COME UNDONE
by
PiperMerlyn
Chapter 31
The Chapters
30 October 2003
Bucaresti, Romania
2:02 pm
The apartment seemed so empty now, so lonely. He’d closed the windows after she’d left but hadn’t turned on the heater. He’d handled the cold before, he’d have to handle it now. Joe MacKensey sat down on the couch and took stock. Although it was mind-boggling, bordering on fantasy, he knew Casi was right. He looked down at his hands and took a deep breath. Right now, he felt okay. His stomach had settled somewhat, he wasn’t shaking and his head wasn’t hurting. Tonight, he’d go to Thayer’s. A chill raced down his spine. Could it be Omar Hadad, after all?
Casi had guessed right on that one. He was after the Hadads—not particularly a specific one since it was widely believed that Omar Hadad died in a plant explosion in New Delhi, India four years ago—he’d assumed that since it had been him and Jon working that assignment. Earlier this year, it was found out that the other son, Anwar had died in Central America. Of the six children of Khalil Hadad, those two were dead, Shakira had disappeared but he’d never suspected her of being the master-mind of it all. The three younger Hadads were completely unaccounted for and no one seemed to worry much about them.
Drug-smuggling had been Hadad Pharmaceuticals’ stock in trade, under the guise of experimental medical breakthroughs. Jackson Wilder had an almost maniacal reaction to drug smuggling always assuming an Hadad was behind it all. It was the reason he’d gone to Bulgaria four months ago, to get into Romania and ultimately investigate this Dorian Thayer. But why did Hadad kill his housekeeper? What could it possibly gain him?
Joe moved to get up when there was a knock on the door. With a sigh, he stood up and answered the door. “Oh. It’s you.”
“Madame Quirin awaits.”
Joe’s eyes rested on the mail and he picked it up to look through the envelopes. “Tell her to stop waiting and start without me.” He flipped through the mail. Bill, bill, waste of a stamp...He frowned. Two things from Jack? What was going on?
“You don’t turn Madame Quirin down.” Walter Trujillo rolled his shoulders and adjusted the suit coat, as if spoiling for a fight.
“I’ll be the first.” He tossed everything but the two plain envelopes back on the table.
“Come on.”
“What part of no don’t you understand?”
Walter glared at him. “Don’t force me to drag you there.”
Joe snorted. “Force? Drag? Like hell.” He opened one envelope, then glared at Walter. “Adios, amigo.”
Walter didn’t move, except to crack the knuckles on each hand.
Joe didn’t let the movement bother him. Typical bully intimidation, he’d seen it time and again. He pulled a single sheet from the first envelope. It was worded to sound like a simple letter from an old friend but held a coded message. Jack wanted him to finish up, infiltrate pronto and get the information. Joe tossed the letter into the empty portion of the sink, then read the second letter. This one made absolutely no sense. Jack wanted him to scrub the mission and home on the next flight out? Why?
“Are you coming?”
“No.”
Walter heaved a loud sigh and frowned. “If I leave without you, I’ll just have to come back.” He heaved another put-upon sigh. “And we can dance another tango.”
“Oh, is that what we were doing?” Just then, Joe’s stomach growled. He glanced down at his stomach. “Oh, hell.” He fished a cigarette lighter out of a drawer and set the letters and envelopes aflame. “Who am I to pass up a free feast?”
It only took a few moments for the papers to turn to ash and the flames die out. He ran some water over the ashes, then dried his hands off on his jeans. “Ready.”
“You can’t go like that.”
Joe shrugged. “I go this way or not at all.”
Walter groaned. “Shoes?”
“Oh, yeah.” Joe skipped socks and slipped on his old sneakers. “Ready.”
Walter rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Come on.”
Joe paused long enough to lock up and followed Walter to the stairwell. As he headed down the hall, he noticed one door was open just enough for an old woman to peek out. She stared at Joe as he passed and he couldn’t shake the weirdest feeling that he knew her. How was that for crazy. What old Romanian woman could he possibly know? He made a note of the number on the door and told himself to check the name as they passed through the lobby.
When he did, he felt another odd sensation. The name Wilhemina Murray was hardly Romanian and it sounded very familiar. He shook his head and decided he’d check it out later. He followed Walter out the door and to the limousine. “So do I get to ride in back again?”
Walter just gave him a look and got in the driver’s side. Joe grunted and got in back. Walter drove smoothly through the afternoon traffic and Joe began to get a feeling of deja vu. It was at the precise moment that Walter pulled up in front of the Bucaresti Hotel, that Joe realized he should’ve changed. Compared to the well-dressed people coming out of the hotel or going in, Joe knew he looked like a bum or a wino—or worse.
Joe sighed and got out before Walter could open the side door. Walter got out of the limousine and led the way inside to a row of elevators. Joe slouched against the wall between two elevators. “See what happens when you make me do things I don’t want to do?”
“You act like a bratty three-year-old?”
The elevator doors parted and they stepped inside. As the doors closed and the elevator moved up, Joe grunted, not in the best of moods now. Why not take it out on this bruiser. “Hey, I throw one hell of a temper tantrum.”
Walter ignored him and stared straight ahead.
“Want me to demonstrate?”
“Whatever flies your kite.”
Joe narrowed his eyes and really looked the man over. He was tall, his dark hair cut almost to the scalp. The suit fit him perfectly although he didn’t look a suit kind of guy. “Where do I know you from?”
Walter rolled his shoulders and frowned “You don’t. Unless you’re remembering yesterday.”
Joe feigned shock. “That was only yesterday? I feel like I’ve known you forever.”
Walter just sighed and shook his head as the elevator doors slid open. Joe followed him to the corner suite. Walter led the way inside, then turned around. “Wait here.”
“Why? I know my way around. Believe it or not, I’ve been here before.”
Walter just shook his head again and disappeared into another room. Joe sighed and looked around. Last time he hadn’t paid any attention to the room’s decor, not that he really cared but he now noticed that the suite was done in modern pastels. Gone were the gold damask wall coverings and heavy red velvet drapes of the last century. Joe sighed. No atmosphere...and of all places...
“Ah...Kurt. You are feeling better.”
Joe turned to see Fiala come towards him, clad in a simple dress of pale yellow. That’s when he noticed that all the drapes were shut tightly and all the lamps were on. How odd. He cleared his throat. “Your chauffeur doesn’t know the meaning of the word no.”
“Yes, well, Walter tends to regress from time to time.” She gave him a careful smile. “Come, my friend.”
“Not to be rude, but you don’t know the meaning of the word either.” Joe sighed. “And speaking of rude, I apologize for yesterday.”
“Never mind....ancient history. How are you feeling?”
“Fine.” Joe realized his tone was a little forced. He’d had enough people pestering him and he was getting tired of being asked.
“Good. Hungry?” At Joe’s nod, she smiled at him and nodded herself. “Then let us eat.” Fiala led the way into another room, it’s drapes pulled shut as well. A round wooden table sat, dishes and silverware laid out, crystal goblets by the plates.
Joe stopped in the doorway. “Why?”
Fiala blinked and looked at him. “Why? Why what?”
“Why are you doing this? The Good Samaritan isn’t too popular these days.”
“But I wish to be a Good Samaritan. To help a stranger. Is that so wrong?”
“No one is that altruistic now. What do you gain?”
Fiala looked down at the table, fiddled with the handle of a salad fork. “Because the enemy of my enemy is my friend.”
Joe frowned. “Who is your enemy?”
Fiala gestured in the general direction of Thayer’s estate. “The man who dwells up there.”
“Dorian Thayer.”
“That is not his name.”
“How do you know?”
Fiala studied him for a moment. “Because Dorian Thayer died in England in 1498.”
“How do you know that?”
Fiala gazed at him, unsmiling, her goldbrown eyes haunted and somehow she reminded him once again of Casi. “So did I.”
Joe shook his head. “Fourteen—“ A cold shiver ran down his spine and he told himself to ignore it. “You said....Kurt Varick died over two hundred fifty years ago. That’s 1749.”
“Yes.”
Joe shook his head again. “You’re not a vampire. Vampires aren’t up when the sun is out.”
“We are not the vampires of legend. As long as the sun does not physically touch us, we only experience discomfort.”
Joe shook his head again, then sat down heavily at the table. “Vampires do not exist. It’s legend, myth, fantasy...”
Fiala stepped close to him, touched his cheek with her pale, cool hand. Her cinnamon scent wafted around him as she tilted his head back unil his eyes met hers. “Legend....myth...fantasy...” She smiled down at him, bearing her teeth. “But what do you see?” she asked with a slight lisp now.
Joe swallowed and tried to shake his head. He remembered what Casi had said only hours ago. “Caps. Fake.”
“Can fake do this?”
The fangs retracted slowly until they looked like normal incisors. Joe looked at her, stunned. “Illusion, trick of the light—“ he said hoarsely. He broke off as the incisors lengthened. “No.”
“Yes...” She stepped back from him. “Do you believe me now?”
Joe frowned. “It’s not possible—“
“All legends have their roots in fact.” She reached out and with one slender small hand, traced the line of his jaw. “I am what I am.”
Joe took a deep breath and wished he hadn’t. Her cinnamon scent swirled around him and he felt cold. “Why me?” he asked suddenly, harshly. “Why this?” he asked, gesturing sharply to the wounds on his neck. “Why?”
Fiala took another quick step back. “I have nothing to do with that, with what has happened to you. By all that’s sacred,” she added, making it sound like a prayer, “I have not touched you—not that way.”
Joe got to his feet. Hadad, drugs...of course. She was right. “I know. I’m sorry.”
“Let me help.”
He gave her a startled look and for a heartbeat, he saw Casi standing there, not her. He swallowed hard. “Why?”
“I have to. I must know the truth.”
Joe searched her face for a long moment, then sighed. “His name is Omar Hadad.”
Fiala motioned him to sit back down, and sat down herself. “And yours?”
Joe took a deep breath. “Trevor Macklin. My friends call me Mack.”
She smiled and he saw her teeth looked normal now. Had he imagined the whole thing? “Then let’s eat....Mack.”
*****
30 October 2003
Bucaresti, Romania
2:45 pm
The silence closed in on them. Natalya Corwen was beginning to wish Gil had left the engine running. She decided to let him make the first move, but Gil didn’t seem too anxious to get out of the car either. “Gil?”
“Ugly place, isn’t it.”
Natalya craned her neck to look up at the castle, all black stone with hideous gargoyles. “Yes.”
“Who’s getting out first?” he asked finally.
Natalya glanced over at him. Paperwork had taken up the entire morning and she wished it had taken the rest of the day—and she hated paperwork. “You. You don’t believe in vampires.”
“Right.” Gil still didn’t move. “You don’t either.”
Natalya cocked an eyebrow at him. “Well?”
“Well what?”
Natalya sighed. “ Let’s go.” She got out the car and adjusted her wool blazer. Today, she’d worn jeans and comfortable shoes. The snug sweater was a shade paler than her teal-green blazer.
Gil got out, dressed in his usual slacks and coat. He strode up to the massive double doors. A hideous gargoyle held a ring in its mouth to serve as a door knocker. Gil knocked once. “You know, we’ve never even met Thayer face to face.”
“We are now.”
The doors groaned open to reveal an old gypsy woman, her dark hair streaked with white. “Da?”
“We’d like to talk to Mr. Thayer. I’m Inspector Henerik, this is Inspector Corwen, Polizia Bucaresti.”
Natalya thought the old woman looked scared. “Forgive me, the Master is indisposed.”
“It will only take a moment,” insisted Natalya.
The woman ducked her head. “Va rog....intrati.” She cleared her throat. “I shall see.”
Gil wakled into the foyer and sighed. “Easier than I thought.”
“Don’t celebrate yet,” muttered Natalya, feeling uneasy.
A man strode up to them, clad in black, his longish black hair slicked back. “How may I help you?”
There was something about him Natalya didn’t like. “Mr. Thayer?”
“Yes. Please come into the parlor. Would you care for tea, coffee?”
Gil shook his head. “No thank you. We’re here about Ailsa Haines.”
“Dreadful.” Thayer shook his head sadly. “Any leads?”
“We suspect it was drug-induced.”
Thayer took a shocked step backwards. “My God, no.”
Gil nodded. “Was she seeing anyone?”
Thayer nodded. “Yes...a man from the British Embassy, I believe...Kurt Varick was his name.”
Natalya narrowed her eyes. Something about the man’s accent sounded...odd. “Do you know where he lives?”
“Alas, I do not. Aleda”
The old gypsy woman returned on silent feet like a dark ghost. “Da, Master?”
“Do you know where Ailsa went when she’d go see Varick?”
“Nu, Master.” Aleda darted off.
“I’m sorry. It appears I’m not much help.”
Gil shrugged, started to say something but Natalya spoke first. “Va multumesc foarte mult.” When the man looked only puzzled instead of responding, she added. “Thank you.” She was scowling by the time they left the foyer and got back into the car. “Gil, something’s wrong.”
Gil gave her a blank look. “What?”
“I just thanked him in Romaneste and he didn’t have a clue what I’d said.” She shook her head. “I know that’s not a condemning omission,” she added, knowing that Gil didn’t speak the native language either, except the most basic words and phrases to get by, despite his years living in Bucaresti. “But the other thing, is his accent, it’s not local.”
Gil started the car. “But what does it mean?”
“And Kurt Varick is dead,” continued Natalya, apparently not noticing he’d spoken. She glanced at her partner. “I see his headstone every time I visit Mother’s grave. Kurt Varick’s been dead for over two hundred and fifty years.”
Gil stared at her, then groaned. “Oh shit.” He shifted gears and moved smoothly around the long defunct fountain in the center of the castle’s courtyard. “So what now?”
“We find the guy posing as Varick. It’s obvious he’s up to no good.”
Gil braked to a stop at the cemetary. “Show me the headstone.”
Natalya nodded and led him right to it. “See? Kurt Varick, born 1724, died 1749.” She knelt down and traced the letters below the dates. “ ‘Forgive me...I never knew’.” Natalya sat back on her heels. “That sound so sad.”
“Nat, look at this.”
The tombstone next to Varick’s was a paler stone. “Aubrey Collins, died 1749.” Natalya frowned. “Why isn’t there a birthdate?”
Gil shrugged. “Aubrey Collins is hardly a local name.”
“No it isn’t.” She gestured to the two tombstones. “Lovers?”
“Lovers. Maybe engaged or whatever it was called back then.”
“It wasn’t that long ago.”
Gil heaved a sigh. His eyes were drawn to the single tombstone in one corner of the cemetary. For as long as he could remember, it had been isolated, untended. “I’ve always wondered why that one’s by itself.” He gestured to the lone stark headstone. “Everytime I’d ask Mama or Pop, they’d clam up.”
“Mine did, too.”
“Let’s go look.”
“Gil, we’re in the middle---“
He snagged her hand, pulled her along. “It’ll only take a minute.” They climbed over the low stone fence to the ivy-shrouded tombstone. Gil snatched a handful of vines and ripped them away.
“Oh my God.”
Gil glanced at her. “What?”
“Dorian Thayer,” read Natalya in a stunned voice. “Died 1829.”
“That’s impossible.” Gil glanced in the direction of the castle, then at his partner. “It can’t be. He’d be...” Gil frowned. “He’d be almost two hundred years old. No one lives that long.”
“Except vampires,” said Natalya quietly.
“No.” Gil shook his head. “No, no, no---no. Vampires do not exist. Never have, never will.” He shook his head again and gestured to the headstone. “Stonemason goofed.”
“Gil—“ Natalya brushed off her blazer.
“No. Impossible.”
“Gil. We can’t ignore such strong beliefs. The people here—“
“Are shy a few bats in the belfrey. Come on.”
“Gilbert Henerik, listen to me.”
He glared at her. “What?”
Natalya swallowed hard. “Do you believe in God?”
Gil grunted as if it were a decidedly stupid question. “You know I do.”
“Do you believe there’s a devil?”
Gil looked away. “Yeah, I guess.”
“The old tales said vampires were demons of the devil.”
“That was the Catholic church talking. Nat, we don’t need a bloodthirsty mob going after the man claiming to be Thayer complete with burning torches, wooden stakes and ropes of garlic,” he said sarcastically. He remembered his eyes burning in old man Haines’ cottage. “Especially garlic,” he added.
“Gil—“
“Let’s go. We’ve got a job to do.” He vaulted the low wall and started for the car.
“I wasn’t the one—“ Natalya shook her head, sighed and followed him back to the car. “Never mind.”
Gil frowned. “Never mind what?”
“Just talking to myself. It’s the second sign of insanity.”
“What’s the first?”
She glared at him. “You....really don’t want to know.”
*****
The sun was past the zenith but still high up in the sky to cast short shadows. She strode along, gazing at the shops and the sights. It was different from Scotland and yet there were the same rugged people, same stark landscape but mountains instead of moors, forests instead of lochs. She missed Scotland terribly.
Eva Quirin stopped in fornt of a craft booth selling handcarved knickknacks and looked at her reflection in a small wood-framed mirror. The sable hair had been pulled into a thick braid and she’d opted for simple sunglasses rather than the hood and cloak. After all, it was only Fiala who needed the extra protection. The jeans were new and stiff but the smoke-colored sweater had come from Scotland with her.
Eva sighed and continued walking. She was lonely. It was hard to adjust from Fiala being her adoptive mother to being her sister. At least in Scotland, she’d had friends her own age. But here....She shook her head and adjusted the strap of her canvas shopping bag over one shoulder. As she walked, the quaint craft shops were replaced by modern glass and steel. She was gazing up, trying to guess what the bilboards and sighns meant—and ran right into someone.
“Oh!” Eva dropped her bag and reached to steady the person she’d nearly knocked down. Her dark eyes widened. “Oh my God!”
The girl staring at her couldn’ve been her twin, even more so than Fiala. Same dark hair, only the girl had vivid blue eyes. Eva took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, I—“ Strange how the girl seemed so familiar.
“No harm done. But you dropped your bag. I am Sonja Staviceasu.”
“Eva Quirin.”
Sonja smiled. “You look thirsty, Eva. Would you like some tea?”
“I’d love some.”
Sonja’s blue eyes twinkled. “I live right over there.”
Eva looked at the old building and felt the oddest sense of deja vu. But she’d never been in Bucharest before and especially not here—had she?
“It was my grandmother’s place.”
Eva nodded and retrieving her bag, followed Sonja across the street. The minute she stepped into the cool, dark interior, she felt chilled. She had been here before. She remembered the balustrade on the staircase—a raven. She’d always wondered why her grandmother liked ravens. Eva froze. Her grandmother?
Sonja gestured for her to sit down. Eva didn’t move. She slowly turned her head and stared at Sonja. “I’ve been here before,” she said, barely above a whisper.
Sonja nodded and her blue eyes teared up. “Yes.”
“Who are you?”
“Sonja.”
“No.” Eva couldn’t explain this feeling. “Your real name.”
“Amber.” Sonja took a deep breath, her face incredibly sad. “Amber....Hadad. And you are Tamar, my sister.”
Eva stared at her, and felt a shudder pass through her. As crazy as it sounded...she knew it was truth. “Amber?”
“Yes,” said Sonja hoarsely.
The door swung open and Fiala’s major domo walked in. Eva spun around. “Stirling! You followed me?”
“Forgive me, child. I had to.” He raked his gaze over Sonja. “Both of you have grown so much.”
Sonja tore her gaze from Eva and looked at the older man. “Hello....Father.”
Eva looked from Sonja to Stirling, startled. “What?”
“Forgive me, child. I needed you close.”
An old woman came down the stairs, cursing a blue streak in Romaneste. Sonja glanced at the older woman. “Mother.”
Alia Staviceasu took a deep breath. “It was the curse, Khalil. For killing Tarik.”
“Woman, I’m too old to believe in that nonsense—“ began Stirling.
“Then explain to me why two children are dead and one has abandoned you for love.”
“Where’s Jamal?”
“He ran away,” said Alia dismissively. “He wanted to be a gypsy.”
“A gypsy!” Stirling lost the last of his acquired British accent. “Woman, the blood of caliphs runs through those veins and you let him be a gypsy?”
“At least he will not kill for you.”
Khalil Hadad glared at her. “By Allah...I should’ve killed you years ago. And for your information, Omar is alive. And he’s here.”
“He’s as good as dead to me. You twisted him, warped him. And you have brought the curse full circle.”
Khalil frowned. “What do you mean?”
“You killed your father. Your son will kill you.”
Confused and stunned by it all, Eva looked at each face in turn, finally settling on Stirling. “Does Fiala know?”
Khalil shook his head. “No.”
Eva felt anger grow inside of her and she glared at him. “Well, that’s some comfort. At least she didn’t lie to me.” A sudden thought crossed her mind and she narrowed her eyes. “Are you the reason we had to leave home?”
“Tamar—“
“Eva. Eva Quirin. It’s a little late to change my name now.....Father.”
Khalil took a deep breath. “I had to disappear. But I couldn’t bear the thought of never seeing any of my children again.”
Eva’s eyes widened. “You kidnapped me?”
“Tamar—Eva, please, I—“
Eva backed up a step. “No.”
Sonja touched her sister’s shoulder. “It was wrong, Father. Now leave before I put a curse on you.”
“Ha.” Khalil glared at Alia, wondering what a fool he’d been to marry outside his own people. “I see you’ve done your fair share of warping and twisting.”
“No,” said Sonja, squaring her slender shoulders. “I just finally learned why Mother never liked you.”
Khalil reached for Eva. “Come, daughter.”
“No. I’m staying here.”
“No.”
“You can’t force her, Father. Any more than you can force me. Now go.”
Khalil looked at the three women before him. Why had he never noticed they looked more like their mother? “Fine. Stay. Omar and I will rebuild the Hadad empire.”
“Or he’ll kill you,” stated Alia, her blue eyes hard.
Khalil shook his head and glared at Sonja and Eva. “Allah forbid you have any daughters,” he snapped and left.
Sonja shared a look with Eva who sighed, almost contentedly. “I’m not lonely anymore,” said Eva, a sad smile curving her lips.
Sonja reached out, took her little sister’s hand, squeezed it gently. “Neither am I.”
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Disclaimer
The Hardy Boys belong to Simon and Schuster and the Stratemeyer Foundation. The authors have just borrowed them for an adventure or two. The authors promise to put the boys back when they are done with them. The authors do claim copyright to the original characters in this story. Please do not borrow original characters without express permission of the authors.