and spat it at the ground. There was blood in it.
I looked at Geneviève. Her face was flat, all emotion contained.
It wasn’t pity. It was the blood. The smell did things to her personality.
I wiped off my mouth, did my best to shrug, and got out of the car like a champion. I even shut the door behind me, trick-handle or no.
To show how fearless I was, how unafraid of hideous death, I lit a Camel and punished my lungs for showing me up in front of a girl. I filled them with the smoke I’d been fanning their way since I was a kid.
Coffin nails, they called them then.
We fought our aesthetic impulses and went towards the music. I felt I should have brought a mob of Mojave Wells villagers with flaming torches, sharpened stakes and silvered scythes.
‘“What a magnificent pair of knockers,”’ said Geneviève, nodding at a large square door.
‘There’s only one,’ I said.
‘Didn’t you see Young Frankenstein ?’
Though she’d said they had movies in Europe, somehow I didn’t believe vipers - vampires, I’d have to get used to calling them if I didn’t want Geneviève ripping my throat out one fine night — concerned themselves with dates at the local passion pit. Obviously, the undead read magazines, bought underwear, grumbled about taxes and did crossword puzzles like everyone else. I wondered if she played chess.
She took the knocker and hammered to wake the dead.
Eventually the door was opened by a skinny old bird dressed as an English butler. His hands were
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