Blood and Chrysanthemums (7 page)

The Trans-Canada Highway unrolled before her, running like a long, straight arrow towards the heart of the eastern sky. Ardeth walked along the shoulder of the road, listening to the gravel crunch beneath her feet, listening for the sound of cars approaching behind her. At the hiss of tires on asphalt, she turned into the dazzle of headlights and held out her thumb.

The car rushed by her, carrying its cocooned passengers into the night. She shifted her pack on her shoulder and kept walking.

She had slept the first day in the woods outside of Cammore and, at dusk, caught a ride with a group of university students as far as Calgary. From there her feet and another ride had taken her into Saskatchewan. Another day slept away in a crumbling barn and now here she was, walking through the clear prairie night.

She wondered what Rozokov was doing. She found her thoughts circling back to that question again and again, probing at the pain as if to ensure that it was still there. It always was, lying just below the surface of her mind. She would ask herself the question and, in a rush of raw anger, invent answers that only seemed to make it worse. Rozokov with a faceless woman in his arms, his hands in her hair, his mouth on hers. Rozokov drinking from the wrist of a lush body that sprawled in moonlit nakedness on the bed that they had shared.

She gritted her teeth and forced herself to keep her eyes on the road, refusing to look at the blaze of stars above her.

You should have gone west at Calgary, Ardeth told herself again, half-heartedly. You’d be in Vancouver now, sitting by the water and watching the moon. But something had turned her feet eastward and now it was too late to change her mind. Home, something whispered deep inside her, I’m going home.

Two hours later, she was still walking. The moon burned over the horizon. Ardeth remembered it calling her up the mountain. Don’t think about it, she told herself, turning it into a mantra to mutter in time to her footsteps. Don’t think about it. The chant soothed her somewhat, the repetition a distraction from the endless speculation about what was happening in the rooms she had left behind.

An engine rumbled behind her and she turned without thinking, extending her arm in the old gesture of hitchhiking. The car rushed by her without even slowing down. She sighed and kept moving backwards, watching a distant pair of headlights draw closer. Here she was, breaking another rule. She remembered Sara and her teenage friends mistakenly flagging down her father’s car and spending the next month confined in their rooms each Saturday night. The echoes of old warnings whispered in the wind through the wheat fields. Hitchhiking was dangerous. Hitchhiking led to death, to fates worse than death.

Then again, she thought ruefully, she’d never done anything more dangerous than walk around the block—and look how safe she had been.

The headlights filled her eyes, left her blinded for a moment. She heard the mutter of an engine and the rattle of tires on gravel. Then she turned and saw the back of the pick-up truck waiting for her, Saskatchewan plates between the red eyes of tail-lights.

She had the brief impression of a tanned face, pale blue eyes shadowed by a tractor cap as the man leaned over to open the passenger door. “Where you headed?”

“Toronto.”

“Not going that far,” he said with a chuckle. “Will Williamston do?”

“Good enough,” Ardeth agreed and slid up into the truck. Hitchhiking is dangerous, the wheat sighed to her. So what, her mind whispered back. So am I.

His name was Gord. He was driving back to his small home town after a weekend visiting friends. “Just partying,” he had said and, carefully arranging her feet around the two-four of beer on the floor of the cab, Ardeth decided he hadn’t finished yet. He was younger than she was by several years. Under the tractor cap his shaggy brown hair looked as though it could stand a wash, and his clothes, rumpled T-shirt, faded jeans and heavy flannel shirt, appeared to have been slept in.

The cab of the truck smelled like stale beer and cigarettes. For a moment, memory swept her, drowning her in sensation; the rough carpet of the van floor against her cheek, the pain in her bound hands, her eyelashes against the blindfold. Her fists clenched, nails digging hard into her skin, and she resurfaced into the dark prairie night. She cranked down the window a little and sucked in a long breath of cool air.

Don’t think about it, he told herself. If she thought about the kidnapping, she would think about her captivity in the asylum. If she thought about that, she would think about Rozokov.

“Want a smoke?” The voice dragged her attention back to the man beside her. He had one cigarette dangling from his lips and the pack held out towards her.

“No,” she answered quickly, grateful for the distraction. “Go ahead.”

“Have a beer, if you like.”

“Not right now, thanks.”

He asked her perfunctory questions and didn’t seem to suspect that most of her answers were lies. After that, he was silent, seeming to take refuge in the loud wail of Guns N’ Roses on his cheap tape player. Ardeth looked out the window and watched the fields ripple beneath the moon.

The shudder of the tires as they left the highway jarred her awake. Where am I? she wondered in brief bewilderment, tipping her head back from the window, breathing in the stale, smoky air. She must have dozed off, lulled by the endless, unchanging scenery. Then it came back: the highway, the truck, the wheat sighing its warnings.

She turned her head slowly and looked at Gord. He glanced over at her furtively. She saw him flick his cigarette out the window. “Where are we?”

“Just a shortcut, you know . . .”

“A shortcut,” she repeated and thought of the highway running straight across the province, pure of purpose and unhindered by mountain or lake or turn. Something that might have been laughter boiled against her tongue and she bit down to keep it in.

“Want a beer now?” Gord’s voice sounded thin and nervous, even though he had to raise it over the sound of a wailing guitar solo.

“I don’t drink beer,” Ardeth answered and had to swallow the wild laughter again.

The gravel beneath the wheels turned to dirt and ruts rocked the truck as it moved. “Nice shortcut,” she observed, peering out the window at the featureless sea of grain around them. The truck jolted to a stop and she glanced over at Gord. His hands were clenched on the wheel. “Why are we stopping?”

“Not in a hurry, are you?” he asked, almost defensively, but she could hear the dark current of anger running beneath it, the darker rocks of anticipation waiting beneath that. “No reason not to take a break, you know. Have a drink. Party a little.”

It would be easy to agree. Just smile and nod and let him drink his courage back up and let him kiss her and touch her and take her own satisfaction before he came even close to his. She could even leave him enough energy to drive her on to the next town. His blood would taste so much better than the cow’s blood she had sipped before hitting the highway this evening.

Then she looked at the moon and thought of Mark and the mountain and Rozokov’s distant profile against the moonlight.
He
would do it, she thought bitterly. He would take the chance that was offered and never care. But I’m stronger than that. I gave up Mark’s blood, Mark’s love . . . and this stupid hayseed rapist is no substitute. This stupid hayseed rapist is no revenge.

“No. Take me back to the highway.”

“Now, come on. Stay a while.”

“No.”

“Well, I ain’t driving you back. Not for free. You didn’t think this ride was for free, did you? Come on, a girl like you, on the road. You know the score.” His hand settled on her thigh; she thought she could feel his sweat through her jeans. “Relax and enjoy it. Have a beer.”

“You haven’t been listening. I don’t drink beer.” Her fingers closed on his hand and pulled it away from her body, tightening slowly. She heard him gasp involuntarily and turned to face him. “And you wouldn’t like the way I party, believe me.” She gave him her widest smile, knowing her teeth were white as ice in the moonlight.

She saw the contradictory emotions fight their battle in his eyes: ego, aggression and a terrible, mindless longing against reason, guilt and the beginnings of fear. For a moment, she thought the former would win, would drive him on down the path he had started, unable to give it up until she ended it for him. Then something broke and his eyes dropped.

“Jesus, let go of me. All right, all right, I’ll take you back.” He snatched his hand away as soon as her fingers loosened and she heard him mutter “bitch” under his breath. He fumbled with the ignition key, then the lights illuminated the narrow track of road ahead of them. Ardeth watched him carefully as he backed the truck carelessly into the grain, pulling an awkward U-turn that aimed them back towards the highway.

He was careful not to look at her until they reached the next town. He pulled the truck up to a corner. “Get out.”

“Gord.” He looked then, dragged by the sweet, seductive drawl in her voice. He flinched a little, then his pale blue eyes met hers. “You know what they say. Picking up hitchhikers can be dangerous. I’d remember that, if I were you.”

That was all she could do for the women who came after her, a warning voiced with all the persuasive power she possessed. Then she slammed the door and watched his truck start away from the curb.

Ardeth looked down the quiet main street. In the east, the horizon glowed with the promise of dawn. No time to fine a hiding place now; she’d just have to spend some money. She sighed and hitched her pack onto her back, and started towards the neon motel sign glowing beyond the stop lights that swung in the eastbound wind.

Lisa Takara sat in the comforting darkness of the hotel bar, grateful for the solid wooden partition rising behind her back, separating her booth from the next. She ran her finger down the side of her drink, the cool glass bleeding moisture onto her skin. She looked at her watch.

Almost seven o’clock

She glanced around the room again, checking faces. There was a crowd of businessmen at the table near the front of the room, two grey-haired women at the booth across the aisle from her, a cluster of young men and women at the bar itself. Everything looked reassuringly ordinary . . . just as she had planned.

She had known all along that she had no choice but to meet with Sadamori Fujiwara but she had stubbornly made him wait until the third night after her father’s funeral. When she called from the lobby, Akiko had answered and, after a brief pause, had agreed to the hotel bar as the meeting place and ten minutes later as the time. Lisa was determined that she would not be taken by surprise. If they wanted to kidnap her, or kill her, they would not do it easily.

But they could do it just the same. If they really wanted to. She had only to remember Takashi Yamagata’s eyes and his fingers around her wrist to know that.

She glanced down at the glass of soda water in her hand, poked absently at the submerged lime with the tiny cocktail skewer in the shape of a red plastic sword.

“Takara-san?”

Her head snapped up and saw the short man standing by her table. She had a brief vision of a broad face, eyes banded with sunglasses, then he bowed slightly. “
Konbanwa
. Fujiwara Sadamori
desu
.”

“
Konbanwa
,” she answered and asked him to join her, gesturing to the padded booth bench across from her. The Japanese syllables sounded awkward in her mouth. She had dreaded this, that he would speak only Japanese to her, and she would be forced to struggle through its tangles of courtesy and obligation, where any slip might mean her life.

“Thank you, Dr. Takara. If we could speak in English, I would be grateful. I am afraid my knowledge is somewhat outdated and I am happy for any opportunity to practise,” he said smoothly. His English was impeccable. Lisa was torn for one wild moment between anger and gratitude. He had spared her the necessity of negotiating her freedom in Japanese with perfect courtesy, but she knew that he could have insisted on his own tongue . . . and that now she was already in debt to him for the favour.

“Of course,” she said at last and was relieved when a waiter materialized at her side.

“Two of whatever the doctor is having,” Fujiwara said, and the waiter vanished again. Lisa watched across the table, wishing the man would take his sunglasses off. They seemed to cover more than his eyes, somehow turning his whole face into a mask. She could not even tell his age with any certainty; his hair was touched with grey at the temples but his face seemed unlined, the wide jaw firm. His grey suit looked expensive, as did his tie, silk woven with a subtle pattern of flying cranes. There were no rings on the broad, strong-looking fingers resting on the table. She could not help a glance at his wrist, hunting for a tattoo beneath the immaculate white cuffs of his shirt, but saw nothing.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”

“Did I have a choice?”

“Of course. You could, for instance, have gone to the police. But if you were going to do that, you would have done it after Mr. Yamagata questioned you. It has puzzled me greatly that you did not.”

She almost asked how he knew she hadn’t, then realized it didn’t matter. “I had enough of the police back in Toronto. I told them everything I know about what happened. I told Mr. Yamagata everything I know, too. Now I just want to be left alone.”

“I cannot speak for the police in Toronto, but I know that Mr. Yamagata does not believe you.”

“I can’t help that.”

“But I can. Perhaps if you were to tell me . . .” His voice trailed off as the waiter reappeared and set down their glasses. When he was gone, Lisa spoke, leaning forward and lowering her voice unconsciously. She told him that same story she had told everyone else.

When she was done, she saw a faint smile edge the
yakuza
leader’s mouth and he nodded thoughtfully. She closed her fingers around her glass and took a slow, measured sip. She noticed that Fujiwara had not touched his.

“Since you have told me a story, please permit me to tell you one,” he said, after a long moment. “About six months ago, an ambitious young man—let us call him Yamagata—saw a snuff film. No doubt, very few people believed what they saw in the film was anything but an elaborate act. Or, if the death was real, the manner of it was falsified in some way, for it was like something from a horror film. But Mr. Yamagata knew enough to suspect it was real. He tracked the film back to its makers, who were employed by a multinational firm that was both partner and competitor to the man’s own criminal organization. When rumours reached him that this company was buying or coercing scientists into service, he found his way in. The daughter of a man who owed his organization for its help was a leading researcher. It took careful planning but he manoeuvred her into the service of the company. He heard nothing from her for several months. Then after one night of violence, she reappeared, the sole survivor of the fire that destroyed Havendale and all its secrets. And when he questioned her, even threatened her, she claimed that she knew nothing. So now he waits, trying to decide if the snuff film lied . . . or she did. And what he is prepared to risk in a foreign country to make her tell the truth.”

“And where do you fit into the story?”

“Ah. A good question. The young man believes that the head of his organization does not know what he has been doing. This, of course, is not so. The
oyabun
knows what . . . and suspects why. The
oyabun
acknowledges some . . . responsibility . . . for what his lieutenant has done. And,” the man smiled suddenly, sharply, “the
oyabun
now knows that it is the woman who lies.”

Lisa felt something deep in her stomach turn over sickeningly. Her spin dissolved into water and she pressed herself hard against the back of the booth, her hands flat on the table in front of her. She couldn’t panic, not now, not when her thoughts had to be clear and precise. “Why would I lie?” she asked at last.

“Because you fear you will be disbelieved. Because you fear you will be believed. Or perhaps because you fear something else more than you fear the
yakuza
.”

“And if I have been lying, why should I tell you the truth?”

“Because my interest is . . . unique. Tell me, Dr. Takara, do you believe in vampires?”

The question almost took her breath away, threatening to snatch sense with it. Not even Yamagata had said the word. She took shaky command over herself again. It’s just one more lie . . . and if you do it properly it isn’t a lie at all, she told herself firmly. “Vampires? You mean European counts in black capes who turn into bats? I’m a scientist, Mr. Fujiwara. I don’t believe in fairy tales.”

He laughed suddenly, a soft chuckle of genuine amusement. “Very clever, Dr. Takara. No, I do not mean ‘European counts in black capes who turn into bats.’ I mean vampires.”

“I don’t believe in fairy tales,” Lisa repeated. “Do you?”

“Yes. And so does Mr. Yamagata. And that is why you should tell the truth.”

“You can believe anything you want. I don’t understand why that has anything to do with me.”

He smiled indulgently. “I also believe that you are a clever woman. Althea Dale was certainly insane . . . but Mr. Yamagata and I are not. Sooner or later you will think to ask yourself why such sober businessmen would believe in ‘fairy tales.’”

A thread of terrible suspicion wove its icy way into Lisa’s mind. “Why then,” she asked, “why do you believe in vampires?”

His answer was a brief rattle of impenetrable words that sounded like Japanese but somehow were not. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

In the autumn sky

The moon floats above the water

Searching the still lake:

But a ripple from the shore

Obscures her own reflection.

he quoted, then frowned. “That did not translate very well. I am sadly out of practice at spontaneous poetry.”

“What language was that?” Lisa asked, all the time knowing the answer.

“Japanese. The Japanese of my youth,” he answered and took off his sunglasses. There were lines around his eyes, crinkling skin that looked as translucent as rice paper. As she stared into the black depths of his stare, she thought of another pair of eyes, smoke-grey and as old as dying stars. The eyes of a vampire.

“You see.” The soft voice drew her back to the reality of the hotel bar. “I need nothing from the vampire you met in the Dale laboratory.”

“You could have made me tell you. Any time you wanted, you could have made me tell you,” she whispered.

“Of course. But I am an old man and long past the stage where I take pleasure in frightening young women. Now perhaps we should pay the waiter and go someplace more private for the rest of this conversation.”

She nodded dully, still stunned, and watched while he signalled the waiter and left payment and a generous tip on the table. When he rose, she realized with a start how short he was, barely over five feet tall. Sitting across from her, the dark weight of his presence had been overwhelming. She felt a mad impulse to laugh, but then he held out his hand to her and the urge died. She slid out of the booth without touching him. He didn’t seem offended, merely let his hand drop and led the way out of the bar and into the hotel lobby.

They didn’t speak while the elevator carried them to his suite. Inside, she glanced around the living room, looking for Akiko, but saw no sign of the young woman. “She is not here,” Fujiwara said.

“Is she . . . ?” Lisa began, then stopped, remembering the woman walking away through the sunlit garden.

“No. She is as mortal as you. Please sit down.” He gestured politely to the long couch but there was an air of command about his movement and the sound of one long accustomed to being obeyed in his voice. She sat and felt the first tremor of fear when he settled beside her, instead of in one of the deep armchairs. “Now tell me what truly happened at Havendale.”

She did, the words coming haltingly at first, then tumbling in a wild rush. For the first time, she told the true end of the story: the kidnapping of Sara Alexander, Ardeth’s surrender, and the arrival of Rozokov and Mickey to rescue them both, her choice to help the vampires escape, her decision to flee alone before the fire started. She was surprised to discover how little the
yakuza
really knew. Fujiwara had never heard of Ardeth—it was only Rozokov they had seen, in the snuff films.

“How do you know they did not all die in the fire?” Fujiwara asked, when she was done.

“I know Ardeth’s sister, Sara, didn’t. She’s in a rock band in Toronto and I’ve seen ads for them playing out here. If she didn’t, I don’t think the others did.”

“And you told the police and Mr. Yamagata none of this?”

“How could I? They’d either think I was crazy or it would all start over again. I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life creating monsters in a secret
yakuza
laboratory.”

“I do not think Mr. Yamagata had that in mind,” Fujiwara admitted. “And I think, perhaps, that my kind were not the worst monsters in your story.”

“No,” Lisa acknowledged. “Dimitri Rozokov should have killed me for knowing what he and Ardeth were. He let me live. I owed him for that. And now that you know the truth, what do you intend to do with it?”

“It has been many years since I have seen one of my blood,” he said softly. “Call it an old man’s sentimentality.”

“What about My Yamagata?”

“He won’t trouble you again.” The calm confidence in his voice made her laugh bitterly. Like a father promising a child that there are no monsters in the closet, she thought, and wondered if his promise was worth as much as her father’s had been. “I could do more, if you wish.” She glanced up sharply, studying the smooth unlined face, the ancient eyes. “I could turn the lie into the truth.”

“For me, you mean.”

“For you,” he acknowledged. She thought about what it would be like to have back what the
yakuza
had taken from her. More than her freedom, more than her security, they had taken away her certainty about the world, her belief in her rational understanding of the universe. If vampires could exist, then anything could.

“How?”

“Just look into my eyes, that is all.”

“And I’ll forget?”

“About Rozokov, about Ardeth. About me,” he promised. She swallowed hard and willed herself to look at him. The eyes in their cradle of folded flesh looked black and fathomless. It would be easy, she thought distantly, just to drown all the nightmares and memories and terrible doubts in those beckoning wells. She felt his hands close over hers and one finger stroke along the length of her wrist, following the vein. She imagined herself standing on the edge of a bottomless pool, toes curled about the stone, body tensed for the long dive into cool oblivion.

If vampires could exist, then anything could.

But she could not wilfully blind herself to the truth. She could not pretend the universe was less complicated than it was. To do so would betray every belief she held.

She realized suddenly that it was not the knowing that terrified her, but the uncertainty. She believed that Rozokov and Ardeth could be vampires . . . but she did not know it. She did not know why it mattered so much to her. She believed in neutrons and quarks and chaos theory. She believed in dark matter and neural receptors. She believed in a thousand things she had not touched and many that no one had ever seen. Were vampires so different? Her intellect told her no but something deeper, something older, denied it.

“No. Don’t make me forget,” she said at last. “Make me
know
.” Something flickered in the dark eyes, like embers forced to life by a breath of oxygen. He turned her hand over in his.