“I don’t suppose you can talk about it.”

“You’re trustworthy enough,” Jimmy said. “Just keep away from Mabel Werts and Ann Norton, if you please. They’d be seeing natives with poison blowguns in the bushes.”

Matt laughed.

“The kid was found over by the window of his room. The nurse said he must have gotten up, opened it, and then collapsed. She called a doctor in—Dr Berry in fact—and Berry pronounced him dead. He noted a condition which is known somewhat unfairly as mortician’s complexion, and it’s not that rare, but…I examined Danny Glick the day before. He had an anemic condition, an acutely anemic condition.” Jimmy shook his head and twiddled his stethoscope absently. “It was bad enough so I had set up a series of tests for the big C.”

“Leukemia?” Matt asked.

“Yes—it was the only thing that fit. But I’ve never heard of a case of mortician’s complexion in conjunction with anemia. And rigor mortis was late and extremely shallow, which is a condition most common with people who are prone to hypertension—high blood pressure.”

“Did he have a previous history of anemia?”

“Hell, no! I gave him a physical myself when he went out for little league baseball. That also tends to make me think that the kid was maybe developing leukemia. The tests he was given when he was admitted show negative, but they were general diagnostic tests, not very conclusive. If the boy had lived one more day…” He trailed off for a moment. “Anyway, I’m in correspondence with three heavy heads in the area. If the condition has been noted before in pm leukemia patients, I think that will solve it. I still might write it up, though.”

He shook his head. “The mother and father went into hysterics when they saw him, and I can’t blame them. That kid didn’t look any more dead than, well, than you do. He looked ready to get right up and start shagging flies.”

“His father made that very clear at the funeral,” Matt said. “I don’t suppose Danny had any innocent-looking marks on his neck?”

Jimmy Cody had been rearranging medicine samples in a glass case, and now he looked around sharply.

“Why, now that you mention it, the boy didhave a couple of small scratches just above the carotid vein. How did you know that?”

Matt smiled, although he felt a superstitious uneasiness in spite of himself, and felt the crawl of hard bumps up his forearms—somewhere a goose was walking across his grave. But he certainly was not going to show Jimmy Cody that feeling.

“It seems to me you have a little more technical literature to read, Jimmy. I recommend the public library. A man by the name of Bram Stoker described all of Danny Glick’s symptoms almost seventy-five years ago.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“I certainly hope so,” Matt said. “The name of the book is Dracula.”

 

In Chapter 8(Ben [III]), there are several scenes which failed to make it to the finished book. Here are a few:

When he woke up, it was quarter after four. His body was beaded with sweat, and he had kicked the upper sheet away. Still, he felt clearheaded again. The events of that early morning seemed to be far away and dim, and Matt Burke’s fancies seemed no more than a harmless, antique whimsey.

Still, Mike Bush [Ryerson] was dead. That was a fact.

He went down the hall to the shower with a towel slung over his shoulder, and Weasel looked out of his room. His eyes were bleary, and he was holding a gallon jug of zinfandel red by the neck.

“Ben, how are you, buddy?”

“All right, Weasel.”

“Come on in an’ have a drink. Awful thing about Mike Bush. I knew his mom well. She was a lovely woman.”

“Maybe later, Weasel. I want to get a shower.”

“Sure, buddy. Say—”

Ben, who had gotten to the bathroom door, looked back over his shoulder.

“I heard ol’ Mabel Werts blabbing her jowls to Joe Crane when I was down to the store, an’ she was saying that maybe both Mike and that poor little Glick boy might have had some rare disease—”

“That’s bullshit, Weasel.”

“Yeah…still, you shower good, buddy. You never know what germs dead people have.”

Ben went in and shut the door. Undressing, he reflected that the telephone was the most primitive form of communication in a small town. The comment Matt Burke had made to Jimmy Cody had been enough to set the ball rolling. Like that game they played on rainy days when they were kids—Whisper. Start off with “Frankie Winchell has pimples” and by the time it got to the other side of the room you had “Francis Waylon is pregnant.” Parkins Gillespie whispers to his wife, his wife whispers to Ann Norton, Ann whispers to Mabel Werts, and Mabel sends it into the streets in a fright-wig.

He turned on the showerhead.

 

 

 

When he went downstairs, Eva said: “Matt Burke called about an hour ago. Wants you to call him back. He said there was no hurry.”

“Okay.”

Several of the oldsters who roomed at Eva’s were eating their supper at the table—beans and sardines—and asked him to sit down and tell them about Mike. Ben did, not because he wanted to tell his story again, but because he was curious to find how far the rumors had gotten.

“I heard they may throw a quarantine over us,” Grover Verrill said, holding a sardine by its tail for a moment before popping it into his toothless mouth.

“Where did you hear that?” Ben asked.

“Joe Crane was tellin’ it down at Crossen’s,” Grover said, and looked over at Vinnie Upshaw. “Ain’t you been down there today?”

“No; goddamn leg’s tighter’n a tick. May go down this evenin’.”

“Why would they want to throw a quarantine?” Mabe Mullican asked.

“They think he may have had one of them funny diseases,” Grover said. “The berryberries or Hong Kong mumps or some shit like that,” he added sagely.

“Think he mighta caught it off that Glick kid, do they?” Mabe asked.

“Well, as Joe told it—”

Ben slipped away to the phone in the hall and dialed Matt’s number. The other end was picked up after a single ring. “Hello? Ben?”

“Yes.”

“I talked to Carl Foreman.”

“What did he say?”

“Daniel Glick was cosmeticized, but not embalmed. The father wouldn’t allow it.”

“Which means he…” Ben suddenly became aware that he could be heard in the kitchen.

Matt mistook his reticence for the delicacy they had both shown when approaching the subject.

“It means that Danny Glick couldbe Undead. He couldhave sucked Mike Bush’s blood.” His voice rose a note. “We’re talking about vampires, Ben. And all the old legends say they can only be stopped by three things: sunlight, holy artifacts, or a stake through the heart. I don’t know about the others—perhaps the Torah would stop a Jewish vampire—but I suspect evisceration would substitute nicely for the stake. But Danny Glick was not eviscerated! He was not embalmed! He could be—”

“Settle down,” Ben said.

“Yes,” Matt said. “Yes, I’m sorry for that. Are there people close enough to hear?”

“Yes.”

“You’re coming over tonight?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Good.” The relief in Matt’s voice was nearly tangible. “Can you see how important it is that Mike Bush is given…everything?”

“Yes.”

“There’s another matter, too. Something I just thought of.”

“What?”

“Not over the phone. Will you be here…before dark?”

“Yes, okay.” Ben hesitated, and then said what had been on his mind. “I may bring Susan with me.”

“Do you mean tell her?”

“Is it a bad idea?”

“I don’t know…no, that might be all right. If you think it’s best, all right.”

“Okay,” Ben said. “Maybe I’ll bring her and the three of us can…can discuss things.”

“All right, Ben. I’m sorry if I sounded hysterical.”

“No, you didn’t. I’ll see you, Matt.”

“Okay. Good-by.”

“By.”

Ben hung up thoughtfully. The fears were not so distant or so curiously antique now. The word they had both avoided—even the night before—had been spoken.