A Matter of Taste

highly unlikely that Cesare, determined to the end not to become a vampire, would have made provision to have on hand a supply of his native earth against that eventuality. I supposed Constantia in her earlier concern for his welfare might have considered the matter, might even have done something about it. But Constantia was beyond consultation now.

But as I thought the matter over I realized that there really ought to be no problem at all. The Borgias, as everyone knew, were originally Spanish. Rodrigo, the patriarch, had brought his illegitimate family to Rome only when his climb to high church office compelled him to spend almost all his time in that city. Therefore the ground we trod on here in Navarre—or at least that just across the border in Castile—was Cesare's native earth.

Actually, of course, although I did not know it at the time, his birthplace had been Rome.

And now my enemy was dead—well, more or less—but certainly not by my hand or connivance. I considered that my vow to Lucrezia was still proudly intact.

The minor war between King Jean and the rebellious Count dragged on, as such things will. The world of breathers saw me as Lucrezia's emissary hanging around, doing such occasional intelligence service for the King of Navarre as made me for the time being a welcome guest. I made an earth for myself near Constantia's resting place, and rested there myself in daytime, slumbering lightly. I considered it my responsibility to be her guardian. Several times at dusk I allowed myself to be seen near the spot, in one impressive shape or another, by a few local inhabitants. After that I felt reasonably sure we were not going to be disturbed.

And each night, when the last worshipper had left the church in Viana, I stepped in to visit the tomb in which Lucrezia's brother had been laid to rest. Each night I expected that he would wake, and walk. But night after night went past, and there was no sign of Cesare. Could I have been mistaken? Had he not been made nosferatu after all?

And then, one night, he—stirred. I could hear him scratching and twitching in his tomb, behind the modest depth of marble.

It took some maneuvering to get him out, even vampire as I was, without disturbing any of the pious stonework. But once I had him out, there was no possible doubt as to what had happened to Cesare. He was alive, but suffering grievously from want of his native earth. In the process of transformation he had gone from being a drugged breather to a drugged vampire. He could not come properly out of his dazed and dangerous condition: not totally unconscious, but totally helpless. As he lay sprawled on the stone floor of the church, his glazed eyes widened in astonishment to see me still alive, then fixed on me malignantly. But he could not speak.

I have never been one to agonize at length over any problem, moral or otherwise. By my lights, to stand by while Cesare died would have been a certain violation of my oath to Lucrezia, as much as directly killing him. I assumed that burying him in Castile would take care of his problem, but my current watch over Constantia took precedence. I considered myself fortunate in being able to enlist some local gypsies—relatives, in some degree, of those dwelling near my home castle, and no strangers to the ways of nosferatu—to take him over the border and plant him there, somewhere, wherever they could find a likely spot, in what was indubitably Castilian soil.

I should add here, parenthetically, that nearly two hundred years passed before a Spanish bishop, having studied Cesare's original grave marker in the Viana church and read his history, became incensed that such a scoundrel should lie in such a holy place, and ordered his bones removed. Those relics—or someone's—were dug up accordingly, and the pieces that did not crumble into dust were reburied under a nearby road. When, in a more scientific spirit, the supposed site of this second interment of Valentino was excavated in 1871, the bones unearthed on that occasion all disintegrated before anything of a scientific nature could be accomplished with them.

Chapter 20

Mrs. Hassler had gone home around midnight, half-asleep, half-hypnotized, tenderly escorted by Mr. Maule. She was back, unexpectedly, at his front door around noon, where she stood tapping rather timidly on the doorbell, though the doorway at the moment was empty of any barrier. The workmen Maule had summoned to do repairs were already on the job.

She looked around the ruined room in wonder. She had had the strangest dreams, she told him when he appeared, and she just had to make sure that he was all right.

Her host, looking badly in need of rest, asked her forgiveness and wondered whether she could come back in the evening.

Around midnight John and Angie had gone to a nearby hotel, at Mr. Maule's expense, of course.

The TV and newspapers, Joe Keogh noted, on the afternoon following the discovery of a pair of bodies on the low roof, were already starting to talk about the affair as the Helicopter Murders. The battered corpses gave the appearance of having been dropped from a spot in the air eighty or a hundred stories above the new construction on the plaza. Or else they might have been thrown, catapulted outward from somewhere high on the central building; but it was difficult to see how that could have been accomplished.

Joe had just been called in by Captain Charley Snider for an informal talk. He hadn't been back to visit the Homicide Bureau for a considerable time, and it was interesting to see the changes.

Charley, large and black, was not as paunchy as he had begun to be a couple of years ago; dieting, Joe thought, was taking over everywhere. But the captain had a little more gray hair every time Joe ran into him.

As far as Joe knew, Liz Wiswell, the waitress, had not yet been reported missing, but of course it was necessary to anticipate that she would be. Well, he'd worry about that when the time came.

Charley was saying: 'Neither member of this pair is anybody we really worried about losin'. Fact is, someone clean up a lot of old paperwork for us here.' As usual, Charley's black dialect came and went, perhaps at will, perhaps randomly. Joe had frequently wondered about it, but he'd never asked.

Joe grunted something. Behind his desk Charley was making no effort to hide his satisfaction at having a couple of violent offenders taken off the streets.

'Know what this remind me of, Joe?'

'Should I try to guess?'

'I think you know damn well what it reminds me of. About eleven years ago, when you were just a poor-ass city cop on the pawn-shop detail. At that time we in this department observed a cluster of rather bizarre events.'

'We did indeed. But they were not too much like these events.'

'Well, yes and no. I seem to detect something of the same—artistic touch?—in this affair today. Nobody report any helicopters flyin' around north Michigan last night. Anyway, I would like to consult with you today on just a couple things.'

'Shoot.'

'What about this Valentine Kaiser?'

Joe shook his head no. 'I'm guessing again—only guessing—'

Charley was nodding. 'I know you only guessing. Shoot.'

'You're not going to find him.'

'If we ever do find 'im, I's'pose he's dead?'

'Highly probable. Yes.'

'We ever gonna find who killed him?'

'I doubt it.'

'Uh huh. Well, that bring me to the second query. Concernin' these folk on whom the speculation is maybe they were dropped from a helicopter. Given your experience in similar matters, you think our chance of busting the dropper is very high?'

'My speculation is, no. I know you've got to at least make it look like a big effort, Charley, but my advice is that you'll get more out of your manpower working on some other case entirely.'

'You offerin' me not much to hope for, man.'

 ***

'Honey?'

'What?'