"Kim Newman - Castle In The Desert-Anno Dracula 1977" - читать интересную книгу автора (Newman Kim)

Junior, as he talked, drank faster than I did. His light tan suit was the worse for a soaking, and
had been worn until dry, wrinkling and staining around the saggy shape of its owner. His
shirtfront had ragged tears where he had caught on something.
Since his remarriage to a woman nearer Racquel's age than Linda's, Junior had been a fading
presence in the lives of his ex-wife and daughter (ex-daughter?). I couldn't tell how much of his
story was from experience and how much filtered through what others had told him. It was no news
that Racquel was running with another bad crowd, the Anti-Life Equation. They weren't all vipers,
Junior said, but some, the ringleaders, were. Racquel, it appears, got off on being bitten. Not
something I wanted to know, but it hardly came as a surprise. With the motorcycle boy, who went by
the name of Heavenly Blues but liked his friends to address him as "Mr. President," she was
sporting a selection of bruises that didn't look like they'd come from taking a bad spill off the
pillion of his hog. For tax purposes, the Anti-Life Equation was somewhere between religious and
political. I had never heard of them, but it's impossible to keep up with all the latest cults.

Two days ago, at his office—Junior made a pretense of still running the company, though he had to
clear every paper clip purchase with Riyadh and Tokyo—he'd taken a phone call from his daughter.
Racquel sounded agitated and terrified, and claimed she'd made a break with the ALE, who wanted to
sacrifice her to some elder vampire. She needed money—that same old refrain, haunting me again—to
make a dash for Hawaii or, oddly, the Philippines (she thought she'd be safe in a Catholic
country, which suggested she'd never been to one). Junior, tower of flab, had written a check, but
his new wife, smart doll, talked him out of sending it. Last night, at home, he had gotten another
call from Racquel, hysterical this time, with screaming and other background effects. They were
coming for her, she said. The call was cut off.

To his credit, Junior ignored his lawfully-married flight attendant and drove over to Linda's
place in Poodle Springs, the big house where I'd been uncomfortable. He found the doors open, the
house extensively trashed and no sign of Racquel. Linda was at the bottom of the kidney-shaped
swimming pool, bitten all over, eyes white. To set a seal on the killing, someone had driven an
iron spike through her forehead. A croquet mallet floated above her. I realized he had gone into
the pool fully-dressed and hauled Linda out. Strictly speaking, that was violating the crime scene
but I would be the last person to complain.

He had called the cops, who were very concerned. Then, he'd driven to the city to see me. It's not
up to me to say whether that qualified as a smart move or not.


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"This Anti-Life Equation?" I asked Junior, feeling like a shamus again. "Did it come with any
names?"
"I'm not even sure it's called that. Racquel mostly used just the initials, ALE. I think it was
Anti-Life Element once. Or Anti-Love. Their guru or nabob or whatever he calls himself is some
kind of hippie Rasputin. He's one of them, a viper. His name is Khorda. Someone over at one of the