A Sharpness on the Neck

head of Frankenstein's monster.

June met the steady gaze of the almost invisible human eyes, inside the mask, with as much defiance as she could muster. 'I don't know.'

The man straightened, putting his fists on his hips. The voice from the monster's head was mild, conducting a casual inquiry. 'Looks like you came out the window. I suppose he came out with you?'

June said nothing, but stared with as much courage as she could muster at the artificial face looming over her. At last she announced, in a tightly controlled voice: 'I've hurt my ankle. Do you suppose you could help me get back inside?'

Reassuringly, the man's posture altered suddenly, as if he hadn't until this moment understood why she was sitting on the ground. His reaction seemed purely one of concern as once more he leaned slightly toward her. 'Of course. Which ankle is it? But maybe you'd better just sit still for a minute. What happened?'

She pointed to the throbbing limb. 'Twisted it, falling out the window.' That one of the damned kidnappers should be concerned about her welfare seemed perversely offensive, and grated on her nerves. Baring her teeth, she indicated the exact location of the injury. 'What do you think happened?'

'Sorry about that.' The apologetic attitude seemed quite genuine. Then the mask turned, scanning right and left. 'Where did Mr. Radcliffe get to?' But the question sounded casual, unalarmed.

'How should I know?'

Several other masks were now approaching, from different directions, and in a moment the newly formed group of rubber-faced monsters had begun a conversation among themselves. June, fearful but defiant, felt relieved and wept when her captors seemed to take the uncertainty about her husband pretty much in stride.

No one hounded her with questions regarding Phil's whereabouts. Presently two of the men, moving with the care if not the skill of ambulance attendants, picked June up and carried her solicitously back into the little house.

In the living room, Connie lay stretched on the sofa, dead to the world. Ignoring her, the volunteer medics set the injured woman in a chair.

June noted with mixed feelings that Connie was alive—the dark-curled head had turned a little to one side since the Radcliffes went out the window. But the gypsy woman slept on, her crunchy plastic bag beneath her as if she might be afraid someone was going to steal it. None of the renewed activity in the room disturbed her in the least, and the masked people in turn paid her no attention. If she had indeed fallen into some kind of coma, they evidently considered the condition in her case nothing out of the ordinary.

One or two of the masked guardians hastily searched through the other rooms of the small house. At last the group began to murmur among themselves on the subject of Radcliffe's absence. Then one hurried toward the other building as if to pass along the news.

The rubber images of Hollywood horror who remained in the room with June stood facing her in her chair, but the postures of their bodies gave no clue as to what they might bethinking.

Roused with some difficulty from his own trance in the other house, Vlad Dracula heard the news of Philip's escape. Obviously it came as no surprise.

'And the tracking device, Joseph?' he inquired. 'It's in place, and we're getting readings.' The almost microscopic transponder earlier attached to Philip Radcliffe's trousers was still faithfully emitting a signal when electronically prodded. A rotating antenna which had earlier lain concealed had been erected on the roof of the second mobile home. Inside, another breather, mask now off, was seated at a small desk, tracking Radcliffe's location on a green-tinged screen.

Among Vlad Dracula's breathing helpers, Joe Keogh, at least, would almost certainly be in on any trick that was being worked. Joe thought that over the years he had earned that right.

Joe Keogh on taking off his rubber mask stood revealed as a man in his mid-forties, his fair hair turned half gray. He was of average size, and sparely muscular, with a tough-looking face. Eyeglasses, acquired in the last couple of years, added a scholarly touch to his appearance.

John Southerland, missing the little fingers on both hands, was the same height as Joe, a little under six feet, but twelve or thirteen years younger. Maskless, John appeared strong-jawed and sturdy, with light brown hair beginning to be touched with early gray and showing a tendency to curl. John in fact looked slightly older than Mr. Graves, whom he once absentmindedly addressed as 'Uncle Matthew.'

Even while John had been wearing a mask, either of the prisoners might have noticed that the little finger on each of his hands was missing. John had considered wearing gloves to avoid that problem, but gloves could draw attention too, especially in hot summer weather, and stuffed glove fingers would not look particularly natural. So far the gamble had paid off; eyes drawn continually to the mask, neither of the Radcliffes had yet noticed his mutilated hands.

Everything in the conversation between Vlad and Joe Keogh, who now removed his mask and wiped sweat from his face, confirmed that it had deliberately arranged, with Connie's connivance, for Philip to get away and for June to be left behind.

Joe, reluctant to put on his rubber mummy-mask again after making his report—they were the devil to wear when it got hot—rubbed his fingers through his sweaty gray hair, and looked at himself in a nearby mirror—Mr. Graves did not object to the breathers' having them in their residence—and wondered whether he himself was maybe getting a little old for the rough stuff. The prospect of some very tough action indeed was looming ever closer.

Joe Keogh, out of curiosity and because he thought he had the right, dared to ask a question about Radu, and the origin of the bitter hatred between the brothers.

Vlad, reminiscing while they waited for other matters to be organized, recalled with bitter anger the circumstances of his own youth, his rivalry with his brother Radu, called the Handsome, their lives as hostages in the power of the sultan, and their early estrangement.

'Have I ever told you about my brother, Joseph?'

'Something about him, yes.'

'A cautious answer to what was, I fear, a poorly phrased question. What lies between us began in the fifteenth century; and how many more centuries it will go on, I do not know.'

Joe Keogh nodded.

But Vlad Dracula was not looking at him, only gazing into the distance. 'I see two young boys, young princes, sons of old Vlad Drakul, or as the historians will call him, Vlad the Second. His two offspring held hostage by the Turks to guarantee their father's good behavior.

'Two princes in a tower that was very different indeed from the Bastille.'

'Yes, I bet it was.'

'My lifetime's allocation of fear was entirely used up, before I was old enough to grow a beard.' Vlad was calmly stating a fact.

'I believe you,' Joe Keogh said.

'Radu did not, does not believe me. He has always thought that I am lying about that, that my fearlessness depends on some hidden magic.'

Vlad sighed, a faint reptilian hiss. 'It was always so with him, I think. Determined that there must be some hidden trick in everything, a key of magic, available only to the elite. Radu the Handsome. Always he has welcomed men, as well as women, eagerly into his bed—in truth I believe that he prefers children, of either sex, to adults. Anything human, provided it is young, and… but in this case I accomplish nothing by becoming angry. I think perhaps that my brother was transformed into one of the nosferatu by one of his Turkish bed-partners, when he was hardly more than a child himself.'

'It sounds like he's a sadist, then,' said Joe. 'I mean, a genuine, compulsive…'

Mr. Graves nodded. 'Despite the common misconceptions regarding the nosferatu, this affliction is about as rare in vampires as it is in breathers. But I have no doubt that my brother is one.'

Joe was silent, as often he was when in this man's company.

His companion appeared to be lost for a time in memory. Then he added: 'Whether or not Radu ever became a Moslem is more than I can say. But I am sure that any oaths he swore in matters of religion were false, for the truth is not in him, and has never been.'

Keogh, shivering as he listened to Vlad's smoldering anger, was extremely glad that it was not directed at him. Joe had now known this man for almost twenty years, and for most of that time had