cpike.thelastvampire-第3部分

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n　to　Mr。　Riley's　office　and　do　the　job　his　secretary　probably　resented　doing。　I　have　with　me…from　the　closet　…two　big　green　plastic　bags；　and　I　slip　Riley　into　them。　Before　I　leave　with　my　sagging　burden；　I　wipe　away　every　fingerprint　I　have　created。　There　isn't　a　spot　I　have　touched　that　I　don't　remember。
　The　late　hour　is　such　a　friend；　it　has　been　for　so　many　years。　There　is　not　a　soul　around　as　I　carry　Riley　downstairs　and　dump　him　in　my　trunk。　It　is　good；　for　I　am　not　in　the　mood　to　kill　again；　and　murder；　for　me；　is　very　much　tied　to　my　mood；　like　making　love。　Even　when　it　is　necessary。
　Mayfair　is　a　town　on　the　Oregon　coast；　chilly　this　late　in　autumn；　enclosed　by　pine　trees　on　one　side　and　salt　water　on　the　other。　Driving　away　from　Riley's　office；　I　feel　no　desire　to　go　to　the　beach；　to　wade　out　beyond　the　surf　to　sink　the　detective　in　deep　water。　I　head　for　the　hills　instead。　The　burial　is　a　first　for　me　in　this　area。　I　have　killed　no　one　since　moving　to　Mayfair　a　few　months　earlier。　I　park　at　the　end　of　a　narrow　dirt　road　and　carry　Riley　over　my　shoulder　deep　into　the　woods。　My　ears　are　alert；　but　if　there　are　mortals　in　the　vicinity；　they　are　all　asleep。　I　carry　no　shovel　with　me。　I　don't　need　one。　My　fingers　can　impale　even　the　hardest　soil　more　surely　than　the　sharpest　knife　can　poke　through　a　man's　flesh。　Two　miles　into　the　woods　I　drop　Riley　onto　the　ground　and　go　down　on　my　hands　and　knees　and　begin　to　dig。　Naturally；　my　clothes　get　a　bit　dirty　but　I　have　a　washing　machine　and　detergent　at　home。　I　do　not　worry。　Not　about　the　body　ever　being　found。
　But　about　other　things；　I　am　concerned。
　Who　is　Slim？
　How　did　he　find　me？
　How　did　he　know　to　warn　Riley　to　treat　me　with　caution？
　I　lay　Riley　to　rest　six　feet　under　and　cover　him　over　in　a　matter　of　minutes　without　even　a　whisper　of　a　prayer。　Who　would　I　pray　to　anyway？　Krishna？　I　could　very　well　tell　him　that　I　was　sorry；　although　I　did　tell　him　that　once；　after　holding　the　jewel　of　his　life　in　my　bloodthirsty　hands　while　he　casually　brought　to　our　wild　party。　No；　I　think；　Krishna　would　not　to　my　prayer；　even　if　it　was　for　the　soul　of　one　of　my　victims。　Krishna　would　just　laugh　and　return　to　his　flute。　To　the　song　of　life　as　he　called　it。　But　where　was　the　music　for　those　his　followers　said　were　already　worse　than　dead？　Where　was　the　joy？　No；　I　would　not　pray　to　God　for　Riley。
　Not　even　for　Riley's　son。
　In　my　home；　in　my　new　mansion　by　the　sea；　late　at　night；　I　stare　at　the　boy's　photo　and　wonder　why　he　is　so　familiar　to　me。　His　brown　eyes　are　enchanting；　so　wide　and　innocent；　yet　as　alert　as　those　of　a　baby　owl　seen　in　the　light　of　the　full　moon。　I　wonder　if　in　the　days　to　e　I　will　be　burying　him　beside　his　father。　The　thought　saddens　me。　I　don't　know　why。
　
　
　2
　
　
　I　do　not　need　much　sleep；　two　hours　at　most；　which　I　usually　take　when　the　sun　is　at　its　brightest。　Sunlight　does　affect　me；　although　it　is　not　the　mortal　enemy　Bram　Stoker　imagined　in　his　tale　of　Count　Dracula。　I　read　the　novel　Dracula　when　it　first　came　out；　in　ten　minutes。　I　have　a　photographic　memory　with　a　hundred　percent　prehension。　I　found　the　book　delicious。　Unknown　to　Mr。　Stoker；　he　got　to　meet　a　real　vampire　when　I　paid　him　a　visit　one　dreary　English　evening　in　the　year　1899。　I　was　very　sweet　to　him。　I　asked　him　to　autograph　my　book　and　gave　him　a　big　kiss　before　I　left。　I　almost　drank　some　of　his　blood；　I　was　tempted；　but　I　thought　it　would　have　ruined　any　chance　he　would　have　had　at　writing　a　sequel；　which　I　encouraged　him　to　do。　Humans　are　seldom　able　to　dwell　for　any　length　on　things　that　truly　terrify　them；　even　though　the　horror　writers　of　the　present　think　otherwise。　But　Stoker　was　a　perceptive　man；　he　knew　there　was　something　unusual　about　me。　I　believe　he　had　a　bit　of　a　crush　on　me。
　But　the　sun；　the　eternal　flame　in　the　sky；　it　diminishes　my　powers。　During　the　day；　particularly　when　the　sun　is　straight　up；　I　often　feel　drowsy；　not　so　tired　that　I　am　forced　to　rest　but　weary　enough　that　I　lose　my　enthusiasm　for　things。　Also；　I　am　not　nearly　so　quick　or　strong　during　the　day；　although　I　am　still　more　than　a　match　for　any　mortal。　I　do　not　enjoy　the　day　as　much　as　the　night。　I　love　the　blurred　edges　of　darker　landscapes。　Sometimes　I　dream　of　visiting　Pluto。
　Yet　the　next　day　I　am　busy　at　dawn。　First　I　call　the　three　businessmen　responsible　for　handling　my　accounts…each　located　on　a　different　continent…　and　tell　them　I　am　displeased　to　learn　that　my　finances　have　been　examined。　I　listen　to　each　protestation　of　innocence　and　detect　no　falsehood　in　their　voices。　My　admiration　for　Mr。　Riley's　detecting　abilities　climbs　a　notch。　He　must　have　used　subtle　means　to　delve　into　my　affairs。
　Or　else　he'd　had　help。
　Of　course　I　know　he　had　help；　but　I　also　believe　he　turned　against　the　man　who　sent　him　to　find　me。　When　he　realized　how　rich　I　was；　he　must　have　thought　that　he　could　score　more　handsomely　by　going　after　me　directly。　That　leads　me　to　suspect　that　whoever　hired　Riley　does　not　know　the　exact　details　of　my　life；　where　I　live　and　such。　But　I　also　realize　he　will　notice　Riley's　disappearance　and　e　looking　for　whoever　killed　him。　I　have　time；　I　believe；　but　not　much。　By　nature；　I　prefer　to　be　the　hunter；　not　the　hunted。　Yes；　indeed；　I　vow；　I　will　kill　those　who　hired　Riley　as　surely　as　I　wiped　him　from　the　face　of　the　earth。
　I　make　arrangements；　through　my　American　businessman；　to　be　enrolled　at　Mayfair　High　that　very　day。　The　wheels　are　set　in　motion　and　suddenly　I　have　a　new　identity。　I　am　Lara　Adams；　and　my　guardian；　Mrs。　Adams；　will　visit　the　school　with　my　transcripts　and　enroll　me　in　as　many　of　Ray　Riley's　classes　as　possible。　It　has　not　taken　me　long　to　learn　the　son's　name。　The　arm　of　my　influence　is　as　long　as　the　river　of　blood　I　have　left　across　history。　I　will　never　meet　this　fake　Mrs。　Adams；　and　she　will　never　meet　me；　unless　she　should　talk　about　her　efforts　on　Lara's　behalf。　Then；　if　that　happens；　she　will　never　talk　again。　My　associates　respect　my　desire　for　silence。　I　pay　them　for　that　respect。
　That　night　I　am　restless；　thirsty。　How　often　do　I　need　to　drink　blood？　I　begin　to　crave　it　after　a　week's　time。　If　a　month　goes　by　I　can　think　of　nothing　other　than　my　next　dripping　throat。　I　also　lose　some　strength　if　I　go　too　long。　But　I　do　not　die　without　it；　at　feast　not　readily。　I　have　gone　for　as　long　as　six　months　without　drinking　human　blood。　I　only　drink　animal　blood　if　I　am　desperate。　It　is　only　when　I　feed　from　a　human　that　I　feel　truly　satisfied；　and　I　believe　it　is　the　life　force　in　the　blood　that　makes　me　hunger　for　it　more　than　the　physical　fluid　itself。　I　do　not　know　how　to　define　the　life　force　except　to　say　that　it　exists：　the　feel　of　the　beating　heart　when　I　have　a　person's　vein　in　my　mouth；　the　heat　of　their　desires。　The　life　force　in　an　animal　is　of　a　much　cruder　density。　When　I　suck　on　a　human；　it　is　as　if　I　absorb　a　portion　of　the　person's　essence；　their　will。　It　takes　a　lot　of　willpower　to　live　for　fifty　centuries。
　Humans　do　not　turn　into　vampires　after　I　bite　them。　Nor　do　they　change　into　one　if　they　drink　my　blood。　Blood　that　is　drunk　goes　through　the　digestive　tract　and　is　broken　down　into　many　parts。　I　do　not　know　how　the　legends　started　that　oral　exchange　could　bring　about　the　transformation。　I　can　only　make　another　vampire　by　exchanging　blood　with　the　person；　and　not　just　a　little　blood。　My　blood　has　to　overwhelm　the　other　person's　system　before　he　or　she　bees　immortal。
　Of　course；　I　do　not　make　vampires　these　days。
　I　drive　south　along　the　coast。　I　am　in　Northern　California　before　I　stop；　it　is　late。　There　is　a　bar　off　the　side　of　the　road；　fairly　large。　I　make　a　smooth　entrance。　The　men　look　me　over；　exchange　glances　with　their　buddies。　The　bartender　does　not　ask　me　for　my　ID；　not　after　I　give　him　a　hard　glance。　There　are　many　more　men　than　women　around。　I　am　searching　for　a　particular　type；　someone　passing　through；　and　I　spot　a　candidate　sitting　alone　in　the　er。　He　is　big　and　burly；　unshaven；　his　warm　jacket　is　not　dirty；　but　there　are　oil　stains　that　did　not　e　out　from　the　last　cleaning。　His　face　is　pleasant　enough；　sitting　behind　his　frosty　beer；　but　a　tad　lonely。　He　is　a　long…distance　truck　driver；　I　know　the　type。　I　have　often　drunk　from　their　veins。
　I　sit　down　in　front　of　him；　and　he　looks　up　in　surprise。　I　smile；　the　expression　can　disarm　as　well　as　alarm；　but　he　is　happy　to　see　me。　He　orders　me　a　beer　and　we　talk。　I　do　not　ask　if　he　is　married…though　it　is　obvious　he　is…and　he　does　not　bring　it　up。　After　a　while　we　leave　and　he　takes　me　to　a　motel；　although　I　would　have　been　satisfied　with　the　back　of　his　truck。　I　tell　him　as　much；　but　he　pats　my　leg　and　shakes　his　head。　He　is　a　gentleman。　I　won't　kill　him。
　It　is　while　he　is　undressing　me　that　I　bite　into　his　neck。　The　act　makes　him　sigh　with　pleasure　and　lean　his　head　back；　he　is　not　really　sure　what　I　am　doing。　He　stays　in　that　position　the　whole　time　I　drink；　hypnotized　with　the　sensation；　which　to　him　feels　as　if　he　is　being　caressed　from　the　inside　out…with　the　tip　of　my　nails。　Which　to　me　feels　like　it　always　does；　sweet　and　natural；　as　natural　as　making　love。　But　I　do　not　have　sex　with　him。　Instead；　I　bite　the　tip　of　my　own　tongue　and　let　a　drop　of　my　blood　fall　onto　his　wounds。　They　heal　instantly；　leaving　no　scar；　and　I　lay　him　down　to　rest。　I　have　drunk　a　couple　pints。　He　will　sleep　deep；　maybe　wake　up　with　a　slight　headache：
　〃Forget；〃　I　whisper　in　his　ear。
　He　won't　remember　me。　They　seldom　do。
　The　next　morning　I　sit　in　Mr。　Castro's　history　class。　My　cream…colored　dress　is　fashionable；　on　the　rich　side；　the　embroidered　hem　swings　four　inches　above　my　knees。　I　have　very　nice　legs　and　do　not　mind　showing　them　off。　My　long　wavy　blond　hair　hangs　loose　on　my　shoulders。　I　wear　no　makeup　or　jewelry。　Ray　Riley　sits　off　to　my　right；　and　I　study　him　with　interest。　Class　will　begin　in　three　minutes。
　His　face　has　a　depth　his　father's　never　imagined。　He　is　cut　in　the　mode　of　many　handsome　modern　youths；　with　curly　brown　hair　and　a　chiseled　profile。　Yet　his　inner　character　pushes　through　his　natural　beauty　and　almost　makes　a　mockery　of　it。　The　boy　is　already　more　man　than　boy。　It　shows　in　his　brown　eyes；　soft　but　quick；　in　his　silent　pauses；