A Sharpness on the Neck

'She and I, as you may have observed already, are different from the others.'

'Different how?'

'That is part of the explanation to which you are entitled. But it will take time.'

A little time went by before Radcliffe asked: 'Safe from who? From what?'

'From a certain man, one who has vowed not only to cut off your head, but to drink your blood.'

Radcliffe couldn't think of anything to say in response. Up front Connie, or someone else, was driving; he could see only the faint outline of a head. The vehicle roared on. Maybe they'd be lucky and a speed cop would pull her over.

June asked: 'Is that the 'Radu' you mentioned earlier? And does he want my head too? To drink my blood?'

Their captor nodded solemnly. 'I know him well, and he is quite capable of doing both. I would not be surprised to see that he had the guillotine all ready.'

That silenced June for the moment. Phil stepped in: 'You know this Radu. All right, who is he?'

'Someone I have known for a long time.'

'How long?'

The other appeared to be considering his answer carefully. Finally he said, clearly: 'More than five hundred years. Alas, he is my brother.'

That put an end to all conversation for almost a quarter of an hour.

The sun was on the verge of rising when the vehicle at last pulled into a scanty patch of woods, between a pair of sandy hummocks, and rolled to a stop in front of a pair of small mobile homes. It was the kind of housing Radcliffe would have expected to see provided for workers at a small isolated mine—not that there were any visible signs of mining activity near.

Here two more masked kidnappers were waiting. The victims were bidden to get out of the van. By this time, both Radcliffes had recovered to some extent from the original shock, and each had begun trying to think of some way to escape from their kidnappers.

They got out of the van to smell a chill and dusty wind, and find themselves standing in front of a small, dimly lighted mobile home. A few yards away, the shaded windows of a similar dwelling gave out a muted glow. The night was gone, the day was here, the sky still marked by a thin rising moon, and those stars bright enough to survive the early stages of the change. Mountains, ghostly shapes along the newly revealed horizon, loomed in several directions, the closest no more than twenty miles away.

Both little houses were set directly on the ground and appeared to have settled into their sites, as if they had been in place for some time.

A power line, looking out of place, came marching on its small poles across the desert.

A small, primitive landing strip was in view behind the buildings. A faded windsock hung limply. No aircraft were in sight at the moment.

Radcliffe and his wife were watched carefully but treated gently, like valuable objects, as they climbed out of the vehicle. While Mr. Graves watched the sky, as if suddenly interested in the weather, one of his masked helpers led Philip and June to the smaller of the two mobile homes.

'Come in, make yourselves at home. You're going to be here for a while.'

'How long?'

'However long it takes.'

The front door, which Radcliffe saw had been newly armored with a heavy grill—there were still scorch-marks from the welding torch—was held open for them. Somehow the professional workmanship that had obviously gone into the armoring was more frightening than almost anything else that had yet happened.

Inside, the structure was divided into a few small rooms, cheaply but cleanly furnished. The front entry led into a small sitting-room with an open door showing a small bedroom beyond. An archway on the opposite side led to a little kitchen.

'It's not fancy, but it's safe.' The speaker, one of the masked people, sounded almost apologetic.

Wandering numbly from room to room, Phil and June entered the small kitchen. On looking around, the newcomers discovered it was stocked with a surprising variety of food. The refrigerator held an unopened half gallon of milk bearing tomorrow's date, along with fresh fruits and vegetables, chicken and ground beef in butcher's wrappings, and a variety of drinks. The latter included half a case of premium imported beer, actually Phil's favorite brand, in twelve-ounce bottles. There were soft drinks in cans, a couple of varieties of bottled water. Breakfast cereals had been visible on the counter, along with a small assortment of dishes. Radcliffe took silent note of the absence of anything like a sharp knife.

The sturdy iron grillwork which protected the front door could be locked only from the outside; Phil supposed the same would be true of the kitchen door, if there turned out to be one on the far side of the structure.

Further inspection of the house confirmed that the windows, too, were all covered with heavy grills. Some thought and effort had evidently gone into making the place escape-proof.

At least the place looked clean and in reasonably good repair. The furnishings were new, or nearly so. An air-conditioning unit in the window waited silently, ready to deal with the day's heat when it came.

None of the masked people who were bustling in and out, carrying baggage and checking provisions, seemed to be watching the prisoners at all closely. Their baggage was promptly carried into the one small bedroom. Radcliffe, feeling exhausted, his mind wavering near hysteria, had the crazy notion that someone was going to expect a tip.

There was no mirror in the bedroom, but one in the bathroom, in the expected location over the sink.

'Phil, what… what…?' June was whispering. She made a gesture indicating desperation.

He spread out his hands helplessly. 'I don't know what I don't know any more about this than you do.'

Radcliffe and June had not long to wait before Mr. Graves came to speak to them politely.

'There is a videotape, which will explain much. You must watch it.' He lifted in one pale hand a small black case which had been lying on the table beside the television and VCR.

'A videotape.'

'Indeed. This will lay the groundwork for the explanation you very naturally demand. When you have seen it through, and considered its contents, we shall be able to talk to some purpose. Your many questions will be most swiftly answered if you will watch the tape.'

'Wouldn't it be easier just to tell us?' June put in.

'I think not. A face-to-face discussion would inevitably involve arguments, demonstrations, a tedious business for which I will not have the time today, nor probably tomorrow. These hours I must devote to more important things.' The dark eyes fixed on Phil. 'You may place little value on either your blood or your life, but I have sworn a serious oath that I will save them both.'

Phil nodded slowly. He knew the expression on his own face must indicate that he was seriously impressed. And indeed he was. This man Graves is as nutty as a fruitcake factory.

Chapter Three

Having thus sternly admonished his pair of prisoners, Mr. Graves, moving with the brisk pace of a senior executive who had important business everywhere, walked out of the little house, leaving the Radcliffes in the care of his masked assistants and Connie.

All of these continued their policy of referring to their leader, whenever he decided to return, June's and Phil's continued demands for explanations. The disguised ones oozed bland reassurances, and responded to questions by repeating Graves's urging to watch the tape.

Within a few minutes most of the masked guardians, as if seeking escape from the ongoing barrage of their victims' demands, had left the house. There remained on guard only one man and one woman, and this pair had discreetly withdrawn, like unobtrusive servants, into the small kitchen.

The two prisoners found themselves left alone in the small living room.

'All right.' June's fear was being increasingly absorbed in anger. She sat down in one of the cheap armchairs, then immediately, too wired to admit weariness, bounced to her feet again. 'Then let's take a look at the damned tape.'

Her husband, who shared her mood, nodded. No other course of action seemed likely to help them in the