An Old Friend Of The Family (Saberhagen's Dracula Book 3) by Fred Saberhagen (interesting books to read for teens .TXT) 📗

bent forward to touch him, with a finger or perhaps a toe, as he lay on the floor. And she had laughed, musically, and had spoken to someone who was over near the door that must lead from the bedroom to a hall. Her language sounded a little like Latin, but mostly like soothing that Johnny had ever heard before. Then she had gone away again.

   It was not easy to keep track of time. In the bedroom outside the closet, a modern but abandoned-looking room with no furniture that he traversed on his escorted trips to the bathroom, the drapes were always closed. Still he could just tell whether it was daylight outside or not. The trouble was in sorting out the periods of day and night and keeping track of how many of them had passed. And there was more trouble in trying to believe there was a reason why he should bother to keep track at all.

   Thick-glasses sometimes left him plain bread in the aluminum pie plate placed on the luxuriously carpeted floor. Once there was cheese with the bread, and once it had turned into a peanut butter sandwich. Johnny didn’t eat much, whatever it was. He did drink a lot of water, though, out of the other dish. Lapping it up was the best way, because then he didn’t have to use his hands at all. They both hurt so much he wasn’t going to try to use them except to save his life. Maybe not even then.

   It might have been his second night in the closet when he heard the car pull up outside. Immediately Thick-glasses went into a flurry of activity, entering the bedroom from somewhere, momentarily pulling aside the drapes to look out, then opening the closet door to growl: “Make any noise and it’ll be you left nut that comes off next.” Then he closed the door and went trotting off somewhere, closing the bedroom door too behind him.

   Johnny could hear nothing more for several minutes. Then two sets of footsteps entered the bedroom, its ceiling light was switched on, the closet door was opened. Even with his eyes dazzled, Johnny could recognize Black-beard from the kidnap car.

   The two men stood there looking at him on the floor. Black-beard was wearing some kind of fancy winter jacket with snow on the collar. Thick-glasses wore his usual khakis, almost a uniform.

   “If the plan’s going on,” said Black-beard, “we don’t want him to die yet; we’ll want to send some more parcels. He’s shivering, better get him a blanket.”

   “Oh, the plan’s going on,” Thick-glasses said.

   Black-beard: “I’d like to get it straight about this house, who owns it, how secure it really is.”

   “She’s taking care of all that.”

   They closed the closet door. Their voices stayed in the lighted bedroom, though.

   “Look, man.” It was Black-beard talking again. “You’ve really known her longer than I have, right? Her and her big friend. It was really you who arranged for her to meet me, huh?”

   The other was quiet for a few moments. “Yeah.” As if he didn’t want to talk about that.

   “I’m going to have to talk to her, get a few things straight. Like who really decides things. Meanwhile I want you to understand that I’m the one who does.”

   “Sure.”

   “I’m not gonna hang around here. Do either of them ever come out here?”

   “They haven’t yet.”

   “What’d you do with his clothes?”

   “I got’em stashed away. This way he’s not gonna go running out. Also I don’t have to do his zipper for him.”

   Black-beard chuckled. “Makes something else a little handier for you too, hey?”

   “Hey, you know I don’t like to touch no one who’s unhealthy.” Thick-glasses sounded genuinely hurt. “He’s all blood and shit—yuck.”

   “You could give him a bath.”

   “Come on, get off me, Boss.”

   “All right, all right.” Black-beard quenched his amusement. “Look, Gruner, you’re doing a fine job here, a helluva job. I’ll get word back to you on what to do next. You sure the phone here’s not connected?”

   “Sure.”

   Their voices moved away.

   Later that same night—though Johnny could not be quiet sure it really was the same night—he swam up out of sleep or stupor to hear that a party was in progress. Not in the bedroom; some where farther off. Voices again speaking that language that was almost Latin—this time maybe half a dozen people, having what sounded like a quite good time. Eventually he could pick out the voices of the woman who had looked in on him the night before. He didn’t hear Black-beard’s, though, or Thick-glasses’ either.

   Some strange man’s voice said, impatiently: “Oh, speak English here, why don’t you?” impatience was smeared over with good-humor, to make it sound polite.

   And then the lovely voice of the woman who had looked in on Johnny, answering in English: “I have lived on this side for the ocean for two years now. I know the custom. I choose to disregard it, usually. But if the mother tongue is hard for you, I will use English, as a favor.”

   Another woman said: “If you’re doing favors, I take it that you want something; you’ve called us together to ask our help. You have brought your feuds here from across the sea. That boy in the closet is connected with it somehow, I’m sure.”

   Several voices murmured agreement. The anonymous woman went on: “Well, we want nothing to do with any of that. Here there is no real knowledge of us among the breathers. No persecution ever, nothing but jokes. We wish things to remain as they are on this side of the water.”

   “Au contraire,” replied the woman with the lovely voice, now more silken than ever. “I only offer you my friendship. I do not ask your help. What lies between the old one and myself is our own affair, not yours at all.”

   “That’s fine with us,” a second