The Vampire Hunters (Book 2): Vampyrnomicon (26 page)

Emilio Carius is different.

I knew soon after they brought him to Aljaferia that evil consumed this man. It was not the vile blasphemies that emanated from his tongue in a steady stream of verbal defilements against God the Father and Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Nor was it the fact that it required six of our strongest men to subdue and bring him into custody, or that a series of chains were required to be draped across and wrapped around his body to hold him in place. Even the accusations against him—that he only left his residence at night during the witching hours, that he was frequently witnessed cavorting with immoral women or tempting young children, none of whom were ever seen again—failed to accurately define his inner darkness. No, what bespoke of his evil was his imperviousness to the physical tribulations he endured, tribulations designed to bring about a cleansing of the soul and the redemption from sin.

For three days we attempted to convince him to confess his sins and renounce Satan, all to no avail. Though I may be condemned to eternal damnation for daring to commit this to paper, it seems as if God’s merciful presence had abandoned Aljaferia.

On the first day, we tried the strappado. Tying his hands behind his back and the weights around his ankles was difficult due to his inhuman strength. God forgive me, I doubt we would have been able to succeed if he had not wanted us to subject him to tribulation to taunt our faith in the Almighty. No man or woman has been able to endure the strappado for long. Yet when we hoisted his bound wrists onto the pulley and lifted him off the ground, Emilio Carius laughed and blasphemed the Lord God and the Holy Catholic Church. We raised and dropped him a dozen times, and nary once did he even groan in discomfort. On the thirteenth drop—the unholy number—the weights around his ankles proved too great a burden for his body to bear, breaking his arms. I know as sure as I know there is a God Almighty that Carius’ arms broke, for the sound of their snapping was audible to all present, and his inability to use them afterwards was evident. I emphasize this point to make clear the unholy nature of what happened next, for after hoisting Carius down and returning him to his cell, next morning his arms were healed completely as if no injury occurred. A demonic sign if ever I have witnessed one.

On the second day, we tried the water. Again, strapping him to the trestle was difficult, requiring three times as many ropes and chains as is normal to ensure his being secure. We used a stick to place the strip of linen down his throat for fear of being bitten. But when we lowered his head and poured water on the linen, it had no effect. Again, he barely seemed to suffer discomfort. I ordered the guards to double the amount of water poured on the linen and to triple his time on the trestle, steps that would kill a normal man. I swear by all that is Holy that none of this had any effect on him. After the guards took Carius back to his cell, they talked in fear amongst themselves about the powerful nature of the evil we faced.

On the third day we tried the fire. As we tied Carius to the floor and doused his feet in oil, I thought I detected a touch of fear in his voice as he blasphemed all that is holy about our Church. But when we positioned his feet near the flames, his fear—if indeed it was fear—did not prevent him from continuing his stream of invectives against God and from spewing forth the most disgusting and vile blasphemies about the Holy Virgin Mother.

From the ultimate evil can flow the ultimate blessings, and that was when I discovered by the grace of our All Merciful God the demon’s weakness.

“Fifteen minutes to closing,” announced the archivist from the doorway.

Shit. Reese looked at his watch, irrationally hoping that maybe she had misread the time. No such luck. He looked up, startled to see her staring intently at him. Oh, God. Did she notice the memoirs spread out on the workspace? If she became suspicious and came over to investigate, and discovered how he had defaced the Bible, he would be banned from the archives and never get to finish reading the memoirs. Reese smiled, hoping to defuse the stern look.

The lines around her lips and eyes became even sharper, if possible. Taking the index finger of her right hand, she tapped it several times against her watch. Reese acknowledged her with a thumb up. The stern features did not soften any, but at last she left the room and went back about her business.

Knowing he had only a few minutes at most to put everything back in order without intrusion, Reese worked quickly. He realigned the pages of the memoirs so they were perfectly stacked. He opened the Bible and slid the pages back into the pocket in the cover. Per his usual routine, he replaced the Bible in its basswood case and shelved it, breathing an inward sigh of relief that no one caught him. With everything put away, Reese gathered up his belongings and left, wishing the archivist a pleasant good night.

Once outside, Reese paused. His heart still raced with excitement. He had found a secret memoir by Antonio Ferrar, one that no previous historian had ever known existed, let alone read. Even more exciting, it dealt with the legendary vampire who last owned the
Vampyrnomicon
. He had stumbled across a historical goldmine, a once in a lifetime find. Unfortunately, he would have to put off mining that gold until the Freer opened again tomorrow morning.

Zipping up his jacket against the chill, Reese headed back to his hotel for dinner.

*     *     *

Negotiating the rush
hour traffic through Georgetown, Rodriguez spent more time with his foot on the brake than on the accelerator. After lurching to a stop for the umpteenth time, he began to wish he had taken the squad car rather this his own, because that way he could have switched on the siren and flashing blues and expedited his way through the congestion. Instead, he used his own car so he could go home right after taking care of business at the funeral home. That would make his wife and daughter happy. However, when the gridlock at Whitehurst Freeway and Wisconsin Avenue caused him to miss the traffic signal for the third time, he regretted his decision.

By the time he made it onto Wisconsin Avenue and turned left onto the street where the Serra Funeral Home was located, he already had gone an hour past the end of his shift. He did not need a clock to tell him that. The setting sun creeping toward the horizon glared down the street, taunting him with another late shift. He pulled down the visor. Squinting against the brightness, Rodriguez almost overshot the driveway leading into the funeral home’s parking lot. He turned the steering wheel sharply to the right, bounced the front tire over the curb as he entered the driveway, and parked around back. Two minutes later, he stood on the back porch ringing the service bell.

An extremely attractive blonde opened the door. Standing five-and-a-half feet in height with shoulder-length hair, she reminded Rodriguez of a young Jodie Foster. Her attire took him by surprise—white blouse, black skirt, and black heels. Granted, he did not expect a hunchback with a broken neck, but neither did he anticipate meeting someone who looked like they just stepped out of a Washington law firm.

“May I help you?” she asked, a solemn expression masking any emotion.

“Are you Miss Hughes?”

“I am.”

“I’m Officer Rodriguez with the Washington Police.” He offered his hand. “We spoke a few hours ago about Michael Fletcher.”

“Do you have some identification, please?”

“Of course.”

Rodriguez reached under his jacket and pulled out his badge, flipped it open, and presented it. She examined it for several seconds, then moved aside and held open the door.

“Please, come in. Sorry to seem so paranoid. We have to protect the deceased’s privacy.”

Rodriguez stepped inside. “Is that really a problem, Miss Hughes?”

“You’d be surprised. Once we were preparing a former child star who had ODed on cocaine while staying here in Washington. A tabloid journalist showed up claiming to be a police photographer.” She closed the door and turned to Rodriguez, flashing him a flirtatious smile. “And please, call me Michelle.”

Michelle led Rodriguez through the back rooms of the funeral home and down a flight of stairs to the embalming room. As they approached, Rodriguez coughed, the overpowering odor of disinfectants irritating his sinuses. Still, it was not as aggravating as having to listen to George Thorogood’s
Bad to the Bone
blasting from a stereo system. When they entered the embalming room, Rodriguez stopped short, taken aback by the sight before him.

His gaze focused on the stainless steel table in the center of the floor. Atop the table lay the cadaver of a middle-aged man, naked except for a piece of cloth discretely covering its genitals. Its head rested on a plastic block, and its arms were folded across the chest in a state of peaceful repose, temporarily held in place by a wooden positioning device. Between the loss of blood and the pale, waxy appearance, the cadaver looked more like a movie prop than something that once had been alive.

The mortician stood behind the table. Wearing a full-length white vinyl coat, yellow latex gloves, and a surgical mask, he looked like a mad scientist. He hovered over the cadaver holding what appeared to be a nail gun. The mortician placed the gun against the cadaver’s gum just beneath its nose and depressed the trigger. A hydraulic thump echoed over the music. When the mortician pulled the gun away, Rodriguez could see the head of a needle imbedded in the cadaver’s gum, with a short length of wire attached. The mortician performed the same procedure to the matching spot on the lower gum. Rodriguez nearly puked when the mortician began tying the two strands of wire together, wiring the jaw shut.

Michelle leaned into Rodriguez and spoke loud enough to be heard over the music. “First time seeing a dead body?”

“I’ve seen plenty of dead bodies. I’ve just never seen them… like this.”

Hearing the two talking, the mortician looked up from his work and reached over to turn off the stereo. “Sorry. I didn’t hear you come in.”

Michelle answered for them. “Bob, this is Officer Rodriguez with the Washington Police. He’s here to pick up Fletcher’s personal affects.”

“Nice to meet you.” Rodriguez stepped up to the work table and extended his hand.

Bob did not offer his own. “Don’t mean to be rude, but you don’t want to be shaking my hand right now.”

Rodriguez could not argue with that.

“Michelle, could you get Officer Rodriguez the bag with Fletcher’s personal belongings?”

“Sure thing.”

As she left, Bob bent over the cadaver. “If you’ll excuse me. I need to finish up here, and then we can talk.”

“Go ahead.”

Rodriguez moved to one side so as not to be in the way, but still watched with morbid fascination. Bob moved to the next stage of the embalming process. He took from underneath the stand holding the embalming machine several bottles containing various fluids and emptied them into the machine’s container tank.

“Is that formaldehyde?” asked Rodriguez.

“A mixture of formaldehyde and glutaraldehyde.” Bob held out the empty bottle for Rodriguez to see. “The rest of the solution is made up of germicides, preservatives, dyes, water, and a bunch of other chemicals.”

“It sounds like a drink at a bar I know of in Dupont Circle.”

“Trust me. This cocktail would rip out your insides within seconds.”

Bob finished filling the container tank with two gallons of embalming fluid mixture. Taking a scalpel from the tray, he used it to make a small incision several inches long near the cadaver’s collarbone, then used an aneurism hook to pull back the layers of skin and muscle until the arteries were exposed. He raised the right common carotid artery above the skin and strung two sutures underneath it, holding the artery in place, then followed the same procedure with the right jugular vein. Again using the scalpel, Bob made one incision each in the carotid artery and the jugular vein. Picking up two tubes from where they rested by the embalming machine, Bob inserted the pumping arterial tube into the carotid artery pointing toward the heart, inserted the drain tube into the jugular vein, and secured both in place with sutures. With all the preparations having been made, Bob switched on the embalming machine and set the pump’s pulse feature. Embalming fluid pumped down the arterial tube. As the fluid was injected into Fletcher’s cadaver and filled the vascular system, the body began to expand to its normal size. Every few seconds, the pulsing action would eject remnants of blood and bodily fluid out of the drain tube, which emptied into a nearby sink.

After removing his gloves and wiping his palms on a towel draped over the rim of the sink, Bob stepped over to Rodriguez and extended his hand. “Let me properly introduce myself. I’m Bob Hanley.”

“Juan Rodriguez. Nice to meet you.” He shook the mortician’s hand. “You have an interesting operation here.”

“Thanks. It’s not for everyone, though. It grossed the shit out of me for the first few months. That’s why I could never understand why Michelle wants to get into the business.”