Chapter 6

October 20, 1971 - Wednesday

Collins Cannery

The sedan pulled up at the cannery. The parking lot was full and the busy wharf sparkled in the sunshine. Several fishing boats were in the harbor, and men rushed back and forth with hand-trucks. Roger slid the car into his reserved parking space.

"Let us locate Mr. Jansing," Elliot rumbled. "Then, off to lunch with Mr. Castlewold at the Rope Barrel. Pretty fancy choice, Dr. Hoffman."

Roger seemed suddenly apprehensive. "Listen. There are only two ways to get to Kim's studio. We could access it by the freight elevator, and I'd prefer going that way, but it's not working. We've had men trying to repair the blasted thing for two days now. There's an access stairway running alongside the freight elevator, but it's blocked off due to the repair work. I tried to go up but couldn't. Our only other route to the studio is by that rickety outdoor stairway. See it? And I warn you, when we enter the door at the top, we have to go down a long corridor to reach his rooms. The lighting is inadequate. It would be, since we haven't used those floors for decades. The passageway is narrow and very dark, with no windows. Kim's studio door is at the very end."

Julia shivered, and even Elliot grimaced as they piled out of the car.

"Julia," Barnabas begged, "Look at me. Can you see anything?"

Beneath his cape, Barnabas had two wooden stakes hanging from strings looped through his trouser belt loops, and a hammer tucked into his pants at the small of his back.

They eyed him critically as he slowly twirled about, displaying himself. Several passing fishermen looked over and laughed.

"You're fine," Julia smiled.

"Undetectable," Elliot agreed.

"This is ridiculous," Roger said, not for the first time that morning.

As they carefully mounted the stairs he whispered to Barnabas, "Castlewold and Jansing are tanned. But Tisa is white as milk."

They stood clumped together in the claustrophobic hallway after the rusty outer door slammed shut behind them. The corridor was dirty and close, with refuse on the floor. The flimsy stairway had been frightening, and the sudden inky dark after the sunshine ominous. The hallway smelled strongly of dry-rot and burnt popcorn.

"This is actually worse than I realized. I'll have some men come and clean it," Roger murmured to himself as they picked their way toward the faint light of the 15-watt bulb at the end of the ugly hallway. Everybody was either carrying or wearing a cross and guiding themselves by the feel of the walls as they strained toward the thin light ahead. "This is awful."

He rapped his knuckles on Kim's door and called, "Kim? Kim Jansing!"

No reply.

Barnabas imagined that he could perceive the startlement of the man or creature inside the studio, mere yards from where they stood; imagined that it had been breathing the moment before they had crowded noisily together before this door, and that now it held its breath. There was a deep, listening hush which raised the hair on his arms beneath his sleeves. Was someone in there, or not?

After a moment or two they registered that they weren't going to be let in, and Roger drew out his keys. Julia had to activate her cigarette lighter to illuminate Roger's hands as he picked through his keys.

Finally they slid the key into the lock, but it wouldn't turn, no matter which way Roger pressed it.

"Is it the right key?" Elliot asked. The oppressiveness of the hallway was getting to him.

"Of course it is," Roger said snappishly. "But it won't work. He couldn't have changed the locks! Maybe he's got the door jammed somehow, I don't know. It won't budge."

He finally stopped struggling and gave up, gazing up and down at the door closed against them.

"What if we …" Barnabas began, looking at Elliot.

"Put a shoulder to it?" Roger finished for him. "I could be looking at a lawsuit. However," he continued, the veins in his neck beginning to swell in anger, "I am the owner of this building! This man is my tenant, and I feel I have a right to get in there to inspect the rooms!"

"Has Kim signed a lease," Julia asked, "where it's all laid out that he is not to change the locks and that he must allow the landlord in at any time the request is made?"

"Well, no," Roger said, growing paler, thinking of the ramifications of the law. "We signed nothing. It was … a verbal compact."

The men drew back from the dented metal door and eyed it up and down.

Elliot put his shoulder to the door once or twice. Barnabas got as far back from the door as he could—there wasn't much space—and took a few runs at it.

It wouldn't budge.

"Had we the right tools, a claw hammer and a screwdriver," Elliot observed darkly, "we might have taken this door off its hinges."

They wouldn't have any answers from Kim Jansing this morning.

Downtown

Later, in the tastefully decorated lobby of Collinsport's premier restaurant, The Rope Barrel, Julia waited for Lars Castlewold to arrive.

Elliot and Barnabas had been shown to a table for four. As surreptitiously as they could, they had placed a cross of silver beneath the cushion of one seat. Elliot had wanted to hide an additional cross in the backrest. But without a knife, and people noticing that they were hacking away at the Rope Barrel's elegant chairs, they'd given up. Elliot had satisfied himself by hiding the second cross beneath the plate setting intended for Castlewold.

The men settled into their seats, straightening their jackets, clearing their throats. Looking about them.

Barnabas hadn't liked leaving Julia out front to wait for Lars; what if he did something to her? But Julia had taken his head in her hands, kissed him, and told him she could take care of herself.

In a few minutes, she appeared on Lars' arm.

The men rose, and Julia was seated by Lars in the chair they had all agreed, before his arrival, that she would take. A waiter immediately brought them all menus and goblets of ice water.

"Good heavens," Lars chuckled, looking about appreciatively at the deep green tones of the walls, "Manhattan-type ambience in here. All I'd hoped for in coming to Collinsport was to be invited to some kid's house for a home-cooked dinner every now and then." He flapped his thick, lawn-green linen napkin and settled it on his lap.

"Since it seems you're up all night," Julia said compassionately, reciting the lines they'd agreed upon, "when do you sleep? Shouldn't you be curled up in bed at this hour?"

Lars' teeth showed in a grin. He was beautifully dressed in a tailored charcoal-colored suit, with a black string tie knotted at his throat as it would have been worn in the Old West. His formal shirt was white and clean. Against its whiteness his healthy tanned skin glowed. He was impossibly handsome.

"I don't sleep," he confessed, "not for years. I've got a longstanding case of insomnia. It started back home in Saskatchewan, and I've been hoping to shake it on the road. Two hours of sleep here, three there. Which seems to be all I need at present, but it's pretty damned annoying." He took up his ice water and sipped.

Barnabas watched him obliquely. Insomnia? Certainly. That was a handy story for someone who didn't want to be challenged, roaming the town in darkness; nobody would question insomnia. But Barnabas did question it.

Based on personal experience, he doubted a silver cross hidden nearby would bother Lars if, indeed, Lars was the monster they suspected him to be. He remembered a time or two when a cross in the room had had to be thrust directly into his face in order to bring on convulsions of rage and pain; if it lay out of sight, if it didn't have to be faced, it could go undetected. He felt Elliot's eyes heavy on Lars, but the scout seemed to be entirely at ease.

"We've had a recent tragedy around here, I don't know whether you'd heard," Elliot said, his hands lying loosely on the crisp tablecloth. "Two children were murdered."

Lars looked startled at this, and unhappy. "That's awful," he said, glancing from one to the other. "I'm sorry. Very recently, you mean? I love kids, work with them all the time. What do the police think?"

"That, I don't know," Elliot replied.

"The murders were a trifle unusual," Barnabas offered, his eyes never leaving Lars' face. "Each child was drained of blood."

Eyes now lowered, Lars did not move. Finally he said, "That's a hellish thing. We've had some ritualistic murder cases in Canada before, but exsanguination? I've never heard of such a case."

Julia noted that Lars knew the term exsanguination. Not a lot of laymen did, but she doubted it meant anything. Perhaps he was simply intelligent and well-read.

Lars raised his eyes and met Elliot's stare. For a fantastic few seconds, nobody moved or spoke, and neither man blinked. Lars colored.

Finally, Elliot smiled. "But this is an unsuitable topic for lunch at so fine a restaurant," he said.

The waiter appeared for Lars' order and Julia's. "We two ordered just before you came in," Elliot informed him easily.

Lars leaned back. Julia got him talking. He told them of his love for hockey, his extensive training to make the Olympics himself. His approach to greatness. Ultimately, the insomnia and its attendant troubles and distresses had brought him down, made him consider leaving professional play.

"But I did spend two years with the Montreal Canadiens," he said comfortably, "before I decided that I needed to shift my career a little. I love working with young people, and I can pick out talent. So I decided to become a scout. I've never looked back. I can do a lot of good, discovering really gifted players and seeing about scholarships."

Julia shamelessly asked him about his love life. Lars laughed.

"I was in a relationship not so long ago," he admitted, playing with a spoon. "I figured out she didn't really want me enough to marry me, which made hitting the road an easy choice. I'm single, and live in hope," he said, shrugging.

The conversation slowed as the waiter presented their steaming entrees and poured wine. They picked up their forks and smiled at one another. Lars had chosen a Hawaiian chicken dish. Julia looked over her shrimp appreciatively and admired the wine-braised lamb shanks Barnabas had ordered. Elliot lifted his eyes from his steaming plate, to Lars' face.

"Bon Appetit, everyone," he said softly.

Lars was now looking upset. He squirmed violently in his chair. His fine nostrils quivered. Flinging his linen napkin to the floor, he hastened out of his seat. His face had a greenish tinge.

Julia regarded him with astonishment.

"Excuse me," he gasped, swallowing and looking about helplessly, "I don't feel well, I'd better—excuse me." And he quickly ducked out of the dining room in the direction of the restrooms.

At the table, there were several seconds of silence.

"Elliot," Julia said, unnerved, "What just happened? What did you do? Did you put a cross beneath his plate as you had planned?"

"Yes," Elliot said pleasantly, breathing in the delectable aroma of his dish. "There is also a silver cross beneath his seat."

"Then you think it's him," Julia murmured, her eyes narrowing. "Well, despite this, I'm not so certain."

"It took him an awfully long time to react," Barnabas said, frowning thoughtfully, his eyes on the far doors of the restaurant where Lars had fled. "He was easy and talkative for twenty minutes at least, and then abruptly stricken." He leveled his eyes to the humming Elliot Stokes. "I don't think it was the crosses that did it, Elliot."

"I wasn't taking any chances," Elliot said simply, "and I usually don't argue with results. Either the crosses caused the effect or my dinner did. As you can tell from its heavenly aroma, I have before me garlic shrimp pasta, extremely heavy on the garlic." He shrugged. "I simply thought that we should hit him on all fronts."

"Elliot," Julia groaned.

"What? Vampires are described as having a terrible allergy to garlic, yes? And here we have a dish of garlic, and a luncheon guest who has fled the table."

"Surely you're not trying to tell us that we have two vampires to deal with, Jansing and Castlewold," Barnabas begged.

Elliot smiled. "I suggest that we ask for a doggie-bag for Mr. Castlewold's Huli Huli chicken, since I don't believe he'll be back."

Collinwood

Nobody was around. Tisa looked around the foyer, shrugged, and went to greet whoever was hammering on the front door.

She opened it to Saint Sebastian.

He was absolutely beautiful. Silky black hair a little tousled. Black eyes framed with lashes long and thick enough to make any girl groan with envy. She swept her glance down his body for sheer pleasure. His noble chest sweetly delved down to flat stomach. He wore a sweater of dusty cadet blue with faded jeans. The look of stricken embarrassment he'd originally worn as the door opened melted as he gazed at her, and kept gazing.

"Hello," he whispered. She waited as he slowly drew his glance down her every curve and back again.

Lars Castlewold was looking at a young woman with long, exotic grey eyes, perfect bone structure, and a heavenly mouth whose top lip tipped upwards at its center. Fresh skin, cheeks faintly pink. Beautiful brown hair sculpted in an oddly endearing pixyish hairstyle. She wore a very short form-fitting dress of orange and cranberry abstract design. She was tall and well-molded, lovely, and she had one hell of a figure.

Under his gaze, Tisa flushed, feeling an uprush of delight.

"I'm, ah," Lars began, "does Barnabas Stokes live here? I mean, I mean Elliot Collins?"

She clasped the door, posing herself invitingly against it. "They might as well, since they're here all the time. I don't know why they don't all just move in. You want to talk to Barnabas?"

He slouched against the doorjamb, smiling at her. "Yes. I got sick at the restaurant just now and bolted out the door before Professor Stokes could even say a word. Just left them sitting at the table. I wanted to explain, and apologize, so I changed out of my suit-jacket and came right over." He hooked his thumbs into his pockets, his eyes on hers.

Tisa was surprised. "You were at a restaurant with Elliot? He's my uncle. What were you doing out with him?"

"Oh, they invited me out," he said. "He and Barnabas and Dr. Hoffman. Families do that. I come to town and work with their kids, they see some poor shivering single guy, so I get asked to dinner a lot of the time."

"And my uncle made you sick? You don't look sick."

"It was a near thing," he confessed. "Somebody ordered a garlic dish, and like an idiot I got up and ran out. I'm so allergic to garlic that it makes me feel sick to be near it. Makes my throat close up," Lars went on, imitating a raspy voice. "I've been hospitalized twice after eating it, and I've learned my lesson. Stokes and Barnabas couldn't have known that, and I'm so ashamed. I wanted to come and apologize."

"I see," Tisa said, crossing her arms. "I would have thought it was their conversation that made you run for your life."

"Conversation?" He smiled. "Why, what do they like to talk about?"

Tisa laughed and told him that he had better come in, and, grinning, Lars Castlewold passed the threshold of Collinwood.

She told him the lurid topics of conversation her uncle seemed always to be discussing with Barnabas; dead kids, zombies, crucifixes and crosses. (Tisa has learned all this by eavesdropping outside the drawing room doors.) Lars was grim, highly disapproving of David and Tisa being exposed to such topics. He told her that he had a cousin who was a bit of a religious zealot, and how unpleasant it was.

"I used to be a religious zealot myself," Tisa replied, smiling secretly to herself.

The unoccupied house gave them a snug feeling of privacy, and as the afternoon light darkened around the small safe harbor of the drawing room, something happened.