“I’m done,” Helen Rossi said behind me. Her voice was low, and she looked pale and tired. “You were right,” she said. “There is no mention of his affair with my mother, or even of his traveling to Romania. You were telling the truth about that. I cannot understand it. This must have been during the same period, surely the same trip to the Continent, because I was born nine months after that.”
“I’m sorry.” Her dark face hadn’t asked for pity, but I felt it. “I wish I had some clues for you here, but you see how it is. I can’t explain it, either.”
“At least we believe each other, don’t we?” She looked directly at me.
I was surprised to discover I could feel pleasure in the midst of all this grief and apprehension. “We do?”
“Yes. I don’t know if something called Dracula exists, or what it is, but I believe you when you say Rossi-my father-felt himself in danger. He clearly felt it many years ago, so why not a return of his fears when he saw your little book, an uncomfortable coincidence and reminder of the past?”
“And what do you make of his disappearance?”
She shook her head. “It could have been a mental breakdown, of course. But I understand what you mean, now. His letters have the mark of”-she hesitated-“a logical and fearless mind, just like his other works. Besides, you can tell a great deal from a historian’s books. I know his very well. They are the efforts of stable, clear thought.”
I led her back to the letters and my briefcase; it made me nervous to leave them alone for even a few minutes. She had put everything neatly back in the envelope-in its original order, I had no doubt. We sat down on the pew together, almost companionably.
“Let’s just say there might be some supernatural force involved in his disappearance,” I ventured. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but for the sake of argument. What would you advise doing next?”
“Well,” she said slowly. Her profile was sharp and thoughtful, close to me in the dim light. “I cannot see that this will help you very much in a modern investigation, but if you were to obey the dictates of Dracula lore, you would have to assume that Rossi has been assaulted and removed by a vampire, who would either kill him or-more likely-pollute him with the curse of the undead. Three attacks that mingle your blood with that of Dracula or one of his disciples make you a vampire eternally, you know. If he has been bitten once already, you will have to find him as soon as possible.”
“But why would Dracula appear here, of all places? And why abduct Rossi? Why not just strike him and corrupt him, without making the change noticeable to anyone?”
“I don’t know,” she said, shaking her head. “It is unusual behavior, according to the folklore. Rossi must be-I mean, if this were all a supernatural occurrence-he must be of special interest to Vlad Dracula. Perhaps even a threat to him somehow.”
“And do you believe my finding this little book and bringing it to Rossi had something to do with his disappearance?”
“Logic tells me that it is an absurd idea. But -” She folded her gloves carefully in her black-skirted lap. “I wonder if there’s not another source of information we’re overlooking.” Her mouth drooped. Silently, I thanked her for thatwe.
“What’s that?”
She sighed and unfolded the gloves. “My mother.”
“Your mother? But what would she know about -” I had only begun my string of questions when a shift in light and the breath of a draft made me turn. From where we sat, we could see the church doors without being seen from them-the vantage point from which I’d chosen to watch Helen’s entrance. Now a hand inserted itself between the doors, then a bony, pointed face. The strange-looking librarian was peering into the church.
I can’t describe to you the feeling I had in that quiet church when the librarian’s face appeared between the doors. I had the sudden image of a sharp-nosed animal, something stealthy and sniffing, a weasel or a rat. Beside me, Helen was frozen, staring at the door. Any moment now he would be catching our scent. But we had a second or two left, I calculated, and I gathered the briefcase and stack of papers silently in one arm, grasped Helen with the other-there was no time to ask for her permission-and drew her from the end of the pew into the side aisle. A door was open there, leading into a small chamber beyond, and we slipped in. I closed it quietly. There was no way to lock it from the inside, I noted with a pang, although it had a big iron-lined keyhole.
It was darker in this little room than in the nave. There was a baptismal font in the middle, a cushioned bench or two along the walls. Helen and I looked silently at each other. I couldn’t read her expression, except that it seemed to hold as much alertness and defiance as fear. Without words or gestures, we moved cautiously behind the font, and Helen put a hand on it to steady herself. After another minute, I couldn’t stay still any longer; I handed her the papers and went back to the keyhole. Looking carefully through it, I could see the librarian moving past a column. He did resemble a weasel, his pointed face thrust forward, glancing around at all the pews. He turned in my direction, and I drew back a little. He seemed to study the door to our hiding place, and even took a step or two toward it, then stepped away again. Suddenly a lavender sweater moved into my field of view. It was one of the altar ladies. I could hear her voice, muffled. “Can I help you?” she said kindly.
“Well, I’m looking for someone.” The librarian had a sharp, whistling voice, too loud for a sanctuary. “I-did you see a young lady come in here, in a black suit? Dark hair?”
“Why, yes.” The kind woman looked around, too. “There was someone by that description here a little while ago. She was with a young man, sitting in the back pews. But she’s certainly not here now.”
The weasel swiveled this way and that. “Couldn’t she be hiding in one of those rooms?” He wasn’t subtle, that was clear.
“Hiding?” The lavender lady turned our way, too. “I’m sure there’s no one hiding in our church. Wouldn’t you like me to call the priest? Do you need some help?”
The librarian backed away. “Oh, no, no,” he said. “I must have made a mistake.”
“Would you like some of our literature?”
“Oh, no.” He backed down the aisle. “No, thank you.” I saw him peer around again, and then he passed out of my range of vision. There was a heavy click, a thump-the front door closing behind him. I gave Helen a nod and she sighed noiseless relief, but we waited a few more minutes there, glancing at each other over the font. Helen looked down first, her brow furrowed. I knew she must be wondering how on earth she’d gotten into such a situation and what it really meant. The top of her hair was glossy, ebony-she was hatless again today.
“He’s looking for you,” I said in a low voice.
“Maybe he is looking for you.” She indicated the envelope I held.
“I have a strange idea,” I said slowly. “Maybe he knows where Rossi is.”
She frowned again. “None of this makes much sense anyway, so why not?” she muttered.
“I can’t let you go back to the library. Or your rooms. He’ll be looking for you in both places.”
“Let me?” she echoed ominously.
“Miss Rossi, please. Do you want to be the next disappearance?”
She was silent. “So how do you plan to protect me?” Her voice held a mocking note, and I thought of her strange childhood, her original flight to Hungary in her mother’s womb, the political savvy that had allowed her to travel to the other side of the world for academic revenge. If her story were all true, of course.