“Good Lord, look at it, David.” I had just stepped out of the taxi onto the crowded quai. The great blue and white Queen Elizabeth 2 was far too big to come into the little harbour. She rested at anchor a mile or two out—I could not gauge—so monstrously large that she seemed the ship out of a nightmare, frozen upon the motionless bay. Only her row upon row of myriad tiny windows prevented her from seeming the ship of a giant.
The quaint little island with its green hills and curved shore reached out towards her, as if trying to shrink her and draw her nearer, all in vain.
I felt a spasm of excitement as I looked at her. I had never been aboard a modern vessel. This part was going to be fun.
A small wooden launch, bearing her name in bold painted letters, and obviously laden with but one load of her many passengers, made its way to the concrete dock as we watched.
“There’s Jake in the prow of the launch,” said David. “Come on, let’s go into the café.”
We walked slowly under the hot sun, comfortable in our short-sleeve shirts and dungarees—a couple of tourists—past the dark-skinned vendors with their seashells for sale, and rag dolls, and tiny steel drums, and other souvenirs. How pretty the island appeared. Its forested hills were dotted with tiny dwellings, and the more solid buildings of the town of St. George’s were massed together on the steep cliff to the far left beyond the turn of the quai. The whole prospect had almost an Italian hue to it, what with so many dark and stained reddish walls and the rusted roofs of corrugated tin which in the burning sun looked deceptively like roofs of baked tile. It seemed a lovely place to go exploring—at some other time.
The dark café was cool inside with only a few brightly painted tables and straight-back chairs. David ordered bottles of cold beer, and within minutes Jake came sauntering in—wearing the very same khaki shorts and white polo shirt—and carefully chose a chair from which he might watch the open door. The world out there seemed made of glittering water. The beer tasted malty and rather good.
“Well, the deed is done,” Jake said in a low voice, his face rather rigid and abstracted as though he were not with us at all, but deep in thought. He took a gulp from the brown beer bottle, and then slipped a couple of keys across the table to David. “She’s carrying over one thousand passengers. Nobody will notice that Mr. Eric Sampson doesn’t reboard. The cabin’s tiny, inside as you requested, right off the corridor, midship, Five Deck, as you know.”
“Excellent. And you obtained two sets of keys. Very good.”
“The trunk’s open, with half the contents scattered on the bed. Your guns are inside the two books inside the trunk. Hollowed them out myself. The locks are there. You ought to be able to fit the big one to the door easily enough but I don’t know if the staff will care much for it when they see it. Again, I wish you the best of luck. Oh, and you heard the news about the robbery this morning on the hill? Seems we have a vampire in Grenada. Maybe you should plan to stay here, David. Sounds like just your sort of thing.”
“This morning?”
“Three o’clock. Right up there on the cliff. Big house of a rich Austrian woman. Everyone murdered. Quite a mess. The whole island’s talking about it. Well, I’m off.”
It was only after Jake had left us that David spoke again.
“This is bad, Lestat. We were standing out on the beach at three this morning. If he sensed even a glimmer of our presence, he may not be on the ship. Or he may be ready for us when the sun sets.”
“He was far too busy this morning, David. Besides, if he’d sensed our presence, he would have made a bonfire of our little room. Unless he doesn’t know how to do it, but that we simply cannot know. Let’s board the bloody ship now. I’m tired of waiting. Look, it’s starting to rain.”
We gathered up our luggage, including the monstrous leather suitcase David had brought from New Orleans, and hurried to the launch. A crowd of frail elderly mortals seemed to appear from everywhere—out of taxis and nearby sheds and little shops—now that the rain was really coming down, and it took us some minutes to get inside the unsteady little wooden boat, and take a seat on the wet plastic bench.
As soon as she turned her prow towards the Queen Elizabeth 2, I felt a giddy excitement—fun to be riding this warm sea in such a small craft. I loved the movement as we gained speed.
David was quite tense. He opened his passport, read the information for the twenty-seventh time, and then put it away. We had gone over our identities this morning after breakfast, but hoped that we would never need to use the various details.
For what it was worth, Dr. Stoker was retired and on vacation in the Caribbean but very concerned about his dear friend Jason Hamilton, who was traveling in the Queen Victoria Suite. He was eager to see Mr. Hamilton, and so he would tell the cabin stewards of the Signal Deck, though cautioning them not to let Mr. Hamilton know of this concern.
I was merely a friend he’d met at the guesthouse the night before, and with whom he’d struck up an acquaintance on account of our sailing together on the Queen Elizabeth 2. There was to be no other connection between us, for James would be in this body once the switch was done, and David might have to vilify him in some fashion if he could not be controlled.
There was more to it, in the event we were questioned about any sort of row that might occur. But in general, we did not think our plan could possibly lead to such a thing.
Finally the launch reached the ship, docking at a broad opening in the very middle of the immense blue hull. How utterly preposterously enormous the vessel appeared from this angle! She really did take my breath away.
I scarce noticed as we gave over our tickets to the waiting crew members. Luggage would be handled for us. We received some vague directions as to how we were to reach the Signal Deck, and then we were wandering down an endless corridor with a very low ceiling and door after door on either side of us. Within minutes, we realized we were quite lost.
On we walked until suddenly we reached a great open place with a sunken floor and, of all things, a white grand piano, poised on its three legs as if ready for a concert, and this within the windowless womb of this ship!
“It’s the Midships Lobby,” said David, pointing to a great colored diagram of the vessel in a frame upon the wall. “I know where we are now. Follow me.”
“How absurd all this is,” I said, staring at the brightly colored carpet, and the chrome and plastic everywhere I looked. “How utterly synthetic and hideous.”
“Shhh, the British are very proud of this ship, you’re going to offend someone. They can’t use wood anymore—it has to do with fire regulations.” He stopped at an elevator and pushed the button. “This will take us up to the Boat Deck. Didn’t the man say we must find the Queens Grill Lounge there?”
“I have no idea,” I said. I was like a zombie wandering into the elevator. “This is unimaginable!”
“Lestat, there have been giant liners like this one since the turn of the century. You’ve been living in the past.”
The Boat Deck revealed an entire series of wonders. The ship housed a great theatre, and also an entire mezzanine of tiny elegant shops. Below the mezzanine was a dance floor, with a small bandstand, and a sprawling lounge area of small cocktail tables and squat comfortable leather chairs. The shops were shut up since the vessel was in port, but it was quite easy to see their various contents through the airy grilles which closed them off. Expensive clothing, fine jewelry, china, black dinner jackets and boiled shirts, sundries, and random gifts were all on display in the shallow little bays.
There were passengers wandering everywhere—mostly quite old men and women dressed in scant beach clothing, many of whom were gathered in the quiet daylighted lounge below.
“Come on, the rooms,” said David, pulling me along.
It seems the penthouse suites, to which we were headed, were somewhat cut off from the great body of the ship. We had to slip into the Queens Grill Lounge, a long narrow pleasantly appointed bar reserved entirely for the top-deck passengers, and then find a more or less secret elevator to take us to these rooms. This bar had very large windows, revealing the marvelous blue water and the clear sky above.
This was all the province of first class on the transatlantic crossing. But here in the Caribbean it lacked this designation, though the lounge and restaurant locked out the rest of the little floating world.
At last we emerged on the very top deck of the ship, and into a corridor more fancily decorated than those below. There was an art deco feel to its plastic lamps, and the handsome trim on the doors. There was also a more generous and cheerful illumination. A friendly cabin steward—a gentleman of about sixty—emerged from a small curtained galley and directed us to our suites near the far end of the hall.
“The Queen Victoria Suite, where is it?” asked David.
The steward answered at once in a very similar British accent, that indeed, the Victoria Suite was only two cabins away. He pointed to the very door.
I felt the hair rise on my neck as I looked at it. I knew, absolutely knew, that the fiend was inside. Why would he bother with a more difficult hiding place? No one had to tell me. We would find a large trunk sitting near the wall in that suite. I was vaguely conscious of David using all his poise and charm upon the steward, explaining that he was a physician and how he meant to have a look at his dear friend Jason Hamilton as soon as he could. But he didn’t want to alarm Mr. Hamilton.
Of course not, said the cheerful steward, who volunteered that Mr. Hamilton slept throughout the day. Indeed, he was asleep in there now. Behold the “Do Not Disturb” sign hanging on the doorknob. But come, didn’t we want to settle into our rooms? Here was our luggage coming right along.
Our cabins surprised me. I saw both as the doors were opened, and before I retired into my own.
Once again, I spied only synthetic materials, looking very plastic and lacking altogether the warmth of wood. But the rooms were quite large, and obviously luxurious, and opened to each other with a connecting door to make one grand suite. This door was now closed.
Each room was furnished identically except for small differences of color, and rather like streamlined hotel rooms, with low king-sized beds, draped in soft pastel bedspreads, and narrow dressing tables built into the mirrored walls. There was the de rigueur giant television set, and the cleverly concealed refrigerator, and even a small sitting area with pale tastefully shaped little couch, coffee table, and upholstered chair.
The real surprise, however, was the verandas. A great glass wall with sliding doors opened upon these small private porches, which were wide enough to contain a table and chairs of their own. What a luxury it was to walk outside, and stand at the railing and look out upon the lovely island and its sparkling bay. And of course this meant the Queen Victoria Suite would have a veranda, through which the morning sun would very brightly shine!
I had to laugh to myself remembering our old vessels of the nineteenth century, with their tiny portholes. And though I much disliked the pale, spiritless colors of the decor, and the total absence of any vintage surface materials, I was beginning to understand why James had remained fascinated with this very special little realm.
Meantime I could plainly hear David talking away to the cabin steward, their lilting British accents seeming to sharpen in response to one another, their speech becoming so rapid that I couldn’t entirely follow what was being said.
Seems it all had to do with poor ailing Mr. Hamilton, and that Dr. Stoker was eager to slip in and have a look at him as he slept but the steward was terribly afraid to allow such a thing. In fact, Dr. Stoker wanted to obtain and keep a spare key to the suite, so that he might keep a very close watch on his patient just in case …
Only gradually, as I unpacked my suitcase, did I realize that this little conversation with all its lyrical politeness was moving towards the question of a bribe. Finally David said in the most courteous and considerate fashion that he understood the man’s discomfort, and look, he wanted the good fellow to have a supper at his expense first time he went into port. And if things did go wrong and Mr. Hamilton was upset, well, David would take the entire blame. He’d say he’d taken the key from the galley. The steward wouldn’t be implicated at all.
It seemed the battle was won. Indeed, David seemed to be using his near-hynotic power of persuasion. Yet there followed some polite and very convincing nonsense about how sick Mr. Hamilton was, on how Dr. Stoker had been sent by the family to look after him, and how important it was for him to have a look at the man’s skin. Ah, yes, the skin. Undoubtedly the steward inferred a life-threatening ailment. And finally, he confessed that all the other stewards were at lunch, he was alone on the Signal Deck just now, and yes, he’d turn his back, if Dr. Stoker was absolutely sure …
“My dear man, I take responsibility for everything. Now, here, you must take this for all the trouble I’ve caused you. Have supper in some nice … No, no, now don’t protest. Now leave things to me.”
Within seconds the narrow bright corridor was deserted. With a tiny triumphant smile David beckoned for me to come out and join him. He held up the key to the Queen Victoria Suite. We crossed the passage and he fitted it into the lock.
The suite was immense, and split between two levels separated by four or perhaps five carpeted steps. The bed rested upon the lower level, and was quite mussed, with pillows plumped up beneath the covers to make it appear that indeed someone was there fast asleep with a hood of covers carelessly drawn over his head.
The upper level contained the sitting area and the doors to the veranda, over which the thick draperies had been pulled, admitting almost no visible light. We slipped into the suite, snapped on the overhead lamp, and closed the door.
The pillows piled on the bed made an excellent ruse for anyone peeking in from the hallway, but on closer inspection did not appear to be a contrivance at all. Merely a messy bed.
So where was the devil? Where was the trunk?
“Ah, there,” I whispered. “On the far side of the bed.” I had mistaken it for some sort of table, as it was almost entirely draped with a decorative cloth. Now I could see that it was a large black metal locker, trimmed in brass, and very shiny, and easily big enough to accommodate a man with his knees crooked and lying upon his side. The thick drapery of decorative fabric was no doubt held in place upon the lid with a bit of glue. In the old century, I had often used this trick myself.
Everything else was quite immaculate, though the closets veritably bulged with fine clothes. A quick search of the dresser drawers revealed no documents of importance. Obviously he carried what few papers he required on his person, and his person was concealed inside that trunk. There were no jewels or gold hidden in this room as far as we could determine. But we found the stack of prestamped mailing envelopes which the fiend was using to get rid of the stolen treasures, and these were quite thick and large.
“Five post boxes,” I said, as I went through them. David noted all the numbers in his small leatherbound book, then slipped it back in his pocket and looked at the trunk.
I warned him in a whisper to be careful. The fiend can sense danger even in his sleep. Don’t think of touching the lock.
David nodded. He knelt down silently beside the trunk and gently laid his ear against the lid, and then he drew back rather fast and stared at it with a fierce and excited expression on his face.
“He’s in there all right,” he said, eyes still fixed on the trunk.
“What did you hear?”
“His heartbeat. Go listen for yourself if you wish. It’s your heart.”
“I want to see him,” I said. “Stand over there, out of the way.”
“I don’t think you should do this.”
“Ah, but I want to. Besides, I must assess that lock just in case.” I approached the trunk and realized as soon as I saw it closely that the lock had not even been turned. He either could not do it telepathically or had never bothered. Standing well to one side, I reached down with my right hand and jerked at the brass edge of the lid. Then I threw it back against the wall.
It struck the paneling with a dull sound, remaining open, and I realized that I was looking at a mass of soft black fabric, folded loosely and completely hiding the contents below. Nothing stirred beneath this fabric.
No powerful white hand suddenly reached for my throat!
Standing as far back as I could, I reached out and snatched up the cloth and drew it back in a great black flash of silk. My mortal heart was pounding miserably, and I almost lost my balance as I put several feet of space between myself and the trunk. But the body which lay there, quite visibly, with its knees drawn up just as I’d imagined, and its arms folded around its knees, did not move.
Indeed, the sunburnt face was as still as that of a mannequin, with its eyes closed and its familiar profile burning against the funereal padding of white silk beneath it. My profile. My eyes. My body dressed in formal evening black—a vampire’s black, if you will—with stiff white shirtfront and shining black tie at the neck. My hair, loose and full and golden in the dim light.
My body!
And I, standing there in a trembling mortal frame, with this bolt of loose black silk hanging like a matador’s cape from my trembling hand.
“Hurry!” David whispered.
Even as the syllables left his lips, I saw the crooked arm inside the trunk begin to move. The elbow tightened. The hand was sliding loose from its grip on the bent knee. At once I hurled the fabric back over the body, seeing it slip into the same shapeless covering it had been before. And with a quick swipe of my left fingers, I threw the lid up away from the wall so that it fell shut with a dull sound.
Thank God the fancy outer cloth did not catch in it, but tumbled down into place, covering the unsnapped lock. I moved backwards away from the locker, almost sick with fear and amazement, and felt the reassuring pressure of David’s hand on my arm.
Together we stood there silent for a long moment until we were certain that the preternatural body was at rest again.
Finally, I had collected myself sufficiently to take one more quiet look about. I was still trembling, but powerfully excited by the tasks that lay ahead.
Even with their thick layer of synthetic materials, these quarters were sumptuous by any standards. They represented the sort of luxury and privilege which very few mortals can ever attain. How he must have reveled in it. Ah, and to look at all those fine evening clothes. Black velvet dinner jackets as well as the more familiar style, and even an opera cape, he had indulged himself in that as well. There were shiny shoes galore on the floor of the closet, and a great wealth of expensive liquor exposed upon the bar.
Did he lure the women here for cocktails as he took his little drink?
I looked at the large stretch of glass wall, quite visible on account of the seam of light at the top and bottom edges of the draperies. Only now did I realize that this room was facing the southeast.
David squeezed my arm. Wasn’t it safe now to go?
We left the Signal Deck immediately without encountering the steward again. David had the key in his inside pocket.
Down we went now to Five Deck, which was the very last deck of cabins, though not of the ship itself, and we found the little inside stateroom of Mr. Eric Sampson, who did not exist, and where another trunk was waiting to be occupied by that body upstairs when it once again belonged to me.
Nice small, windowless chamber. Of course it had the regular lock, but what of the others, which Jake had brought aboard at our request?
They were entirely too cumbersome for our purposes. But I saw that the door could be made quite impassable if I pushed the trunk against it. That would keep out any troublesome steward, or James if he managed to be prowling about after the switch. He could not possibly move the door back. Indeed, if I wedged the trunk between the door and the end of the bunk, no one could move it. Excellent. So that part of the plan was complete.
Now to plot a route from the Queen Victoria Suite to this deck. As diagrams of the ship were hung in every small lobby and foyer, this was not difficult at all.
I quickly realized that Stairway A was the best interior route. Indeed it was perhaps the only stairway which went directly from the deck below ours all the way to Five Deck without a break. As soon as we reached the foot of this stairway, I knew that it would be nothing for me to drop from the very top of it, down through the well of turning railings to this very spot. Now, I must climb it to the Sports Deck, and see how to reach it from our deck above.
“Ah, you can do that, my dear young fellow,” said David. “I’m taking the elevator up those eight flights.”
By the time we met again in the quiet sunlight of the Queens Grill Lounge, I had plotted every step. We ordered a couple of gin and tonics—a drink that I found fairly tolerable—and went over the entire scheme in final detail.
We’d wait the night in hiding until James decided to retire for the approaching day. If he came early, we would wait until the crucial moment before we moved in upon him, throwing back the lid of his trunk.
David would have the Smith & Wesson leveled upon him as we both attempted to jolt his spirit out of the body, at which point I would rush in. Timing was crucial. He would be feeling the danger of the sunlight, and knowing that he could not possibly remain in the vampiric body; but he must not have sufficient opportunity to harm either of us.
If the first assault failed, and an argument did ensue, we would make plain to him the vulnerability of his position. If he tried to destroy either of us, our inevitable shouts or screams would bring help at once. And any dead body would be left lying in James’s stateroom. Where at the eleventh hour was James to go himself? It was very doubtful he knew how long he could remain conscious as the sun was rising. Indeed, I was sure he had never pushed it to the limit, as I had done many a time.
Surely given his confusion, a second assault upon him would be successful. And then as David held the large revolver on the mortal body of James, I would dart with preternatural swiftness down the corridor of the Signal Deck, down the interior stairway to the deck below, then run the length of it, passing out of the narrow corridor and into a wider one behind the Queens Grill Restaurant, where I would find the top of Stairway A, and then drop eight floors to Five Deck, rush down the corridor, and enter the small inside cabin and bolt the door. The trunk would then be shoved between bed and door, and I would climb inside it, bringing down the lid.
Even if I encountered a horde of sluggish mortals in my path it would take me no more than a few seconds, and almost all of that time I should be safe within the interior of the ship, insulated from the sun’s light.
James—back in this mortal body and no doubt furious—would have no clue as to where I’d gone. Even if he overpowered David, he could not conceivably locate my cabin without an exhaustive search which would be quite beyond his ability to undertake. And David would be rousing security against him, accusing him of all sorts of sordid crimes.
Of course David had no intention of being overpowered. He would keep the powerful Smith & Wesson trained on James until the ship docked in Barbados, at which time he would escort the man to the gangway and invite him to go ashore. David would then take up his watch to see that James did not return. At sunset I would rise from the trunk and meet David, and we would enjoy the night’s voyage to the next port.
David sat back in the pale green armchair, drinking the remainder of his gin and tonic, and obviously pondering the plan.
“You realize of course that I cannot execute the little devil,” he said. “Gun or no gun.”
“Well, you can’t do it on board, that’s for certain,” I said. “The shot would be heard.”
“And what if he realizes it? What if he goes for the weapon?”
“Then he finds himself in the same predicament. Surely he’s smart enough to know that.”
“I’ll shoot him if I have to. That’s the thought he can read from me with all his psychic skill. I will do it if I have to. Then I’ll make the appropriate accusations. He was trying to rob your cabin. I was waiting for you when he came in.”
“Look, suppose we make this switch soon enough before sunrise for me to hurl him over the side.”
“No good. There are officers and passengers everywhere. He’s sure to be seen by someone and it will be ‘Man overboard’ and mayhem all around.”
“Of course I could crush his skull.”
“Then I would have to conceal the body. No, let’s hope the little monster realizes his good luck and cheerfully goes ashore. I don’t want to have to … I don’t like the thought of …”
“I know, I know, but you could simply shove him into that trunk. Nobody would find him.”
“Lestat, I don’t want to frighten you, but there are excellent reasons why we mustn’t try to kill him! He told you those reasons himself. Don’t you recall? Threaten that body and he’ll rise out of it and make another assault. In fact, we’d be giving him no choice. And we’d be prolonging the psychic battle at the worst possible moment. It isn’t inconceivable that he could follow you on your path to Five Deck, and try to get in again. Of course he’d be foolish to do it with no hiding place. But suppose he does have an alternative hiding place. Think on that.”
“You’re probably right on that.”
“And we don’t know the extent of his psychic power,” he said. “And we must remember that this is his specialty—switching and possession! No. Don’t try to drown him or crush him. Let him climb back into that mortal body. I’ll keep the gun on him until you’ve had time to vanish from the scene altogether, and he and I shall have a round of conversation about what lies ahead.”
“I see your point.”
“Then if I do have to shoot him, very well. I’ll do it. I’ll put him into the trunk, and hope the sound of the shot goes unnoticed. Who knows? It might.”
“God, I’m leaving you with this monster, you realize it? David, why don’t we move on him as soon as the sun sets.”
“No. Absolutely not. That means an all-out psychic battle! And he can hold the body sufficiently to take flight and simply leave us on board this ship, which will be at sea for the entire night. Lestat, I’ve thought all this through. Every part of the plan is crucial. We want him at his weakest, just before dawn, with the ship about to dock so that once he is in his mortal body, he can cheerfully and gratefully disembark. Now, you must trust that I’ll handle this fellow. You don’t know how much I despise him! If you did, perhaps you wouldn’t worry at all.”
“Be assured I shall kill him when I find him.”
“All the more reason for him to willingly go ashore. He’ll want a head start, and I shall advise him to be quick.”
“The Big-Game Hunt. I shall love it. I’ll find him—even if he hides in another body. What a lovely game it will be.”
David fell quiet for a moment.
“Lestat, there is one other possibility, of course …”
“What? I don’t understand you.”
He looked away as if he were trying to choose just the right words. Then he looked directly at me. “We could destroy that thing, you know.”
“David, are you mad to even …?”
“Lestat, the two of us could do it. There are ways. Before sunset, we could destroy that thing, and you would be …”
“Say no more!” I was angry. But when I saw the sadness in his face, the concern, the obvious moral confusion, I sighed and sat back and took a softer tone. “David,” I said, “I’m the Vampire Lestat. That’s my body. We’re going to get it back for me.”
For a moment he didn’t respond, and then he nodded rather emphatically and said in a half whisper, “Yes. Correct.”
A pause fell between us, during which time I began to go over each and every step of the plan.
When I looked at him again, he seemed similarly thoughtful, in fact rather deeply engaged.
“You know I think it will go smoothly,” he said. “Especially when I remember your descriptions of him in that body. Awkward, uncomfortable. And of course we must remember what sort of human he is—his true age, his old modus operandi, so to speak. Hmmm. He isn’t going to get that gun away from me. Yes, I think it’s all going to work as planned.”
“So do I,” I said.
“And all things considered,” he added, “well, it’s the only chance we’ve got!”