A Sharpness On The Neck (Saberhagen's Dracula Book 9) by Fred Saberhagen (book suggestions TXT) 📕

its windows were shaded or heavily tinted. Riding in the second or third seat of that vehicle at night, a couple of kidnap victims would be able to see very little of anything outside except for passing headlights.

      He kept trying to fight off moments of panic. Now might be his last chance to try to find out where he was, where they were being taken. Looking around him in search of a landmark, something that might later help him identify this location, Philip could see nothing familiar and nothing memorable.

      The sun had now been gone for almost two hours, but the last glow of sunset still clung to the western sky.

      Counteracting the prisoners’ tendency to panic was the fact that all the kidnappers, masked and otherwise, continued to treat them with an incomprehensible, eerie courtesy. Radcliffe was several times assured that he and June would get their car back. He was allowed to see that it was being securely parked, its convertible top raised against possible changes in the weather, hidden partially inside the shed, which lacked one wall.

      Before pulling out on the next leg of the journey, some of the masked people discussed a possible effort to erase the convertible’s tire tracks from a long section of dusty road.

      “The rain will take care of it,” Connie remarked, as if to herself.

      What rain? Philip thought. Then only moments later he saw the first flash of lightning, in the southwest.

* * * * * *

      Twelve minutes by Philip’s watch after their arrival they were on their way again, the Radcliffes being transported by three of the masked folk in the new machine. Both Graves and Connie had been left behind, but not until Graves had assured both his prisoners that he would see them within a few hours: “Certainly before dawn.”

      Radcliffe thought he heard one of the masks murmur a question to another: would it now be necessary to tie the prisoners’ arms and legs? The answer seemed to be no, but it was worrisomely long in coming.

      The Suburban had seats for nine people, in a pinch, and currently six were aboard. From the sound of the tires, and the rocking motion of the vehicle, it was easy to tell that part of the trip was off-road, and a larger part on some secondary, unpaved route. Occasionally a piece of gravel pinged against the underbody.

      This leg of the journey was longer than the previous one, lasting more than four hours. Gradually the area where rain was threatening was left behind. The victims had been allowed to keep their watches. Since their wrists weren’t tied, they could look at them; but it did no good. With the windows of the vehicle darkened, it was hard to tell even the general direction they were now taking.

       This time the masked driver used the headlights, and drove at a less alarming speed over the bad roads.

      While they were under way, a couple of their masked guardians rode with the victims in the back seat, making reassuring comments, and from time to time engaging them in casual conversation. There were remarks about the weather and the baseball season. And about the coming election.

      Radcliffe had little patience with this tactic. “What are you going to do with us?”

      The people in masks were patiently reassuring. “Nothing that will hurt you. You will be required to stay for a time in a place where it will be relatively easy for us to offer you protection.”

      “Why?” Phil’s was a ragged, anguished cry.

      “It’s a long story. Like I said, we’re not going to hurt you, whatever happens. And you do need protection, depend on it. The thing is, we had to act first and explain later.”

      “Can’t you at least tell us why?”

      “I’d like to hear the explanation!” June challenged.

      “You will, ma’am.” The male voice was calm and courteous; it might have belonged to a good cop and not a kidnapper. “But from someone who can do a better job of it than I can.”

      From time to time Phil tried again: “We’re not wealthy, you know. None of our relatives are wealthy. You think my company is going to ransom me? Hah! You’re not going to get any money out of this.”

      The nearest rubber mask was nodding. “We understand that. Making money out of this is not our intention at all.”

      Then what is?”

      “Have a little patience. Everything will be explained.”

      “Why not explain it now?”

      A hesitation. “Mainly because it’d sound too crazy. That’s the truth. Mr. Graves had better be the one to do the job.”

      “Why?”

      “He can do it more convincingly.”

      There came a mysterious interval in which some time was spent parked and waiting, evidently for a signal of some kind to be given from up ahead.

      As if they were taking turns at trying to lay the groundwork for the task of explanation, which they foresaw would be long and hard, the guardians observed more than once that they had reached the couple barely in time.

      “Barely in time for what?”

      But of course that question received no satisfactory answer.

* * *

      Graves after several hours’ absence rejoined his captives and their guards. In the mystic grayness just before dawn, he stood waiting in the road, and boarded the vehicle when it pulled up and stopped for him. This time he climbed aboard in the ordinary way, moving with smooth agility.

      The dark, mysteriously impressive man plainly did not care whether his victims saw his face or not. That was ominous when Radcliffe thought about it.

      Having gone through his prisoners’ pockets and purse, Graves said, in a tone of finality: “You are Philip Radcliffe.” It sounded madly as if he were going to add: “I have a warrant for your arrest.”

      “Yes.” In a way he was suddenly afraid to admit his identity, but with all the ID in his billfold, credit cards and such, it seemed pointless to try to deny the fact. Then, responding to what he was still convinced must be on his captors’ minds, he repeated yet again: “But I