At Sword's Point (2 page)

"About a week ago. Why?"

"Well, it's just that it seems to have healed very quickly. In fact, I think I'll just go ahead and take out the sutures. It's clear you don't need them anymore."

"You're the doctor," Drummond said as the man picked up scissors and a set of forceps and went to work. A few of the sutures pulled a little, but they mostly came out easily.

"If you don't mind my asking, did the priest put anything on the wound?" the doctor asked as he continued snipping and tugging.

"Yeah, some kind of glop that he said would help it heal," Drummond replied, not feeling it necessary to mention that it had been de Beq who had provided the ointment. "Why do you ask?"

"Because the healing really is remarkable. You've got hardly any scarring. In fact—" He paused. "I'd say that your recovery is nearly supernatural."

"Oh, really? What do you mean, 'supernatural'?" Drummond tried to keep his voice matter-of-fact.

"Just that a wound like this normally takes several weeks to heal, but yours seems to have closed in less than a week." The doctor stood up. "If I were a religious man, I'd almost be inclined to call it miraculous."

"Well, hardly that," Drummond said lightly. "It could be that I'm just from hardy stock. But maybe I should see about getting the recipe, if it works that well. There's no telling what these old folk remedies contain; only that they work."

"Sometimes they work," said the doctor, indicating that he was finished. "Only sometimes do they work."

Drummond hopped off the examining table and pulled out his wallet. "Okay, what do I owe you, Doctor?"

The doctor gave a small shrug of his shoulders. "One hundred francs?" It was more of a question than a statement.

Drummond pulled out two hundred francs and handed them to the doctor. "Thanks. Keep the change."

The doctor smiled and walked Drummond to the door. "Thank you, Mr… ?" The question hung on the air.

"Drummond. John Drummond. From Los Angeles, in case you need to fill out any forms."

When Drummond had gone, the doctor went to his desk, picked up the telephone, and dialed a number written on a small pad next to the black instrument. The line purred a few times before someone answered.

"This is Dr. Maurice LeBlanc. That man you were asking about was just here."

* * * *

In the general store, Father Freise had neatly stacked his items on one end of the counter and was closely inspecting a red bicycle with the proprietor when Drummond walked in. Looking up, Freise grinned at Drummond and waved him over.

"John, what do you think? Is red a little too flashy?"

Drummond looked at the bike before answering. "Wellll… I don't think this is quite the model you need, but the color suits you down to the ground."

Freise looked confused. "Not the model… ? I don't get it."

Drummond took him by the arm and pointed him toward a bright red motor scooter near the door.

"That's the model you need, Frank. No pedals. Means you won't get a heart attack pumping that thing up and down the hills."

He half dragged the priest over to the machine. Freise looked it over, then saw the price tag.

"Holy cow, this thing costs nearly a thousand dollars!"

"The best always costs a bit more, Frank. Remember it." Drummond smiled and beckoned the shopkeeper over. Pointing to the red scooter he said, "Ce—" He paused for a second. "Ce—er—motor scooter
rouge, s'il vous plait
."

The shopkeeper smiled broadly. "
Oui, monsieur. La motocyclette rouge, naturellement
."

Drummond followed Freise back to the counter. "Frank, you've got a lot of stuff here. Just what all are you buying?"

Freise picked up a tooth brush. "Twenty of these, for starters. Our friends might live forever, but their breath'd drop a bull moose at fifty yards. Soap, too." He held up a bar of no-nonsense soap. "I've got to civilize them a bit, if we're ever going to get them out into the real world."

Drummond glanced over the other items: toothpaste, two pairs of scissors, a few towels, a scrub brush, rubber bucket, and a bottle of disinfectant. All the items would help, but with no modern sanitary facilities in the castle, true "civilization" was going to be a while in coming to the Knights of the Sword.

Drummond himself was still in the clothes he had worn when he arrived at the castle nearly a week before. He suspected his cords and pullover might stand up by themselves, and he didn't even want to think about his underwear. He had worn one of the knights' long white robes for the days he lay recovering, and had cleaned up as best he could the day before, once they finally let him out of bed, but there was only so much one could do with cold water and no soap.

"It's a start, Frank," he said. And remembering the straw-stuffed mattresses and tallow candles, he added, "I think you'd better get a sleeping bag and camp lantern, while you're at it."

Freise spoke with the shopkeeper, and the extra items were added to the pile. Nodding, the priest indicated that that was all he needed. "
L'addition, s'il vous plait
."

The shopkeeper scurried off to add up the purchases.

"You're going to have to make several trips to get all of this back to the castle," Drummond said.

"Well, then, its a good thing I've got a motorbike to do it." Freise held out his hand. "Thanks, John. I mean it."

"I know you do, Frank." Drummond took the priest's hand. "I know you do."

The shopkeeper returned with the bill, and Drummond counted out a stack of hundred-dollar traveler's checks and began signing them, while the little man set about bundling up Freise's purchases in brown paper wrapped with miles of thick string. When he finished, he counted out Drummond's change and then ducked down below the counter, bobbing up a few seconds later with an old-fashioned white leather crash helmet. He handed it to Freise with a beaming smile.

"Pour vous, mon pere… avec mes compliments."

Freise pulled on the helmet and thanked the man, then headed outside with Drummond.

"Well, John, I guess this is good-bye." He held out his hand.

Drummond had cashed the remaining traveler's checks and slapped the money into the priest's outstretched palm.

"Here, take this. You'll need it before I get back." He stepped forward and gave Freise a hug. "And you're wrong. This isn't good-bye, just
au revoir
."

Without looking at the priest, he turned away and headed briskly toward the car, but before leaving, he lowered the driver's window for a final word with Freise.

"Frank, be careful—you hear? And call me before you do anything rash?"

Putting on at least the semblance of bravery, the priest nodded and smiled back his answer, raising a hand in farewell and, perhaps, blessing, as Drummond pointed the car toward Munich and his flight home.

Drummond reached Munich's Riem Airport with nearly four hours until flight time.

Just time enough
, he thought, and turned the white Mercedes into the traffic lane marked "hotel."

Pulling up in front of the same hotel where he had stayed when he met Father Freise, Drummond took his suit bag from the trunk and went into the hotel. When he had checked in and had the desk verify that his flight would be on time, and while his bag was being sent to his room, he detoured to the men's shop in the lobby and bought fresh socks, underwear, and a pale yellow cashmere polo shirt. His shopping done, he retreated to his room, and was delighted to see that in addition to a shower there was a large tub in the bathroom.

"Sheer heaven," he muttered, and turned on the taps to let the tub fill while he stripped and tossed his clothes in a heap on the bed.

Five days without a change. Drummond hadn't done that since the army. The tub would be like heaven.

Going back into the bathroom, he shut off the taps and paused to peer closely at his reflection in the steamy mirror. Five days in the same clothes, and a week without a shave. At least his head wound was nearly healed. He ran his fingers over the slight scar, then over the stubble— actually, the beginning of a real beard. He'd consider shaving after his bath.

Like every other airport hotel in the world, there was a basket full of bath salts and shampoos on the counter next to the sink. Picking up a small plastic bottle of some sort of pine-scented herbal extract, Drummond poured it into the tub and then climbed in. The hot sudsy water felt great as he lowered himself into the deep tub, slowly sinking in up to his chin.

He closed his eyes, laid his head back, and managed to think of nothing for fully ten minutes. The relaxation was complete. He could feel the knots unkinking in his muscles, and the grime gradually lifting from his body. But then, somewhere in the back of his mind, a gnawing worm of consciousness began to bite into the hedonistic pleasures of a hot bath and herbal extracts, and Drummond found himself thinking about his future.

He had no idea what he was going to do. Sitting here in a hot bath in a modern bathroom that would be barely comprehensible to the men he had left behind in the castle in Luxembourg—other than Father Freise, of course—it was tempting to relegate his experiences of the past few weeks to a flight of fancy, to put it out of mind and pretend it never happened, to get on with his life.

But it had been all too real—no mere vacation interlude to be filed away with other memories and only occasionally pulled out for fond reminiscences. Men had died; and Freise, de Beq, and the others expected him to return. In fact, they needed him to help set their world back on its normal axis.

Axis… a funny word to use
, thought Drummond.
Like the Axis Powers during the Second World War. Like Kluge and his Nazis
.

Kluge. His trail encompassed at least two continents, and men died where he had passed. The implications of his very existence were almost too terrible to contemplate. And the blood banks, the murders… and vampires…

Drummond shook his head to shake the mood and looked at his Rolex. No wonder the water was getting cold. He'd been in the tub for nearly twenty minutes. Grabbing a washcloth and a bar of oddly perfumed soap, he set about giving himself a brisk scrubbing. Then, pulling the plug with his toe, he stepped out of the tub and into the shower. No matter how relaxing a bath might feel, he never felt really clean unless he showered. Spinning the taps produced a stinging torrent of hot water out of the shower nozzle. Stepping back and adjusting the cold tap to near full power brought the spray to a comfortable temperature, and Drummond quickly shampooed his hair before rinsing off for the last time.

Towelling off, he stared once again at his week-old beard and decided it could stay until he got back to L.A. In the bedroom, he unpacked his ubiquitous gray slacks and navy blazer, along with a pair of black Gucci loafers. His towel ended up over a convenient chair as he pulled on the light blue silk boxer shorts and yellow polo shirt. He had almost forgotten the sybaritic pleasure of being clean. Putting on his socks, he climbed into the slacks and then stepped into his shoes.

For a moment he hesitated about packing the clothes he'd been wearing for the previous week, but in the end decided that an hour in the Maytag would probably rehabilitate them. Folding them into neat little bundles, he stuffed them into the bottom of his suit bag before zipping it closed and folding it in half. Consulting his watch once again, Drummond decided that he just had time for a fast steak before heading over to check-in at the airport.

* * * *

The young lady at the check-in counter hardly even batted an eye when Drummond checked in his bag and handed her his sword. Pressing a button next to her computer terminal produced, within seconds, a baggage technician with a plastic rifle case large enough to accommodate the sword. After placing the ancient weapon carefully in the foam-lined container, the lid was closed and the case locked. The baggage technician gave the key to Drummond, along with a separate luggage tag, before he trundled the case away through the crowded airport concourse.

On the other side of the security barrier, Drummond paid a visit to the Duty-Free shop. He marveled at the incredible variety of useless items that embarking passengers were enticed to buy, ostensibly at prices far below those in stores.

"Hello, sir. May I help you?" Drummond was surprised to find the young woman behind the counter was speaking to him.

"Uh, no, I don't think so." He smiled. "I'm just looking."

"Well, then, perhaps you'd like to see one of our Sony CD players. They are on sale."

Drummond was about to decline when he saw the fat woman who had been seated next to him on the flight over, browsing her way through a rack of loden cloth capes. Over her shoulder was a white flight bag that had "Sound of Music Tours" stenciled on the side in bright blue German gothic script.

"Will these things drown out Julie Andrews?" he suddenly asked.

For a moment the girl was speechless; then she recovered her sales composure.

"Sir, if you set the volume high enough, they'll drown out anything."

Embarrassed, Drummond bought the CD player and, making his way over to a rack of CDs, picked out half a dozen disks from the classical music section. Handing the girl his credit card, he scanned the Duty-Free shop, hoping to avoid bumping into his former "traveling companion" while he waited for the transaction to be completed.

With his CD player in his pocket, Drummond headed down to the gate just as they began loading the passengers. Falling in with the rest of the passengers shuffling their way onto the plane, Drummond showed the stewardess his boarding card and then headed toward his aisle seat over the wing.

The aircraft was nearly full, and the middle-aged man reading
Der Stern
by the window looked like he might be the sort who would sleep through most of the flight. With luck, the seat between them would remain unoccupied. Clipping his CD player to his belt, Drummond stored his jacket in the overhead compartment before dropping into his seat. He had fumbled his CDs into the seat pocket in front of him and was finally settling down for take-off, hunting up the ends of his seat belt, when she came bustling up.

Cops are trained to never forget a face, and Drummond could never have forgotten the face or the inflated blond hair of the woman peering expectantly at the seat beside him. Although he had managed to forget her name, Drummond recognized her immediately as his seat mate from the flight over.

"Say, don't I know you from somewhere?" she asked, as he stood up resignedly for her to squeeze past him.

He forced a smile. "Probably not, ma'am."

She plumped into the seat and began stashing her "Sound of Music" carry-on under the seat in front of her, along with a yellow plastic shopping bag that said

"
München Zollfrei"
—Munich Duty-Free. Settling into her seat, she looked as if she was about to ask another question when the stewardess began her in-flight safety monologue. After showing everyone how to inflate their life jackets and how to use a whistle the stewardess sat down, and the aircraft began its long roll down the runway, gathering speed for take off. Teeth clenched and knuckles white with fear as the 747 lifted itself into the sky, for a moment at least the woman next to Drummond was silent.

"Now, you're sure we haven't met?" she asked, once they were airborne looking up at him again as she straightened and wiggled farther into her seat. The question was nearly a challenge.

"I'm sure I'd remember you if we had met before."

Drummond hated lying. Hated it as much as he hated beets, but then sometimes you had to eat beets, just like sometimes you had lie.

"Well, I suppose not. Say, you weren't on the 'Sound of Music' tour, were you?" She sounded as if she was about to remember him.

"No," Drummond said truthfully, "I definitely didn't travel around Austria on the bus with your group."

"How did you know we were on a bus tour?" Her voice rose in amazement.

"I saw the bus at the airport. Now, if you'll excuse me…" Drummond plugged the tiny earphones into his head and settled back to enjoy his music.

Pop
. The tiny padded speaker jumped out of his ear.

"I'm sorry," she said, rummaging in her bag. "I think I caught your wire with my arm, accidental-like."

"Oh, that's all right," he said, thinking that this woman was perhaps the albatross of cheap air travel.

"Listen," she said.

"That's what I was trying to do."

"Huh? Oh, that's funny. Now, as I was about to say, you look a little pale. Are you all right?" Her concern sounded genuine.

"I'm probably just a little tired. I've been up for several days working with very little sleep." Drummond feigned a yawn. "So, if you'll excuse me?" He smiled his most polite smile.

"Sure. You go right ahead and sleep. Don't let me bother you."

She rummaged under the seat again and pulled a thick paperback book out of her flight bag. The lurid cover showed a vampire who bore more than a passing resemblance to George Hamilton ripping the bodice off a well-endowed woman, his fangs bared, ready to sink into her… neck, Drummond supposed, although the cover artist clearly wanted to convey more than that.

With a private shudder, he replaced the earphone and closed his eyes, trying hard to settle into a nap. His rest was interrupted by the attendant bumping into him with a trolley as she came down the aisle with drinks, and again by the woman next to him, just before mealtime.

"Excuse me," she said, shaking Drummond's arm. "Excuse me, but my Bloody Mary wants out."

Half asleep, it took Drummond a second or two to focus on what she had said. "What… ?"

"I need to go to the little girl's room. So if you don't mind, could you let me out? Please?"

Drummond stood in the aisle, and the woman wiggled past and headed back to the toilets in the middle of the aircraft. While he was standing, Drummond stretched and absently looked around the cabin of the jumbo jet. For no apparent reason, his attention was drawn to a swarthy man in an ill-fitting suit seated on the aisle three rows behind him, just ahead of the toilets, where Mrs. Albatross now stood impatiently in line.

A hawklike nose jutted out from between two dark brown, intense eyes. Thick, wiry eyebrows almost met above the bridge of the man's nose, every bit as wild as the thatch of hair on top of his head. There was something about the man that caused a little psychic alarm to sound somewhere in Drummond's subconscious.

Turning away from the man with the haunted look, Drummond decided that he was glad airlines took extra precautions with passengers. The man had the look of a fanatic.

She returned. Struggling into her seat, she smiled up at Drummond and stuck out her hand.

"I'm Bea MacDowell. Twenty-first Century Real Estate." Drummond looked at the hand, it held a business card.

"John Drummond. It's a pleasure to meet you." Beets again, this time with carrots. He took the card and slipped it into his pocket.

"Mind if I ask what you do?" Bea sounded like she was about to try to sell him a house.

Drummond settled into his seat before answering. "I'm between jobs."

"Well, once you get settled in LA…" Bea MacDowell could tell a No Sale right away.

"Look, you'll have to excuse me, but I don't feel very well. Perhaps we could discuss this after we land?" No unpleasant vegetables this time; Drummond was feeling slightly queasy.

Without waiting for Bea's reply, he stuffed the earphones into his ears, turned on the Mozart disk, and closed his eyes.
Die Zauberflöte
filled Drummond's consciousness, conjuring up images of a great snake that for some reason was trying to eat F. Murray Abraham… Drummond drifted off into dreamland.

He was flying high above the forest, his cape spread out like two enormous bat wings. It was midnight, and far below he could make out a castle. Swooping down, he could see a beautiful, dark-haired woman sitting next to the open window. There was something familiar about her, but maddeningly he couldn't see her face. No matter how hard he tried to look at her, his gaze was somehow diverted and he found himself staring fixedly at a golden brooch pinned to the front of her gown.

Frustrated in his attempt to see the face of this woman he seemed to know, Drummond spread his cape wide, rushing headlong over the treetops toward a small clearing where a gentle amber light flickered in the velvet darkness of the forest. The clearing below suddenly exploded in a searing red light, and from above the trees Drummond could see naked men slowly marching toward another figure he knew but couldn't recognize.

The men were well muscled and carried something before them, something almost recognized by Drummond. They stopped in front of the figure the unseen Drummond knew, and one by one they received something from the figure: almost but not quite a cup. Slowly they lifted the vessel to their lips. Blood ran down their chins, and in the distance, mournful horns sounded deep within the forest.