Stoker's Manuscript (13 page)

I purchased an ornate Old Believer cross for my brother and promised to let the merchant know where the treasure ultimately would land, assuring him it would remain in the country where it belonged. Then on to city hall and less pleasant tasks.

The government building was not hard to find, as it was the largest in town. In America it is the people who work and not the government, but this building served as a stark reminder that the Romanian people still believed they were granted the opportunity to conduct business only as allowed by the government. Lines were to be expected, along with the word
no
and the blank stare that was residue of Iron Curtain oxidation.

An hour’s wait found me standing in front of the guardian of menial favors, a woman roughly my age. I asked if anyone spoke English in the hall of public records. She pointed to another line.

When I looked and saw the line was longer than the one I was in, I said,
“Orfan.”

She pointed at me.
“Tu?”

“Da.”

She walked me personally to the elevator and to the third floor, offered me coffee, and introduced me to an older man who could help locate where my mother was buried. I turned to thank her and noticed she was dabbing her eyes with a tissue. We nodded to each other with the understanding shared by those with similar deprived starts.

After a half-hour search, the man returned and asked me, “Do you know where the wooden church is just north of the city?”

“All Saints?” I asked.

He nodded.

“If it is still there, then yes.”

“It has not changed. She should be there.”

I caught a cab there, and as I suspected the driver would not wait the requested five minutes, nor did he promise a return pickup. He did not even pull up to the church, but instead dropped me off at the bottom of the hill and left me to walk the remaining quarter mile up the drive, a dirt path with two ruts centered by a grass strip, the type of drive not used enough to maintain. The old wooden church rested on the hill’s knob with a bucolic view north and east to the Carpathians and south to the city, covering about an acre and surrounded by weathered wood fencing. The structure looked to be elderly, probably early eighteenth century, with the single eave of the smaller churches and no entrance porch. A solid plain tower was crowned with a tall steeple, shaped like a witch’s hat. The shutters hung crookedly, and broken windows let in the elements. The entire structure needed painting, not just the siding but the doorways and traditional trim of twisted rope and wolf’s-fang-motif carved molding. The building’s cornerstone confirmed my guess—1714—and listed the name of the original settlement, Riv Dom.

I went inside. With each step the wooden floors announced the visitor. Whatever wooden altar or podium was in the front had been removed, along with the doors reserved for the priests under the chancel. Gaps in the side walls let in streams of sunlight, which long ago had faded the painted fresco walls. The pews sat void of books or blankets, the telling indicators of a church no longer active. I looked up at the south chancel wall to the mural showing God’s outstretched hands delivering His Son to the world, then turned and looked at the north wall with its painting of the damned crossing the River of Fire with arms reaching back toward the south wall, the souls too late to pray for.

Outside, vines grew over an old stone fence. A small arched wooden gate lay on the ground. I stepped through and into a graveyard filled with uneven rows of Eastern crosses marked with Slavic and Romanian names dating back two centuries and more. No one had tended to the vegetation for months, perhaps as long ago as All Saints’ Day, when the dead receive homage and Christian cemeteries fill with visitors. Where the growth covered the names, I moved it aside looking for either my mother’s married or maiden name, Barkeley or Petrescu.

By the time I had inspected half the grave markers, I realized that I might be looking in the wrong section. Superstition held that suicides and murder victims become agitated ghosts who traveled certain nights in search of victims, and such are buried in segregation.

I looked to the north and saw an internal gate with conquering vegetation, and it was a task to clear before I could read the sign:
PADOC DE
.
The Paddock of the Damned.
I should have figured that out from the mural inside, for it was behind the north wall. I looked around at her neighbors and read their headstones. She lay amongst the suicides and tortured minds. I felt sad these souls might not lie in peace.

Finally I found it—
BARKELEY
. How long a journey to stand on this ground? Miles to match my tears.

It was in the paddock’s far corner, closest to where the fence turned, a raised sarcophagus perhaps a foot above ground with a stone casing and a chiseled rock resting atop. More than I expected. Translated, the inscription read,
Lucia Petrescu Barkeley, a Pierced Heart from the Angel of Death
.

I was not prepared for the torrent of emotions, a battering from all things as they should have been, but ultimately were not. Aloud I cursed my father’s name and wished him the hottest seat in hell amongst the cruelest of tyrants. Oh, there was no room for misinterpretation, for when he took her he took the lives of at least two more. Not one sunset has passed that I did not contemplate what might have been, not just for myself but also for my brother.

I had always hoped to avoid that level of sorrow. I laid a hand on the tomb and sobbed. I don’t know how long I knelt there, but at least an hour passed. My throat and face hurt from grieving, and when I found the strength I stood to find some water. But when I turned, there was a large man standing at the paddock gate with fist raised and a finger pointing my direction.

His voiced boomed:
“
la dracu!” Go to hell!

“My mama,” I said.

“Eu
cine
.” I know who you are.
He was dressed in caretaker’s clothes, with Magyar features and a heavy accent.
“
rea.” Bad seed.

“I’ll leave soon.”

Solemnly, he nodded.
“Îl
pe Dumnezeu fiind aici.” You insult God by being here.

My glare sent him away, and I stayed a while longer, eventually walking back to Baia Mare. By the time I passed through the city square it was dark and a great bonfire was burning, surrounded by revelers, some of them dressed in witch costumes. By the welcoming signs I realized that I had arrived in time for the celebration of
Walpurgisnacht
.

W
hen I returned to Chicago I found several phone messages and e-mails reminding me that I was behind in my work. But instead of tending to obligations, I found myself mired in the swamp of memory. I remember when my brother returned from his trip to the Vatican and his subsequent detour to the homeland, he kept a distant look for weeks. I kept trying to pull him back, but all my usual jokes and jabs failed to lift the corners of his mouth. I only hoped that he had not seen all that I had.

Apparently I had taken on the same look as my brother, because as Mara opened her door, she greeted me with the traditional kisses on my cheeks, a different kind of welcome, and said, “You no longer wear the skeptic’s face. Come in.”

I declined her offer of tea and went directly to her library and sat. “I managed a meeting with the buyer.”

“Yes.”
Jyezz.
“I am surprised he showed himself.”

“He didn’t really show himself—he stayed back in the shadows, told me to approach him.” I described the castle and the setting, and his quick departure into the shadows.

“So he was close enough to see your heat and smell you.”

I nodded and described my discussions with the buyer about the missing chapters and how it appeared Stoker had an assistant help with his research.

“Whatever you told him has mobilized the families to action. How did they leave it with you?”

“He wants me to act as his buying agent to keep the manuscript from going to auction.”

“What was in the missing epilogue?” she asked. I hesitated, and she seemed to read my mind. “You saw things that disturb you, things I warned you of. Now you are unsure how much to say.”

I acknowledged her observation with a nod. There was much to cover, and although my instincts told me to trust her, I did not know how much I could say without appearing round the bend. “A great battle scene and directions to a burial site.”

“Can you recall them?”

“They were cryptic and referenced several landmarks. The journey started in Dreptu and—”

“Dreptu?” A man’s voice interrupted me from the next room. I knocked the chair backward when I stood and saw an elderly man fill the doorway. He repeated, “Did you say Dreptu?”

Mara stood and said, “Joseph Barkeley, this is Mr. Bena, Alexandru Bena.” The elder held out a hand. “He asked to meet with you.”

He had an elder’s eyes, dark and recessed, but his skin and salt-and-pepper hair looked healthy enough. Alexandru wore the lace-up shoes of a foreigner and stood a solid but slender six feet tall with the firm grip of a craftsman.

I remained quiet, not intending to share my information with someone I did not know, as much as I wanted to get answers from Mara. In the house of the Gypsy woman, Sonia, I’d had a long list of questions and felt open to ask them, as the events had occurred right outside her door and seemed all too real. But here I felt the need to guard my knowledge. No matter how real, it seemed the greater the distance from the events, the greater the need for discretion. No wonder Mara was the way she was.

“Mr. Joseph, please.” Alexandru pointed to the chair, and I returned it upright and sat. He spoke with an accent spawned in the Balkans. “By way of introduction, I would be the other bidder at the auction.”

Mara nodded. “I have known Mr. Bena forever. All that I have I owe to him.”

“Now,” Alexandru said, “please tell me of this epilogue.”

“Well, I’m not sure I can. I’m under contract.”

The two looked at each other before Alexandru turned back toward me and spoke. “Young man, you’ve been chosen.”

I thought back to Sonia’s parting words, the look in her eyes. “So I’ve heard,” I said at last.

“But you do not know what you are facing. I do.” He crossed his legs and straightened his wedding ring. “That family is the subject of Mr. Stoker’s novel, and there are things in that display that they wish to keep to themselves.”

Much as Luc had predicted. I nodded. “Things I’ve seen.”

“Names, locations . . .” Alexandru nodded in return. “You said the missing epilogue describes a battle scene and directions to a grave.”

I hesitated before acknowledging. “It matches the prologue’s description of where the villain’s wife is buried.”

“Do you remember the name on the tomb?” he asked.

“Countess Dolingen of Gratz.”

Again Mara and Alexandru looked at each other, this time with eyes widened. He continued, “You mentioned Dreptu.”

Once more I paused and decided to keep my encounter at the monastery to myself. “Yes. That is where the journey began.”

Mara looked at Alexandru. “Is there such a place?”

He took a deep breath before answering. “Yes.” Again he looked at me and asked, “Did you go there?”

“No,” I lied, “but there was a Dreptu River east of
.”

Their ensuing silence suggested disbelief, or perhaps they realized I did not want to discuss it. Alexandru continued, “When you return to complete your transaction, this place of legend needs to be verified.”

“I’m not sure I will be returning.”

Mara drew a gasping breath and began to speak just as her guest raised a calming hand and said, “This is a very . . . dangerous family, as you have already surmised, my young friend, and they will stop at nothing to protect the relics of their ancestors. You have already laid eyes on what they need.”

I did not need clarification of what that meant. I wished I had known before going to Philadelphia the first time.

“My family,” Alexandru said, “has been at odds with that family for a very long time.”

“Then why don’t you approach the Stoker family to buy the manuscript yourself?”

“No,” he said. “That would risk exposing both of you.” He pointed to me and Mara as he spoke.

Mara added, “The seller would know that there are competing interests, and it would surely go to auction.”

“Neither family can afford such publicity.”

He had a point. “But right now I’m the one with the biggest risk.”

“I am prepared to make a contract with you, Mr. Joseph.”

I gave a prompting nod.

“It is very rare; indeed, it has been over a century since a human has been invited into the affairs of that family. You have been chosen because of your unique talents, and you need to return there to complete the transaction.”

Again, as with Sonia, talk of the transaction. I sighed, audibly, I realized.

He hesitated.

“I’m listening.”

Alexandru smiled; not an honest smile, but that of a player who’s calling your hand—correctly. “You are listening to hear what is in it for you.”

“Among other things.”

“I am prepared to match whatever fee the family has offered you.”

I was not prepared to divulge that amount. “What would I need to do, exactly?”

Mara cut in. “The only way to penetrate their defenses is from the inside.”

“And you are being invited inside,” Alexandru said. “Find out where they live,
all
of them—where they sleep, how many subjects they have. See if any of their wives surface. Do a good job for them, get as close as you can. See how many heads pop up.”

“And then what?”

“Someone will approach you and refer to me by name. Tell him when and where you wish to be picked up and removed.”

“I don’t plan on being there very long.”

Again Mara broke in: “It might not be up to you.”

“We have people there who will help protect you,” Alexandru said.

“How do I know that to be true?”

He lifted his right hand toward me, palm up, and said, “They have already told me they saw the young man with the spinel crucifix.”

I was reduced to silence.

“Mr. Joseph,” he said, “the knowledge you possess places you in danger. You are in more danger here than there.”

Alexandru excused himself to walk outside. I whispered to Mara, “I saw one of the creatures.”

“A Common,” she asked in statement form.

“It did this,” I said, unbuttoning my shirt to show part of the wound on my chest. “I don’t know what it was. I left immediately. Is there more than one kind?”

“The Nobles are the breeders,” Mara said, leaning in to inspect. “The Commons are the offspring born with no reproductive parts.”

I nodded.

“This creature,” Mara said, “let you live. Why?”

I shrugged, keeping thoughts of the crucifix to myself. Considering all that had happened, I continued to wear it.

“Nobles,” she said. Her look told me that I knew the answer.

“Nobles?”

“Nobles—the ones born with parts. But since no one has seen any female breeders in centuries, there are no new breeders.”

“Are the Commons as dangerous as the Nobles?”

“Of course. They are the warriors who protect the Nobles. But don’t worry,” Mara said as she pointed to my crucifix. “So long as you wear that, they will not harm you unless ordered to.”

As I prepared to leave, she reached behind a stack of books on her top bookshelf and handed me an untitled journal bound in a Victorian-patterned fabric with the initials
G.A.
written on the inside cover. It was handwritten, with several old photos and a couple letters. I recognized the paper from the Aachen region, circa the 1880s and placed it in my jacket pocket.

“Take this,” she said. “You will need it to do your research.”

I recalled the first time I had driven out to Mara’s cabin to deliver a rare German printing of
The Vampyre
. She entertained me with tales of vampire hunters who might be able to glean clues of locations from the book. I had paid little attention, intent on hurrying the check to the bank. This time I asked, “Is he . . . ?”

“Yes,” she said, as if to read my thoughts. A hunter.

I left with as many questions as I had arrived with, plus a few more, and promised to return with details.

Doug Carli had left several phone messages and said he would wait for me, and after the long drive in from southern Wisconsin I arrived to find him alone in his office after hours.

“Come in, come in,” Doug said, and closed the door behind me. “Please.” He pointed to a chair across from his desk.

“Thanks,” I said, though I’m certain I didn’t look particularly grateful. “Your message mentioned due diligence.”

“I took the liberty of calling my guy in Zurich about your man Ardelean there, and he did not want to talk over a landline. I got a cell call the next day, and this guy said the family you are dealing with is old Euro money.”

“I assumed that.”

“No, I mean
old
. As in older than the Swiss bank itself.”

That did not surprise me.

“Joseph, that means their wealth predates the entire banking and currency system. Whoever this is,” Doug said, looking over his reading glasses and wagging a finger, “do not cross them or screw up this deal.”

“No mistakes. Appreciate it.”

“I also made a call to one of my clients, a heavy hitter at the Field Museum.” By that, Doug meant someone on the top tier of the donor list. “Guy knows the curator at the Rosenbach. Got him in touch with the family’s selling agent.”

It made me uneasy to think an outside party was being alerted to this transaction. “Did you need to do that?” I asked. I’m sure I sounded annoyed, because his response was a notch higher on the volume knob.